CHAPTER VIII.

"Oh ! known the earliest and esteem'd the most,
Dear to a heart where nought is left so dear;
Though to my aching sight for ever lost,

In dreams deny me not to see thee here.”—BYRON.

ALLAN, when the moving multitude, like a dark cloud, passed silently out of sight, weak as he felt, slowly sank on his knees and prayed. It was now that he experienced the Protestant comfort of pouring out his feelings to a listening Saviour; and as he did so, tears at last came to his relief, while in the prostration of agonised sorrow he thought of him who first had taught him to seek for heaven, and now was gone to point the way.

In the abject depths of his sorrow, Allan had scarcely noticed a slight noise in the room, till it was again repeated; he felt a heavy hand laid on his shoulder, and looking up with a start of astonishment, the young mourner saw before him his old tutor Mr. Talbot.

There had always been an extraordinary power in Mr. Talbot's eye over Allan on the very few occasions when that eye was allowed to speak, or even to look. The expression he threw into it now spoke the deepest commiseration for his

former pupil, but it spoke also the perfect hopelessness of such prayers as his own, and placing his hand again on the shoulder of his old scholar, with a friendliness of manner which nothing but actual rudeness could have repelled, he sat down beside Allan, and spoke to him with masterly eloquence and most plausible persuasiveness for more than an hour, during which Mr. Talbot alluded to those circumstances relating to the speaker himself, which had before filled Allan with surprise.

"You are aware," added Mr. Talbot, "that it was no ordinary inducement which allured me to become your tutor, and that no ordinary ties exist between us."

66

"Yet tell me," asked Allan with agitated eagerness, duty to my uncle's memory bids me ascertain this point, before, even allowing for this important disclosure, I can continue to see you here, Mr. Talbot-Are you a papist?"

"I understand no such designation," replied Mr. Talbot drily.

66

But," continued Allan resolutely, "I must know if you belong to the Popish Church."

"Even Catholics only confess to their priest, Allan, and you are not mine," answered Mr. Talbot, rising with a look such as Allan had not seen since he was in the school-room; but no word or words could have better expressed a just indignation as

he added, "For your good I have had some concealments from you. These are now explained; if there are more, await my time to disclose them."

Allan, weakened in mind and body, found it easier now languidly to let the stream of Mr. Talbot's remarks flow through his mind, than either to resist or to stop them, and he lay back in a state of almost fainting weakness, till at length the door opened, and Lady Edith, pallid with grief and with watching, re-entered to cortinue her attendance on the beloved invalid.

Mr. Talbot was one of those individuals who, without ever appearing to look at anything, saw as well behind him apparently as before, and with eyes that no one could ever catch, observed everybody and everything: he became conscious therefore, at once, of Lady Edith's astonished entrance, but he did not really seem aware that another had been added to the party. Lady Edith's surprise at discovering Mr. Talbot in the room, she subdued almost immediately, not to agitate Allan, who was reclining back in his arm-chair at the window, his teeth chattering, his limbs benumbed, his whole frame shivering, and the cold tears congealed on his cheek, an image of helpless anguish.

A severe relapse brought Allan to the very verge of the grave, and long weeks passed during which a dry, wasting, delirious fever, which seemed rapidly consuming his very existence, made it

doubtful whether a hope could be entertained of the young sufferer's recovery.

Lady Edith, resolutely extinguishing every thought that might disable her for any duty of affection, ceaselessly attended on Allan, and by every soothing care tried, but tried long in vain, to calm the agitated spirit of her beloved charge; and the sorrowful Beatrice, while mourning with all the uncontrollable affliction of youth for her benefactor, yet became solemnly composed whenever there was an office of tenderness which could be done for the dear and suffering companion of all her past days, now hovering apparently over a premature grave.

The balance between life and death vibrated so precariously, that an atom either way would have turned the scale, and there were some things in the ravings of Allan's delirium, in respect to Mr. Talbot, which greatly perplexed his two constant attendants, Beatrice and Lady Edith. It was in the depths of night that Allan at last awoke as from a terrifying dream of feverish horror, to consciousness. Feebly raising himself on his trembling arm, he slowly drew back the bedcurtain and looked out. Beside the dim light of a single taper sat Lady Edith, leaning her head on her hand while earnestly perusing the Holy ScripShe was in black, and her pale face had become so wasted that Allan, in his dream-like half-conscious state, felt as if it were scarcely a

tures.

living mortal that he beheld, till at length she raised her eyes to heaven with an expression of such devout and soul-felt resignation, such intense feeling, and such acute anguish, that Allan never afterwards forgot it. Long he lay immoveable, with many a vague thought struggling through his enfeebled mind, and he felt the deep solemnity of that silence which was around him, as if his spirit were passing into eternity. Still Lady Edith continued to read on and to pray, while Allan gathered composure from seeing hers; and when at length Beatrice stole into the room to take her accustomed place beside Lady Edith, Allan felt that he once more belonged to the world and its affections. Long as he had loved Beatrice, it was very long before he discovered the gradual progress of his feelings from a half-quarrelsome boyish partiality to a deep concentrated and absorbing attachment, such as the utmost resolution of nineteen could hardly conceal, though he had scarcely dared to acknowledge it even to himself, still less to the unconscious Beatrice, who might probably have replied to her young lover in the language of a favourite old ballad

"I love thee, gentle knight! but 'tis

Such love as sisters bear;

O ask my heart no more than this,
For more it may not spare."

Faintly calling both his beloved attendants to his bed-side, Allan clasped the hand of Lady