When the first sensations following the return of our
hero to his home and family had somewhat subsided, the
enthusiastic and excitable nature of the former naturally
led him to dwell upon the image of that strange lady,
whose sudden appearance seemed to harmonize so singularly
with the ideal of his waking dream. The very
morning after his arrival, he sallied forth at an early hour,
with his gun in hand, ostensibly with a view to birding,
but really to catch some glimpse of the mysterious lady.
For this purpose, as all the neighbourhood and

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

neighbouring county was familiar, he traversed the hundred
routes to and from the farmstead of old Davis, which she
now occupied, and wasted some precious hours, in which
neither his heart nor his gun found game, in exploring
the deep wood from whence the pistol-shot, the day before,
had first challenged his attention. But no bright vision
blessed his search that day. He found nothing to interest
his mind or satisfy his curiosity, unless it were a tree
which he discovered barked with bullets, where some
person had evidently been exercising, and, assuming the
instrument to have been a pistol, with a singular degree
of success. The discovery did not call for the thought of
a single moment; and contenting himself with the conjecture
that some young rifleman was thus “teaching the
young idea how to shoot,” he turned off, and, with some
weariness and more disappointment, made his way, birdless,
to his cottage. But the disappointment rather increased
than lessened his curiosity, and before two days
had passed, he had acquired boldness enough to advance
so nearly to the dwelling of Miss Cooke, as, sheltered
beneath some friendly shade-trees, to see the passers by
the window, and, on one or more occasions, to catch a
glimpse of the one object for whom all these pains were
taken. These glimpses, it may be said, served rather to
inflame than to satisfy his curiosity. He saw enough to
convince him that Mary was right, and Jane wrong.
That he was not deceived in his first impression of her
exceeding loveliness—that she was beautiful beyond any
comparison that he could make; of a rare, rich, and excelling
beauty;—and slowly he returned from his wanderings
to muse upon the means by which he should
arrive at a more intimate knowledge of the fair one, who
was represented to be as inaccessible as she was fair—
like one of those unhappy damsels of whom we read in
old romances, locked up in barred and gloomy towers,
lofty and well guarded, whose charms, if they were the
incentives to chivalry and daring, were quite as often the
cruel occasion of bloody strife and most unfortunate adventure.
The surpassing beauty of our heroine, so
strangely coupled with her sternness of deportment and
loneliness of habit, naturally enough brought into activity
the wild imagination and fervent temperament of our
young lawyer. By these means her beauty was

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

heigtened, and the mystery which enveloped her made the parent
of newer sources of attraction. Before three days had
passed, his sisters had discovered that his thought was
running only on their fair, strange neighbour, and at
length, baffled in his efforts to encounter the mysterious
lady in his rambles, he was fain to declare himself
more openly at home, and to insist that his sisters should
call upon Miss Cooke and her mother, and invite them to
tea. This was done accordingly, but with only partial
success. Mrs. Cooke came but not the daughter, who
sent an excuse. Beauchampe paid his court to the old
lady, whom he found very garrulous and very feeble-minded;
but though she spoke with great freedom on
almost every subject, he remarked that she shrunk suddenly
into silence whenever reference was made to her
daughter. On this point every thing tended to increase
the mystery, and of course the interest. He attended the
mother home that night, in the hope to be permitted to
see the daughter; but though, when invited to enter, he
did so, he found the tête-à-tête with the old lady—a half
hour which curiosity readily gave to dulness—unrelieved
by the presence of the one object for whom he sought.
But a well-filled bookcase which met his eyes in the hall,
suggested to him a mode of approach in future of which
he did not scruple to avail himself. He complimented the
old lady on the extent of her literary possessions. Such
a collection was not usual at that time among the country-houses
of that region. He spoke of his passion for
books, and how much he would be pleased to be permitted
to obtain such as he wanted from the collection
before him. The old lady replied that they were her
daughter's, who was also passionately fond of books—
that she valued her collection very highly—they were
almost her only friends—but she had no doubt that Mr.
Beauchampe would readily receive her permission to
take any that he desired for perusal. Beauchampe expressed
his gratitude, but judiciously declined to make
his selection that night. The permission necessarily furnished
the sanction for a second visit, for which he accordingly
prepared himself. He suffered a day, however,
to pass—a forbearance that called for the exercise
of no small degree of fortitude—before repeating his visit.
The second morning, however, he did so. He saw the

