CHAPTER XLVI.

ASK AND YE SHALL RECEIVE.

The lights were lit in the drawing-room at the Priory. The Summer evening, mild and balmy, filled the air with a delicious fragrance. A lady whose superb beauty the years seems to take delight in crowning with more perfect charm, reclines within an easy chair. Opposite a gentleman sits, his countenance now in the shadow, but the noble, classic head is that of Hugh Brompton the elder. A rich voice, accompanied by the harp, floats from the neighboring apartment, and, at its close, one of the listeners, in a deep, manly tone, remarks, "Marie, that little song which our dear Rosa sings with such feeling provokes a half regret."

The liquid, dreamy eyes are lifted to the husband's face in mute inquiry, as he continues: "This boy and girl of ours have before them a future which I fear. It is now almost three years since you gave me this precious hand, and now we hardly know which is dearest to us, the youth or maiden. I cannot divine the heart of either. At first their relation seemed entirely fraternal; now Miles comes but seldom to the Priory. I had hoped that they might love each other, and noticed, at first, that which seemed a growing fondness. It is the dear girl's honey-time,-her tender May: the young violets are budding in her heart. But she avoids her cousin and seeks every occasion to withdraw from the family circle when he is present. This afternoon I found him in the picture gallery, with compressed lip and folded arms, gazing at the old portraits. Venturing

the remark, 'You look grave, my boy; let me claim a father's privilege ;" the young man heaved a sigh and answered, 'It is the third scene of the last act to-morrow. Suffer me till then to seem ungrateful. Indeed I share a secret which is not mine.' Can our dear girl have placed her affections elsewhere?"

The lovely matron pressed the hand that held her own and replied, "Nay, Hugh, thou canst not read that heart. Sometimes Rosa is transparent to my fancy as this diamond. Then her soul is laid open. I read in it volumes of boundless good will and sweet affection. The dove nestles in the breast that warmed it into life. But there are other times when a something within, which I cannot fathom, startles Her thoughts are fervent, mystical, impassioned. It is as if I sat and listened at the shrine of an oracle. The girl does not comprehend herself. I ask, Can this be Rosa? It is the person of Rosa, but the tones are like the voice of Wallingford.

me.

"She cherishes no thought, so far as I know, that he is her suitor, nor do I imagine that his lips have ever touched her cheek. No pledge or promise of any kind exists between them; for this I have her own word. To-morrow is the child's eighteenth birthday. How time has fled!"

Clothed in airy muslin robes, the entrance of the young lady of Riverside prevented further conversation. The mother gazed upon the daughter as if to read the soul, then dropped the remark, "Have you seen Miles this evening, my dear?" "Not since dinner, mamma. It seems as if he were oppressed with some weight of care; absent and preoccupied."

Without, upon the moonlit balcony, pacing to and fro, with head bared to the night dews, the young man held communion with himself. Let us listen if that silent thought will shape itself in words. "Deep love is awful. It comes first like some poor starveling and craves shelter.

Opening

the heart we give it household room. stage.

This is its first

"We nurse the little play-fellow, and dandle it upon the

knees, and call it pet caressings in the breast.

names, and smile to feel its first

This is its second stage.

"Soon it grows to be a friend and companion in all our rambles. It says, 'Go where you will, but let me keep company.' It shakes out troops of echoes from the flowers when we take the morning walk, and sits quietly beside the study table on the return, with airy winglets moving to and fro, till every faded folio becomes an illuminated volume, whose very letter-press seems wrought in arabesques of gems and flowers. Ah! then, ah! then, it takes the shape of the enchantress, and hovers, an impalpable dreamcreature, crowned and radiant, above the pillow, and, so gradually that we are unaware, draws a charmed circle which, without its leave, we cannot overpass. This is its fourth stage. We hunger and thirst when absent to behold that blessed face, that sacred form, to drink in the lifegiving element that seems to surround her presence. Love becomes her ministrant, her messenger, and whispers, in dark hours, of where she is, and what are her waking thoughts, and what the bright imaginations that troop around her vestal couch. Love pictures her in prayer, kneeling while faint starlight, streaming through painted glass, reveals a lovely apparition haloed with miraculous bloom, while the angels come and go upon the golden ladder of devotion. Love pictures her communing with Nature, while the little flowers rejoice because the light feet press their petals, and the branches by the wood-path are glad and laugh at the stray touch of the floating robes. Love whispers, 'Would'st thou be a bird, to light unchecked upon the gloved hand and trill thy heart away in gushes of song? Love whispers, Would'st thou be the zephyr, all unrebuked to fan the crimsoned cheek, to dally with the

