He rose and went toward the young girl, walking as in a
dream. Those magical accents of the stranger's voice were

[figure description] Page 195.[end figure description]

still ringing in his ears—he almost thought he heard the
roar of thunder, and the crashing of the sea—the air almost
seemed alive with lightning flashes. For thunder, lightning,
and a stormy ocean, seemed to be the elements of that grand,
fiery oratory.

But he soon found this preoccupation put to rout by
something more powerful than the grandest eloquence, the
most overpowering oratory—a young girl's eyes. Slowly,
his great thoughts fled away from his mind—the fate of Virginia
was forgotten—mind beat an ignominious retreat, and
the heart knew of but one object in the universe, a fresh,
bright face that smiled upon him, a mild, tender pair of
eyes, that filled with happy light when they fell upon him.
He assisted the young girl to the ground quietly:—neither
spoke, but their eyes were more eloquent than any words
could have been. On their last meeting, Beatrice had hastened
forward, exclaiming, “I am very glad to see you!”
and now, when day after day, and night after night, she had
thought of him with inexpressible tenderness, and come to
feel, indeed, that her life was illuminated by a new, unimagined
glory—now she did not assure him that she was glad
to see him. The human heart in 1763 was much the same
as at present, the reader will perceive.

So without speaking, she passed in and he followed her,
with no need of invitation in words: her eyes said all—and
they entered the little apartment which had witnessed so
many memorable scenes. Then for the first time Beatrice,
taking off her little hat, and throwing back her beautiful
hair, which had become loose, said:

“Oh, you have been away so long! You promised to
come often!”

How could he resist that earnest tender voice—how feel
any more sorrow or disquiet—how prevent his heart from
beating more rapidly, as these soft words sank into it.

“Indeed, I have not kept my promise,” he said, with
that gentleness and softness, which at times characterized
his voice, “but fate has seemed to decree that we should not
meet.”

“That was very naughty in fate!” said Beatrice, with
a winning little smile, “because we are good friends, you
know.”

[figure description] Page 196.[end figure description]

And the soft voice trembled with its depth of meaning.

“Indeed, I can answer for myself,” he said, sitting
down.

“And I do not think I need say any thing for my part,”
answered Beatrice; “you saved my life.”

And again, the tender eyes dwelt for a moment on his
face, and were cast down.

“You have not forgotten that yet?”

“No—how could I?”

“Well, well, pray do not speak of it again. Has your
wetting caused you any inconvenience? I hope not.”

“Only a little cough—but I have not coughed a bit to-day.”

With which, as if to improve the portion still remaining,
the young girl began to cough, but with no violence.

“You see I began just because I boasted,” she said,
smiling. “Is Mr. Waters well?”

“Yes, very well.”

“He was very kind to me,” said Beatrice, gratefully,
“please give him my best love.”

And, without being conscious of any reason for it, she
blushed, and turned away. It is probable that something
similar to what was passing in her mind, passed in the heart
of her companion also, for his countenance brightened, and
grew very tender.

“My father sent you his best regards,” he said, “and I
came for the purpose of bringing them. I must confess,
however, that I was somewhat selfish—”

“Selfish?”

“Yes; since I promised myself the pleasure of seeing
you.”

“Oh,” said Beatrice, “please, don't let us make any
polite speeches to each other.”

“But, indeed, that is not mere courtesy; it is the truth,”
he replied. “I had such a quiet, friendly talk, when I was
here before, that I wished to keep my promise, to visit you
every day.”

He had paused slightly before the word “friendly,” and,
conscious of the reason, avoided the frank, tender eyes.

“Why did you stay away so long, then?” she said; “indeed,
I have longed to see you.”

[figure description] Page 197.[end figure description]

These words were uttered with great simplicity, and with
that childlike frankness, which was one of the young girl's
most striking traits of character. One would have said
that she was so innocent and truthful, that she could not
school herself with forms; and such, indeed, was the case.
Beatrice was no longer the actress, in his society; she was
the young, girlish being we have seen shouting after the sea-gulls,
and said, “Indeed, I have longed to see you,” without
a thought of any impropriety.

“Fate would not let me come, as I said,” he replied,
smiling; “but, now I have conquered destiny, and bring
you, not only my father's regards, and my own good wishes,
but a trinket, which, I fancy, must belong to you. The initials
upon it must be those of your mother.”

Beatrice rose quickly, and ran up to him.

“Oh, have you got it?” she cried.

He smiled, and taking from his pocket a small locket of
gold, attached to a narrow blue ribbon, handed it to her.
Beatrice took it quickly, and with an eagerness which betrayed
the importance she attached to it.