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

young lady, for a brief instant, at the window, while
making his approaches. He was admitted, was received
by the mother, treated with great kindness, and spent a
full hour,—how we say not—in company with the venerable
and voluble dame. She conferred upon him the
permission of her daughter to use any book in the collection,
but the daughter herself did not appear. He
mustered courage enough to ask for her, but the inquiry
was civilly evaded. He was finally compelled, after lingering
to the last, and hoping against hope, to take his
departure without attaining the real object of his visit.
He selected a volume, however, not that he cared to read
it, but simply because the necessity of returning it would
afford him the occasion and excuse for another visit.

The proverb tells us that grass never grows beneath
the footsteps of love. It is seldom suffered to grow beneath
those of curiosity. Our hero either read, or pretended
to have read, the borrowed volume, in a very
short space of time. The next morning found him with
it beneath his arm, and on his way to the cottage of the
Cookes. The grave looks of his mother, and the sly
looks of his sisters, were all lost upon him; and, pluming
himself somewhat upon the adroitness which disguised
the real purpose of his visits, he flattered himself that he
should still attain the object which he sought, without betraying
the interest which he felt. Of course he himself
did not suspect the real motives by which he was governed.
That a secret passion stirring in his breast had
any thing to do with that interest which he felt to know
the strange lady, was by no means obvious to his own
mind. Whatever may have been the motive by which
his conduct was influenced, it did not promise to be followed
by any of the results which he desired. His second
morning call was not more fortunate than the first. Approaching,
he saw the outline of Miss Cooke's person at
an upper window, but she instantly disappeared, and he
was received below, and wholly entertained, by the good
old mother.

It may readily be imagined, that with a fervent, passionate
nature, such as Beauchampe's, this very baffling
of his desires, was calculated to stimulate and strengthen
them. He was a man equally of strong impulses and indomitable
will. The necessary creature of such qualities

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

of mind is a Puritan tenacity of purpose—a persevering
energy which ceases, finally, to sleep in the work of conquest,
or, at least, converts even its sleeping hours into
tasks of thought and wild vague dreams of modes and
operations by which the work of conquest is to be carried
on. The momentary glimpses of the damsel's person,
which the ardent youth was permitted to obtain, still kept
alive in his mind the strong impression which her beauty
had originally made. We do not insinuate that this exhibition
was designed by the lady herself for any such
object. Such might be the imputation—nay, was, in after
days, by some of her charitable neighbours,—but we have
every reason for thinking otherwise. We believe that
she was originally quite sincere in her desire to avoid the
sight, and discourage the visits of strangers. Whether
this was also the desire of the mother is not so very certain.
We should suppose, on the contrary, that the
course of her daughter was one that afforded little real
satisfaction to her. If the daughter remained inflexible,
the good mother soon convinced Beauchampe that she
was not; and, saving the one topic,—the daughter herself,—
there was none upon which good Mrs. Cooke did
not expatiate to her visited with the assured freedoms of a
friend of a thousand years. Any approach to this subject,
however, effectually silenced her. Not, it would seem,
because she herself felt any repugnance to the subject—
for Beauchampe could not fail to perceive that her eyes
brightened whenever the other was referred to;—but her
voice was hurried when she replied on such occasions,
and her glance stealthily turned to the entrance, as if she
dreaded lest the sound should summon other ears to the
apartment.