waving curls?' Love pictures her visiting the lowly, and stopping to greet humble delvers at their toil, entering the cottages of the poor, relieving the necessities of the destitute, and every where conferring kindness with that gracious, humble air which says, 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.' Love pictures her at festivals, the cynosure of every eye. What troops of gallants wait, what fascination draws the noble and the gay to hang upon her smile. Love pictures her,-Ah! stop there, Love!-with perhaps a rival breathing honeyed vows, venturing to clasp the hand that is to us a sacred talisman of light and joy. Is our manhood leaving us? We cannot bear the thought, and no! we will not believe it, though she did smile upon that rival. Love whispers, 'Can'st thou live without her?' We gather courage and reply, 'Yes, if it is God's will.' So dungeon prisoners have lived for years without sunlight. So exiles have endured life in arctic solitudes, where winter rules the dreary year. We learn, then, that the woman is the better and the inner part of the man; a finer essence, enriching his more earthly elements with preternatural feeling, thought, courage and devotion. But the mystery, woman's nature, the soul of one we love,-it is before us an unknown world. Is it to be our world? Then are we rich beyond the Indies. Are we to see it given to another? Then are we poor beyond the tattered garment and the crust of bread. Oh! the yearning of the man for the woman, the yearning to be complete in another life, which shall give its very essence to satisfy thought, feeling, imagination, fancy, to become a shield against temptation, a solace in suffering, a glorious leader to sovereign heights, where the God-man whom woman worships dwells! If it is cherished vainly, if Deceit spins this mirage, if cold Calculation leads us on for ends of worldly greed,-better die. When hopes like this are winter-killed they seldom spring a second time. Yet

Love, in its fifth stage, brings us to the verge of the June roses, or the December frosts.

"To-morrow I shall know if Love has its sixth stage. Oh! the slow months that seem years, the days of waiting with sealed lips. Rosa shuns me, trembles if I address her, seeks every occasion to absent herself from the Priory during my brief visits, all too brief. But they do not suspect my

secret."

A friendly hand upon the shoulder arrests the silent soliloquy, and, bidding the heart be still, Miles Wallingford turns. It is the lady mother. Is she bent on divining that heart's secret. The words are soft and musical. The splendid figure, the noble head of the young man seem to belong, in this dim moonlight, to some statue. Not even woman's wit can read that face. This youth too has the double nature, the soul that lives in its own ideal realm, the mind prompt and ready for the actual duties of the hour.

"What is

The caresShe continues,

"Come, dear Miles," whispers the lady, "my wayward Rosa has been wounding your feelings again. Hugh and myself cannot understand her contradictions. She flies your presence, without a cause I am sure; leaves the room at your entrance; dislikes to hear your name. this sad secret? Call me mother, dear Miles." sing hand rested on the young man's arm. "This estrangement is very melancholy. There must be some mystery connected with it, yet I am confident that you are not to blame. Tell me Miles." It was now for the young man to speak. The voice was suppressed, deep, painful. "You are too kind to trouble yourself. It is all well. There is no accounting for tastes. Some of your flowers are so opposite in quality that they cannot thrive in the same part of the conservatory with others; their tendrils all incline from each other. A momentary association, during which God's hand made us useful to each other, caused perhaps a temporary friendship; but now; do you