“Oh, I am so glad!” she said; “I am so glad you
found it!”

“It is yours, then?”

“Yes, yes!”

“You must have dropped it, on the day of your sail.”

“Yes, I must have.”

“It was picked up, upon the river's bank, by my father,
and, from the letters B. W. upon it, he fancied that it belonged
to you.”

“Yes, yes; I have worn it a long time, and I believe it
was my mother's. But I don't know,” added the young
girl, with some sadness; “I never saw my mother, I
believe.”

“Did your father give you the locket?”

“No, I believe not. I do not remember. I think I
wore it around my neck when I was a little child; at least,
I have worn it as long as I could remember.”

“I am glad to have been able to restore it; though the
merit really belongs to my father.”

“Please say I thank him very much,” said Beatrice;
“indeed, it is very dear to me. I had been to look for it.”

“What! this morning?”

[figure description] Page 198.[end figure description]

“Oh, yes; you know I am a great rider. So I thought
I would just put on my skirt, and go to the river, where Mr.
Townes lives—you know it was his boat we sailed in—and
ask him if I had dropped it there, or in the boat.”

“You had, then, been to the river?”

“Yes, indeed; and I had a delightful ride. Mr. Townes
was very kind to me,” she said, laughing, like a child, “and
was good enough to praise my cheeks, and bless my eyes,
and, I think he said he would drag the river, or something,
for my locket. Oh, he praised you so!”

“Townes is an excellent and worthy man, and loves my
father and myself very much, I believe.”

“I will like him more than ever, hereafter; for you are
my friends, you know,” said Beatrice, with the most charming
simplicity; “indeed, I like him very much already, for his
kindness to me on the day we sailed.”

“He really saved you,” said her companion.

“No, no!” cried Beatrice; “indeed I owe my life
to you.”

He shook his head.

“I was very strong once,” he said, “but have been of
late devoured by a thirst for study—I was nearly exhausted
when Townes came. But let us dismiss the subject. I am
very glad your locket is safe.”

And he gazed, with a look of great softness, upon her
bright face.

“Yes, indeed, I value it highly,” said Beatrice; “see
how prettily 'tis chased.”

He took and examined it.

“Here are the letters I observed,” he said; “but they
are nearly worn away. Still, as you see, they are distinct.
There they are—`B. W.' The B. stands for—for—your
first name, I suppose.”

“My mother's name was Beatrice, I imagine. Strange,”
the young girl added, half to herself, “that father has never
talked to me about mother.”

And she sighed, and looked very thoughtful. He sat
gazing on the tender, gentle face, the veiled eyes, and girlish
lips; thinking he had never seen any one more beautiful—
never, among those fair maidens who passed in their
chariots like lovely princesses, enveloped in clouds of lace,

[figure description] Page 199.[end figure description]

with bright diamond-like eyes, and snowy hands hung out
against the cushion of the door. The features of Beatrice
were always striking for their purity and elegance, but the
cloquent expression was the great charm of her face.

“I suppose it was my mother's,” she added, “but I do
not know what the `W.' stands for. I'll ask father.”

“Would it not be singular if it stood for Waters?” he
said, smiling.

She started.

“Waters! Oh! how singular!”

“Beatrice Waters?” he added.

She did not reply.

“How strange!” she said, at length, buried in thought;
“it is very strange!”

“What?” he said.

“The coincidence—Beatrice—Waters,” she added, after
a pause.

And her soft eyes met those of her companion, who looked
at her with so much unconscious meaning, that she turned
away, blushing.

“I am afraid we are not related,” he said.

“I fear not,” she murmured.

“Even if your mother's maiden name had been the same
with my own, it would not follow that we were connected.
There are many persons named Waters.”

“Yes—I do not think, however, that the `W.' stands
for that.”

“What then?”

“I do not know.”

“It might.”

“Yes,” she said, with the same thoughtful look, “but I
had a brother who died—he did not live with us—somewhere
abroad—I never knew him—but his name was Wesley. I
suppose that was my mother's name.”

“Oh, you are determined that I shall not have the
satisfaction of being your kinsman.”

The tender face clouded.

“Would that be a satisfaction?” she said, softly.

“Ah, yes!” he muttered.

“I am an actress,” said Beatrice, softly, and in a low
tone, casting down her eyes as she spoke, “I had forgotten
it.”

[figure description] Page 200.[end figure description]

And a moisture which she could not drive back made
her eyes swim, and gathered on the long dusky lashes. Those
swimming eyes went straight to his heart, an irrepressible
gush of tenderness made his brow flush, and taking the little
hand, he pressed it between his own, with a tenderness which
made Beatrice burst into tears: for his meaning could not
be misunderstood.