The curiosity of Beauchampe was farther stimulated
by a general examination of the contents of the library.
The selection was such, as in regions where books are
more in requisition, and seem more in place, would testify
considerably in behalf of the judgment and good taste of
the possessor. They were all English books, it is true,
but they were genuine classics of the best days of British
literature, including the more recent writers. There
were additional proofs in such as he took home with him,
of the equal taste and industry of their reader. The fine
passages were scored marginally with pencil lines, and

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

an occasional note in the same manner, indicated the acquaintance
of the commentator with the best standards of
criticism. Beauchampe made another observation, however,
which had the effect of leaving it still doubtful
whether these notes were made by the present owner.
They were all in a female hand. He found that a former
name had been carefully obliterated in every volume, that
of Miss Cooke being written in its stead. Though doubtful,
therefore, whether to ascribe to her the excellent criticism
and fine taste which thus displayed itself over the
pages which he read, this doubt by no means lessened
his anxiety to judge for himself of the attainments of their
possessor; and fortune—we may assume thus much—at
length helped him to the interview which he sought.

The mother, one day, with nice judgment, fell opportunely
sick. It is easier to suspect that she willed this
event than to suppose the daughter guilty of duplicity.
It necessarily favoured the design of Beauchampe. He
made his morning visit, which had now become periodical,
was ushered into the parlour, where, after a few moments,
he was informed that Mrs. Cooke was not visible. She
pleaded indisposition. Miss Cooke, however, had instructed
the servant to say to Mr. Beauchampe that he
was at liberty to use the library as before. By this time
the eager nature of Beauchampe was excited to the highest
pitch of anxiety. So many delays,—such baffling,—had
deprived his judgment of that deliberate action without
which the boundaries of convention are very soon overpassed.
A direct message from the mysterious lady,
was a step gained. It had the effect of still farther unseating
his judgment, and, without scruple, he boldly despatched
a message by the servant, soliciting permission
to see Miss Cooke. An answer was immediately returned
in which she declined seeing him. He renewed the
request with the additional suggestion that he had a communication
to make. This necessarily produced the desired
effect. In a few minutes she descended to the parlour.

If Beauchampe had been fascinated before, he was certainly
not yet prepared for the commanding character of
that beauty which now stood before him. He rose,
trembling and abashed, his cheeks suffused with blushes,
but his eyes, though dazzled, were full of the eager

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

admiration which he felt. She was simply clad, in white.
Her person, tall and symmetrical, was erect and dignified.
Her face was that of matured loveliness, shaded, not impaired,
by sadness, and made even more elevated and
commanding by the expression of intense pain which
seemed to mingle with the fire of her eyes, giving a sort
of subdued fierceness to her glance, which daunted quite as
much as it dazzled him. Perhaps a something of severity
in her look added to his confusion. He stammered confusedly;
the courage which had prompted him to seek
the interview, failed utterly to provide him with the intellectual
readiness by which it was to be carried on. But
the feminine instinct came to his relief. The lady seated
herself, motioning her visiter to do the same.

“Sit down, sir, if you please. My mother presumes
that you are anxious to know how she is. She instructs
me to thank you for your courtesy, and to say that her
indisposition is not serious. She trusts in another day
to be quite restored.”

By this time Beauchampe had recovered something of
his confidence.

“It gives me pleasure, Miss Cooke, to hear this. I did
fear that your mother was seriously suffering. But I can
not do you and myself the injustice to admit that I came
simply to see her. No! Miss Cooke, an anxiety to see
you in person, and to acknowledge the kindness which
has given me the freedom of your library, were among
the objects of my visit.”

The lady became instantly grave.

“I thank you, sir, for your compliment, but I have long
since abandoned society. My habits are reserved. I
prefer solitude. My tastes and feelings equally require
it. I am governed so far by these tastes and feelings,
which have now become habits, that it will not suit me
to recognise any new acquaintance. My books are freely
at your service, whenever you wish them. Permit me,
sir, to wish you good morning.”

She rose to depart. Beauchampe eagerly started to his
feet.

“Stay, Miss Cooke. Do not leave me thus. Hear me
but for a moment.”

She resumed her seat with a calm, inflexible demeanour,
as if, assured of her strength at any moment to depart,

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

she had no apprehensions on the subject of her detention.
The blush again suffused the cheeks of Beauchampe, and
the rigid silence which his companion observed, as if
awaiting his utterance, suddenly increased his difficulties
in this respect. But the ice once broken, his impetuous
temper was resolved that it should not freeze again.

