The national era. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1847-1860, 1860-01-05

revolving her own recent whirlwind of life.ex
periences; she was battling against the timid.
ity that proceeded from want of use in trouble.
and lack OF precedent in counsel and she was
trying to reinspire herself with the same glow
OF hope which she had yesterday derived from
her long conversation with George. Not very
successfully. The plausible and fair success
which had seemed then at her command. now
assumed faint shadowy, evanishing proper.
tons, continually eluding her grasp; the dread
and horror then banished, now sooasld come
back, with FACILITATING knocks against the door
OF her heart. Scorn it how she would, condemn
and reprobate herself as she might for the i'm.
piety OF the suspicion, dreadful fear was ever
present to her mind, that the Furies which
lashed her dear father, and drove him onward
through the black realms of despair, we're
se.f-tnuoked! She dared not to entertain the
thought, yet the thought would not be banished.
that her father, by his own errors, or his own
quit, had called down the avenging stings of
CONSCIENCE. For, whence this SO terrible suf.
fering, this dread, this unrest, this suspicion.
this rejection Of all the consultations of affection.
this hideous agony of watchfulness. and des.
pairing recourse to the oblivion of exhaustive
labor, unless its cause could be found in the
morbid and exaggerated suggestions of re-
morsef And how else could she account for
the stunned apathy of her poor forlorn mother.
incompetent to the slightest offices of that de.
votion which, she intuitively felt, had been the
rule, perhaps the ruin, of her life? Upon what
other grounds could she excuse the passionate
warning OF George, to avoid the past, as if it
were fatal serpent, coiled for the stroke; to
shut her eyes to all inquiry; and to fee from
every knowledge of it, for the sake itself of her
own happiness Yes-she could not doubt
but that something dreadful had happened.
some awful stroke fallen-but what it was, she
dared not conjecture, wished not to ascertain.
1t could not affect her-it would make no
change IN her affection, her respect for her pa
rants, and would only have the effect to render
her still more unhappy. 1t was not the thing
itself, whatever it might be- that she most dread.
ed. What terrified her was, lest it should not
be jpossible to keep it secret, in these DAYS.
when everything is published to the world.
And should it become known, she felt intui.
lively that it would be the last and fatal stroke
to her father. Already she had guessed his
deep and morbid sensitiveness, his pride, the
urgent and almost imperative absolutism of his
desire to seem. If, then, he should discover
that his failing, his lapse, his sin, his shame or
whatever it was-and she could not but meas.
ure the degree of that error by the extent of his
suffering-had become known to his children,
would not the intensity of his feeling of the loss
OF their self-respect put the cap-stone to his
miserable despair, and irresistihly drive him on
to the commission of some capital deed of hor-
ror, which should cast veil of wretchedness
| over their days forever? And then, there was
Rupert, poor Rupert, with his intense pride, his
naughty sense of honor, his exquisite suscepti-
bihty to shame! If the thing should be re.
vealed, would not he, in his fiery resentment of
disgrace, be driven into ruin Z? She knew his
character, and she felt, with shudder that he
a tn II Il
tune, any stroke of fate, sooner than from the
most trihing, most minute strain of disgrace.
Helen was brave enough little woman her
soul was full of courageous promptings her
heart glowed with the most radiant hues of
hope; but these things were almost too much
for her. If it concerned only herself she had
not feared to meet and encounter any stroke !;
but this matter concerned her stricken mothers
very life, for, to deprive her of the soulrest she
needed, was virtually to kill her. 1t concerned
the well being, the sanity, the very souls saliva
ton, of her father And, above all, it hung,
like sword of Damocles, over the fortunes, the
future of her brother; it had the power of de-
Gliding upon the nobility, the cleanliness the ex-
sltation, and honor, of that dear brothers life,
whom she loved and cherished nearest of any
to her heart; and as it resulted, so, she felt
tremblingly sure, was to be his decision, either
for life of honor and happiness, or for a life
of despair and misery. No wonder, then, that,
sitting there in the tapestry room, and ponder
ing these dismal suggestions, she felt her heart
sink within her, in all the misery of dread and
helplessness. No wonder that she clasped her
hands, and cried out with the widest entreaty
of her soul. for friend, who might help her in
this hour of her passion, her weakness, her ex-
tremty, her need
She heard the shrill chirp of the cicada from
the dilapidated old garden; the hum of popu-
lous life came in at the windows, with the faint
ness of distance, and blended with the sweet
air, odorous from kissing of the orange bios
SONS the great unconscious sun blazed with
out there, all serene amid his calm blue heaven,
all unheeding of her, alone there in her trouble
and her helplessness little Pope in the garden
sang his liquid song
Caro-
Che auo fuor di ~
thinking not of her, alone, alone. AloneP What
are these forms there, that fit around her, com.
panions of her misery, as Francesca came across
the waste, weeping, to Dante's feet? Ghosts
and shadows Of the house? Yes George was
right; this dismal palace of the gloomy shade
is haunted. See these victims of crime and woe
murdered wives, weeping for the hand that
smote them; guilty lovers, struck down in the
ethereal flush and very exultation of their sin
wretches starved in those dungeons underneath
-,
now, lettering himself triply strong in the canker
ing chains of wretchedness; gray, old Cara
nell, foaming with taunts and wounded pride;
his black-browed wife, lending the moisture of
compassion to her tigress eyes-all wretches,
all woe-begoneI Now they fit around her, and
with may, delirous dance, seem to involve her
very soul in confusion; away-away-would ye
drive nae mad!
1t was Georges voice dispelled them, and he
said Miss Helen, de genlmanAhim what
you see in Milan-says may he come up? Mr.
Merivale"-
The revulsion was too sudden; she clasped
her hands to her brow, and burst into passion
of tears, saying, "No, no not yet; detain him
a moment, George"
But she spoke just exactly a moment too
late. The artist had followed George closely,
and was in the room by the time his name was
announced.
at is a great pleasure tomeet Miss Beale once
more" said he, advancing, and holding out his
hand. But he paused suddenly, beholding her
tears, her convulsive sobs, her vain efforts to
compose herself
81 hope you will excuse me, Miss Helen"
murmured he, hastily, 81 would not for the
world intrude upon your tears, however much
l might desire to see them dried-I will call
again, if you please" and he made the motion
to retire.
But she sprang to her feet instantly, held out
one hand to him, and, hiding her face in the
other, said Don't go. do not wish you to
go. This is mere childishness," added she,
sobbing piteousy, "and / am glad to have your
presence for reproo-ooof"-(s she had broken
down again &c sit down--it viii be over in a
moment"
George, who until then had stood on the
threshold, scared spectator, now, after keen