“Oh!” she sobbed, turning away and hiding her face
with the other hand, “you are so good and noble! I
felt it when you left me before, and more than ever now!
It is so good in you to treat a poor young girl like me so
kindly!—a poor actress, that other people look upon with
contempt! Oh! how can I ever thank you! I can only—
only bless you! and never forget you!—Oh I never—never
will forget how kind you were!”

And bending lower still, the young girl sobbed and
sighed; and then gently drawing away her hand, took from
her pocket a handkerchief, with which she attempted to dry
her eyes from which a flood of tears were gushing. That
last word which she had uttered had jarred upon his heart
strangely. “How kind you were!” Then she was soon
to leave him—they were to be separated—this brief glimpse
of happiness and joy was to disappear like a sift of blue between
driving thunder clouds! “I will never forget how
kind you were!” Then, she would be lost to him! she
would pass on like a bird of the tropics, brilliant and
beautiful, attracting all eyes and hearts, but sailing far away
to other skies! He would see her no more! Her pure,
tender face would never smile on him again! those large
melting eyes would no more flood his heart with unspeakable
happiness—that voice of marvellous sweetness and earnestness,
so full of joy and softness and music, would no longer
greet him—those small hands would no longer press his
own, sending the warm blood to his heart, and filling his
soul, his being, with a delicious tranquility, a pure delight!
This enchanting form now before him, would, before many
days—at most a few months—had elapsed, be to him but a
memory, a picture for the eyes of the heart! She would
leave him!—that one thought gathered into a burning focus
all the scattered rays of tenderness in his heart, and that
heart now throbbed passionately.

We have said that Charles Waters was a man of strong

[figure description] Page 201.[end figure description]

passions, spite of his ordinary quietness—a quietness which
sprung from self-control. Under that mild exterior he concealed
a heart of powerful impulses, and he proved it on this
occasion. Unable to bear the thoughts which the young girl's
unconscious allusion to her departure had aroused, he yielded,
giving himself up unresistingly to the flood of emotion.

“Oh!” he cried, seizing the young girl's hand and covering
it with passionate kisses; “Oh, Beatrice! you wound
me to the heart!—do not speak thus to me again! I cannot
bear it! No, you are not a mere actress—no! you are the
pearl of purity and honor! Never wound me again with such
words, for they pierce my heart! But you will have no
occasion, perhaps,—you are going to leave us! to leave me!
No! I cannot endure the thought!—for I love you passionately,
devotedly! I love you with my heart and soul, and would
ask no greater satisfaction than to pour out my blood for you.
You think I am cold because my face is calm: undeceive
yourself: few men have so much fire in them—such a dangerous
and fatal temperament when aroused. No, I am not cold,
and I love you, Beatrice, with a love which has grown and
increased in a short time to the height of a violent passion.
Oh, no! you shall not go—you must be my wife—you must
love me at last, because I almost worship you!”

No words can describe the brilliant expression which
flushed the young girl's face, then left it pale. That flush
was the evidence of an emotion of unspeakable happiness.
The pallor was from the thought which darted through her
brain like lightning. She saw all the future spread out before
her like a sunny landscape, all the happiness within her
grasp; she felt his arm approach her—and drew back with
a start, a cry.

Her face was bathed in tears: her eyes swam; her lips
trembled; all the nerves of the weak woman's form rebelled
and shook—but the great heart remained.

“No,” she said, with a passionate sob, which seemed to
tear its way from her heart—“No! no! I cannot...! It
breaks my heart to say it—God pity me!—but no, no, I cannot!
Oh, God will accept this agony I am suffering as an
expiation for all sin I have committed!—no no! do not tempt
me! my heart failed me for a moment, but is now strong—
yet do not tempt me!”

[figure description] Page 202.[end figure description]

And she covered her face, over which her hair fell down,
and sobbed as if indeed her heart were about to break; scarcely
hearing his entreaties, his prayers, his passionate assurances
of love.

“I cannot be your wife,” she said, at length, with more
calmness; “God has not permitted me to be, and I submit!
I am an actress,—do not interrupt me! for I have scarcely
strength now to think or speak. I am a poor playing girl,
with nothing in the wide world but my self-respect! I will
not make your father blush for an unworthy daughter!—Oh
let me go on!—I cannot take advantage of your noble devotion—
I cannot weigh down and darken your life—for pity's
sake, do not look at me so! do not! I cannot—oh, no! I
cannot!—God has no pity on me—it is not my fault that I
am such as I am—but I must suffer—Oh! it is a bitter suffering!”