“I know, Miss Cooke,” he observed, “after what you
have just said, that I have no right any longer to trespass
upon you, but I dare not do otherwise—I dare not depart—
I am the slave of a passion which has brought me, and
which keeps me here.”

“I must not listen to you, Mr. Beauchampe,” she replied,
rising, as if to leave the room.

“Forgive me!” he exclaimed, gently detaining her—
“forgive me, but you must.”

“Must!” her eyes flashed brighter fires.

“I implore the privilege to use the word, but in no offensive
sense. Nay, Miss Cooke,—I release you—I will
not seek to detain you. You are at liberty,—with my
lips only do I implore you to remain.”

The proud woman examined the face of the passionate
youth with some slight curiosity. To this, however, he
was insensible.

“You are aware, Mr. Beauchampe,” she remarked, indifferently,
“that your conduct is somewhat unusual.”

“Yes, perhaps so. I believe it. Nay, were I to think,
Miss Cooke, I should perhaps, under ordinary circumstances,
agree to pronounce it unjustifiable. But, believe
me, it is meant to be respectful.”

She interrupted him:—

“Unless I thought so, sir, I could not be detained here
a moment longer.”

“Surely, surely, Miss Cooke, you cannot doubt my
respect,—my—”

“I do not, sir.”

“Ah! but you are so cold—so repulsive, Miss Cooke.”

“Perhaps I had better leave you, Mr. Beauchampe. It
will be better for both of us. You know nothing of me, I
nothing of you.”

“You mistake, Miss Cooke, in assuming that I know
nothing of you.”

“Ha! sir!” she answered, rising to her feet, her face
glowing like scarlet, while a blue vein, like a chord, divided

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

the high white forehead in the midst. “What mean you,
what know you?”

“Much! I know already that you are alone among
women—alone in beauty—in intellect!”

He paused. He marked a sudden and speaking change
upon her features which struck him as more singular than
the last. The flush had departed from her cheeks, the
blue vein had suddenly sunk from sight—a complete
pallor overspread her face, and with a slight tremor over
her frame, she sunk upon the seat from which she had
arisen. He sprang forward, and was at once beside her
upon his knees. He caught her hand in his own.

“You are sick—you are ill!” he exclaimed.

“No! I am better now!” she answered in low tones.

“Thank God!” he exclaimed, “I feared you had spasms—
I dreaded I had offended you. You are still so pale,
Miss Cooke—so very pale!”—and he again started to his
feet as if to call for assistance. She arrested him.

“Do not alarm yourself,” she said with more firmness.
“I am subject to such attacks, and they form a sufficient
reason, Mr. Beauchampe, why I should not distress
strangers with them. Suffer me now to retire.”

“Bear with me yet awhile!” he exclaimed, “I will
try not to alarm or to annoy you. You ask me what I
know of you! nothing, perhaps, were I to answer according
to the fashion of the world; every thing, if I answer
according to the dictates of my heart.”

“It is unprofitable knowledge, Mr. Beauchampe.”

“Do not say so, I implore you. I know that I am a
rash and foolish young man, but I mean not to offend—
nay, my purpose is to declare the admiration which I
feel.”

“I must not hear you, Mr. Beauchampe. I must leave
you. As I said before, you are welcome to the use of
my books.”

“Ah! Miss Cooke, it is you, and not your books which
have brought me to your dwelling. Suffer me to see you
when I come. Suffer me to know you—to make myself
known—to bring my sisters; to conduct you to them.
They will all be so glad to see and know you.”

She shook her head mournfully, while a sad smile rested
upon her lips as she replied—

“Mr. Beauchampe,” she said, “I will not affect to

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

misunderstand you; but I must repeat, as I have said to you
before, I have done with society. I am in fact done with
the world.”

“Done with the world! Oh! what a thought! You,
Miss Cooke, you so able to do all with it!”

“You cannot flatter me, Mr. Beauchampe. The world
can be nothing to me. I am nothing to it. To wear out
life in loneliness, forgot, forgetting, is the utmost of my
hopes from the world. Spare me more. It is not well,
it will not be desirable, that any intimacy should exist
between me and your sisters.”

“Oh! why not? they are so gentle, so pure!”

“Ah!—no more, sir, I implore you;” her brow had
suddenly become clouded, and she rose. “Leave me
now, sir,—I must leave you. I must hear you no longer.”

Her voice was firm. Her features had suddenly put
on their former inflexibility of expression. The passionate
youth at once discovered that the moment for moving her
determination was past, and every effort now to detain
her would prejudice his cause.

“You will leave me, Miss Cooke—you will drive me
from you,—yet let me hope—”

“Hope nothing from me, Mr. Beauchampe. I would
not have you hope fruitlessly.”

“The wish itself assures me that I cannot.”

“You mistake, sir—you deceive yourself!” she replied
with sterner accents.

“At least let me not be denied your presence. Let me
see you. I am not in the world, nor of it, Miss Cooke.
Let me sometimes meet you here, and if I am forbid to
speak of other things, let me at least speak and hear you
speak of these old masters at whose feet I perceive you
have been no idle student.”

“Mr. Beauchampe, I can promise nothing. To consent
to receive and meet you would be to violate many an internal
resolve.”

“But why this dreary resolution?”

“Why!—but ask not, sir. No more from me now.
You knew not, sir,—and you meant not,—but you have
wakened in my mind this morning many a painful and
dreary thought, which you cannot dissipate. I say this
to excuse myself for what might seem rudeness. I do
not wish to excite your curiosity. I tell you, sir, but the

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

truth, when I tell you that I am cut off from the world—
it matters not how, nor why. It is so,—and the less I
see of it the better. When you know this, you will understand
why it is that I should prefer not to see you.”

“Ah! but not why I should not seek to see you. No,
Miss Cooke, your dreary destiny does not lessen my
willingness to soothe—to share it.”

“That can never be.”

“Do not say so. If you knew my heart—”

“Keep its secrets, Mr. Beauchampe. Enough, sir,
that I know my own. That, sir, has but one prayer, and
that is for peace,—but one passion, and that, sir,—”

“Is—speak, say, Miss Cooke, tell me what this passion
is? Relieve me; but tell me not that you love another.
Not that,—any thing but that.”

“Love!” she exclaimed scornfully—“love! no, sir, I
do not love. Happily, I am free from any such weakness—
that weakness of my sex!”

“Call it not a weakness, dear Miss Cooke,—but a
strength—a strength of the heart, not peculiar to your
sex, but the source of what is lofty and ennobling in the
heart of man.”

“Ay, he has a precious stock of it, no doubt; but no
more of this, Mr. Beauchampe. I have my passion, perhaps,
but surely love makes no part of it.”

“What then?”

“Hate!”

“Hate! ha! can it be that you hate, Miss Cooke?”

“Ay, sir, it is possible. Hate is my passion, not the
only one, since it produces another bearing its own likeness.”

“And that?—”

“Is revenge!—Ask yourself, with these passions reigning
in my heart, whether there is room for any thing more—
for any other! There is not, and you may not deceive
yourself with the vain hope to plant any feebler passion
in a spot which bears such poisonous weeds.”

Thus speaking she left the room, and, astounded by
her vehemence, and by the strange though imperfect
revelation which she had made, Beauchampe found himself
alone!

CHAPTER XI.

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

Had the words of the lady fallen from the lips of an
oracle, they could not have more completely fastened
themselves on the ears of our hero. Her sublime beauty
as she spoke those wild accents was that of one inspired.
Her eye flashed with fires of a supernatural brightness.
Her brow was lifted, and her hand smote upon her heart,
when she declared what fierce passions were its possessors,
as if they themselves were impelling the blow, and
the heart was that of some mortal enemy. Beauchampe
was as completely paralysed as if he had suffered an
electric stroke. He would have arrested her departure,
but his words and action were equally slow. He had lost
the power of hands and voice, and when he was able to
speak she had gone. Confused, bewildered, and mortified,
he left the house; and sad and silent he pursued his way
along the homeward paths. Before he had gone far he
was saluted with the laughter of merry voices, and his
sisters were at his side. What a contrast was that which
instantly challenged the attention of his mind, between
the girlish, almost childish and characterless damsels beside
him, and the intense, soul-speaking woman he had
left! Howi mpertinent seemed the levity of Jane—how
insipid the softness and milky sadness of the gentlehearted
Mary! The reflections of the brother were in no ways
favourable to the sisters, but he gave no utterance to the
involuntary thoughts.