She stopped for a moment, choked by her sobs; then
went on:

“Your eye flashes! and I know well what you mean.
Yes, you are noble and courageous—you would trample on
this unjust prejudice—love me more for that; I know it, it
is the bitterest of all—but—”

“Oh, I would die for you!—give my life, oh, how willingly,
for—ah! let them dare!”

And his eye flashed, his breast heaved tumultuously.

“Why do you speak of that! Beatrice, I love you—
love you so devotedly, so passionately, that I could ask no
greater happiness than to dare the world's scorn for you—
go down to death with you! But there is no scorn! What
is there in our positions—I am poor and obscure, you are
the admiration of all! They shall not deprive me of you!
No, no! I cannot exist without you now—you are my soul,
my life, my blood, my heart! I die without you!”

The young girl felt her heart yielding—her brain swam—
overcome, exhausted, faint, she sobbed, and shook, and
struggled with her rebellious heart. He saw the hesitation.

“Oh, be my own, Beatrice!” he cried, overwhelming her
hand with kisses; “be my wife! the sunlight of my existtence!—
make my life happy—come, my Beatrice, my beautiful,
noble girl!”

And opening his arms, he would have clasped her to his

[figure description] Page 203.[end figure description]

heart. Overcome, powerless, another moment and his arm
would have encircled her, her head lain on his bosom; but
suddenly her hand fell on the locket, and she started back
with a cry, and burst into an agony of tears.

“Oh, mother! give me strength, if you look down on me
from heaven!” she cried, “give me strength against myself,
against my own heart! Oh, I am so weak! I know what is
right, and am tempted to do wrong! Mother! mother! give
me strength! Oh,” she continued, looking at him and sobbing
violently, “do not tempt me—longer! Do not make me
yield, and suffer remorse for ever while I live for this moment's
weakness! I cannot be your wife! You tempt me
in vain. I am—broken-hearted, but you cannot move me
now! I am weak—exhausted—but—God has—heard me!
I have—conquered myself!”

And falling into a chair, she fainted. Ten minutes afterwards
she was stretched weak and exhausted on her couch,
and Charles Waters was hurrying with a pale brow from the
town.

Yes, she had conquered herself!—she had drawn back
from those arms opened wide to receive her, clasp her like a
poor dove beaten by storms to the true breast—her refuge.
She had evercome that passionate yearning to fall upon his
bosom, and—given up to love and tenderness—weep away
all her unhappiness in those strong arms; she had closed
her eyes to that seducing picture of such calm and lifelong
happiness as his wife—she had resolutely bidden her heart
lie still—she had by a sublime effort of devotion drawn back
from that tranquil future to be passed with him;—but she
was firm. Yes, the weak body had succumbed, the nerves
given way—her strength had failed her, but not her soul.

The struggle, however, was not over. Stretched upon
the little couch to which he had carried her in his arms, the
conflict was renewed with her returning strength. Oh, how
unhappy she was! What a poor, lonely, wretched thing she
was! How heaven had cursed her when it made her destiny
so miserable! How terrible that trial!—on one side love,
with open arms and smiling lips, and eyes full of tenderness,
saying to her, “Come, weary heart! come, poor unhappy
child! here is a future of full, quiet happiness, a nature
which your heart yearns for—both are yours—come!” and,

p520-209 [figure description] Page 204.[end figure description]

on the other side, stern, inexorable duty, saying, with a
frown, “Come away!—preserve your self-respect—close your
eyes to this. Self-respect is all you have, retain your treasure!”
Was it not bitter, she sobbed, was it not too much
agony for one poor heart! and for a moment heaven seemed
black to her—truth a mere lie—her moral sense was being
deadened.

Suddenly her bare arm struck against something on the
couch; she looked at this object and saw that it was a small
Bible. She opened it and read on the fly leaf—“Catherine
Effingham, from dear papa”—and would have closed it again,
but her good angel held her hand.

“The child dropped it when she sat here, doubtless,”
she murmured, faintly.

And her eyes fell upon the open page, where she read,
through tears:

“Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden,
and I will give you rest.

“Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me: for I am
meek and lowly of heart: and ye shall find rest unto your
souls.

“For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

As she closed the book, her eyes expanded with wonder
and solemn thought; her brow was overshadowed, then
bright; then all this passed, and clasping the volume to her
bosom, she sobbed, and prayed, and slowly grew more calm.
A voice had spoken to her which she had not heard before.