“Why, the Queen of Sheba has struck you dumb,
brother Orville;” said the playful Jane—“you have seen
her to-day, I'm certain. That's the way she always comes
over one. She has had on her cloudy cap to-day for your
especial benefit.”

“But have you seen her, brother?” asked the more
timid Mary.

“To be sure he has—don't you see? nothing less could
make Orville look on us, as old Burke the schoolmaster

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

used to look on him when he put the nouns and verbs
out of countenance. He has seen her to be sure, and she
came out clothed in thunder, I reckon.”

“Jane, you vex Orville. But you did see her, brother?”

“Yes, Mary, Jane is right.”

“Didn't I tell you? I could see it the moment I set
eyes on him.”

“And don't you think her very beautiful, brother?”

“Very beautiful, Mary.”

“Yes! a sort of thunderstorm beauty, I grant you,”
said Jane—“dark and dismal—with such keen flashes of
lightning as to dazzle one's eyes and terrify one's heart.”

“Not a bad description, Jane;” said the brother.

“To be sure not. Don't I know her? Why, Lord love
you, the first time we were together I felt all crumpled
up, body and soul. My soul indeed was like a little
mouse looking every where for a hole to creep into and
be out of the way of danger; and I fancied she was a
great tigress of a mouser, with her eyes following the
mouse every which way, amusing herself with my terrors,
and ready to spring upon me and end them the moment
she got tired of the sport. I assure you, I didn't feel secure
a single moment while I was with her. I expected to be
gobbled up at a moment's warning.”

“How you run on, Jane, and so unreasonably,” said the
gentle Mary. “Now, brother, I think all this description
very unlike Anna Cooke. That she's sad, usually, and
gloomy sometimes, I'm willing to admit; but she was very
kind and gentle in what she had to say to me, and I believe
would have been much more so, if Jane hadn't continually
came about us making a great laughter. That she is very
smart, I'm certain, and that she is very beautiful every body
with half an eye must see.”

“I don't, and I've both eyes, and pretty keen ones
too.”

“Well, girls,” said Beauchampe, “I intend that you
shall have a good opportunity to form a correct opinion of
Miss Cooke—her talents and her beauty. I intend to carry
you both to visit her to-morrow.”

“Oh, don't, don't, brother, I beg you—she 'll eat me up,
the great mouser. I sha'n't be a moderate mouthful for
her anger.”

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

And the mischevious Jane darted from his side, and
lifted up her hand with a manner of affected deprecation.

Mary rebuked her as was usual on such occasions, and
her rebuke was somewhat seconded by one which was
more effectual. The brother betrayed some little displeasure
as well in words as in looks, and poor Jane contrived
to make the amende by repressing some portion of that
lively temerity of temper which is not always innocuous
in its pleasantries. In this way they proceeded to the
cottage where, in private, the young man contrived to let
his mother know how much he was charmed with the
mysterious lady, but not how much of his admiration he
had revealed. On this head, indeed, he was as little capable
as any body else of telling the whole truth. He knew
not in fact what he had said. He had felt the impulse to
say many things, and in his conscience felt that he might
have said them; but of the precise nature of his confessions
he knew nothing. Something, indeed, he might
infer from what he recollected of the language of Anna
Cooke to himself. He could easily comprehend that the
freedom with which she declared her feelings must have
been induced in great degree by the revelation of his own;
but as he had not right—and, by the way, as little wish—
to betray her secrets, so he naturally spared himself the
mortification of telling his own. Thus matters stood with
him. His mother listened gravely. She could see in the
faltering tongue and flushed face of her son much more
of the actual state of his feelings than his words declared.
She was not satisfied that her son should fall in love with
Miss Cooke; not that she had any thing against that
young lady—she had none of the idle prejudices of her
eldest daughter—but that young lady did not impress her
favourably. Mrs. Beauchampe was a very pious lady, and
the feeling of society is so nearly allied to that of pure
religion, that when she found Anna Cooke deficient in the
one tendency, she naturally suspected her equal lack of
the other. But, in the next place, if the old lady had her
objections to the young one, she, at the same time, was
too fond of her son, to resist his wishes very long or very
urgently. She contented herself with suggesting some
grounds of objection which the ardency and eloquence of
the latter found but little difficulty in overcoming. At all
events it was arranged that Beauchampe should take his

[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

sisters the next day to visit his fair, and, so far, tyrannical
enslaver.

From this visit Beauchampe, though without knowing
exactly why, had considerable expectations. At least he
did not despair of seeing the young lady. The old one
politely kept sick, much, it may be added, to the annoyance
of her daughter. The day came, and breakfast was
scarcely over before the impetuous youth began to exhibit
his anxiety. But the sisters had to make their toilet, and
something, he fancied, was due to his own. A country
girl has her own ideas of finery, and the difference of
taste aside, the only other differences between herself and
the city maiden, are differences in degree. The toilet is
the altar where vanity not only makes her preparations
but says her prayers. We care not to ask whether love
be the image that stands above it or not. Perhaps there
are few calculations of the young female heart, in which
love does not enter as an inevitable constituent. Certainly,
few of her thoughts are altogether satisfactory, if they
bear not his figures in the woof. Beauchampe's sisters
fairly put his patience to the test; and strange to say, his
favourite sister, Mary, was much the most laggard in her
proceedings. She certainly had never before made such
an unnecessary fuss about her pretty little person. At
length, however, all were made ready. The party sallied
forth, reached the house of Mrs. Cooke, were admitted,
and after a brief delay, the daughter entered the room, to
a very quick march beaten by the heart of our ardent hero.
But, though this accompaniment was so very quick, the
entrance of Anna Cooke was calm, slow and dignified as
usual. She received the party very kindly; and her efforts
to please them while they stayed, seemed as natural and
unconstrained as if the business of pleasing had been a
habit of her life. Jane's apprehensions of being eaten up
soon subsided, and the gentle Mary had the satisfaction of
bringing about, by some inadvertent remark of her own,
an animating conversation between her brother and the
lovely hostess. We say animated conversation, but it
must not be supposed that it was a lively one. The animation
of the parties arose from their mutual earnestness
of character. The sanguine temperament thus readily
throws itself into the breach, and identifies itself with the
most passing occasions. It was in this way that

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Beauchampe found himself engaged in a brief and pleasant
discussion of one of those topics arising from books, in
which the parties may engage with warmth, yet without
endangering the harmony of the conference; even as a
wild strain of music,—from the rolling, rising organ, or
the barbaric drum and saracenic trumpet, will make the
heart thrill and throb again, with a sentiment of awe which
yet it would be very loth not to have awakened. Beauchampe
was perfectly ravished, the more particularly as
he did not fail to see that Miss Cooke was evidently not
insensible to the spirit and intelligence which he displayed
in his share of the dialogue. The presence of the sisters,
fortunately, had the effect of controlling the brother in the
utterance of those passionate and personal feelings which
had been forced, as it were, from his lips the day previous.
Love was unspoken by either, and yet, most certainly,
love was the only thought of one and, possibly, of both.
But love is the most adroit of logicians. He argues his
case upon the data and criteria of a thousand far less offensive
topics. Religion, law, politics; art, science, philosophy;
all subjects he will discuss as if he had no other
purpose than to adjust their moot points and settle their
vexing contrarieties. The only misfortune is that when
he is done—nay, while he is going on, one is apt to forget
the subject in the orator. Special pleader that he is, in
what a specialty all his labours terminate! When Anna
Cooke and Orville Beauchampe separated that day, what
of the argument did they remember. Each readily remembered
that the speaker was most eloquent. Beauchampe
could tell you that the fair debater was never so
beautiful in person, so high and commanding in intellect
before; and when Anna Cooke was alone, she found herself
continually recalling to her mind's eye, the bright
aspect and beaming eyes of the enthusiastic young lawyer.
So earnest, so seemingly unconscious of himself as
he poured forth the overflowing treasures of a warm heart,
and a really well stored and vigorous intellect. She saw
too, already, how deeply she had impressed herself upon
his fancy. Beauchampe's heart had no disguises. Strange
feelings rose into her own. Strange, terrible thoughts
filled her mind; and the vague musings of her wild and
scarcely coherent spirit, formed themselves into words
upon her tongue.

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“Is not this an avenger!” she muttered. “Is not this
an avenger sent from heaven! I have striven in vain. I
am fettered. It is denied to me to pursue and sacrifice the
victim. Oh! surely woman is the image of all feebleness.
These garments are its badges; and sanction obstruction
and invite injustice. As I am, thus and here, what hope
is there that vengeance can be mine. The conquest of
this enthusiastic youth will afford me the freedom that I
crave, the agent that I need, the sacrifice for which only I
dream and pray. With him the victim may be sought
and found wherever he hides himself, and this crushed
heart shall once more rise in triumph—this trampled pride
be uplifted—the pangs of this defrauded and lacerated
bosom be soothed by the sacrifice of blood! And why
should it not be so? Why? Do I live for any other passion?
Do I entertain any other image in my soul? What
is love, to me, and fear, and hope, and joy,—the world
without and the world within—what but a dark abode in
which there is but one light—one star, red and wild,—a
planet rising fiery at the birth of hate, only to set in blood,
in the sacrifice of its victim. Here is one comes to me
bearing the knife. He is mine, so declare his looks—he
loves me, so equally speak his words and actions. Shall
I not use his love for my hate? What is his love to me?
His love—ha! ha! ha! His love indeed,—the love of a
young ambitious lawyer. Is it not rather the perfection of
vengeance that I should employ one of the tribe for the
destruction of another!

“But no, no! why should I involve this boy in my fate.
Why should I make him my instrument in this wild purpose.
He is not of the same brood though of that brotherhood.
This youth is noble. He is too ardent, too impetuous
for a deliberate design of evil. His soul is
generous. He feels,—he feels!—he, at least, is no masked,
no cold blooded traitor, serpent-like, crawling into the open
and warm heart to beguile and sting. No, no! I must
not wrong him thus. He must be spared this doom. I
must brood over it alone, and let the fates work it as they
may. Though, were he but half less ardent—could I
suspect him of a baseness,—I should whet the dagger, and
swear him to its use. Yes,—at any altar, for that sacrifice,—
though that altar be the very one on which I was
the sacrifice—though it bear the name of love, and held
above it his cruel and treacherous image!”

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Such were the frequent meditations of the passionate
and proud woman. Her mother prompted these not unfrequently
without intending it. She, with the sagacity of
an ancient dealer, soon discovered the sort of coin which
Beauchampe was disposed to bring with him into Love's
crowded market place. She readily detected in the unsophisticated
manners of Beauchampe, the proper material
on which it would be easy for her daughter to work. The
intense, inflamable, impetuous nature was such as a single
glance of those dark, bright eyes,—a single sentence from
that mellow, yet piercing, silvery, yet deep-toned voice,—
might light up with inextinguishable flame,—might prompt
with irresistable impulses. Of course, the old lady had
no knowledge of the one absorbing passion which had
became a mania in the breast of her daughter. Her calculations
went no farther than to secure a son-in-law;—but
of this the daughter had no thought, only as it might be
necessary to effect other objects. Her purpose was to
find an avenger, if any thing; and even for this object,
we have seen from her spoken meditations, she was yet
too generous to seek for such an agent in one so unselfish,
so true-hearted as Beauchampe had appeared. But the
rough-hewing of events was not to be left either to mother,
or daughter, however resolved and earnest might be the
will which they severally or mutually exercised. The
strongest of us, in the most earnest periods of our lives,
move very much as the winds blow. It may hurt our
vanity, but will do our real interests no harm to declare,
that individual man is after all only a sort of moral vane
on the world's housetop. If you find him stationary for
any length of time be sure it is less from principle than
rust.