Christian Melville

CHAPTER I.

E are half inclined to lament that the incidents of our story confine us to one short month, nay, oftener to one little day of every passing year, but nevertheless so it is, and we may not murmur. Doubtless could we have sketched the glories of some midsummer morning or autumnal night, or wandered by our heroine’s side through the gowan-spotted braes in the verdant springtime, we should have had pleasanter objects to describe, and a pleasanter task in describing them, and our readers a less wearisome one in following us; but seeing that we must, perforce, abide by “the chamber and the dusky hearth,” even so, let it be. The hearth of our present sketch is in nowise dusky, however; there is nothing about it that is not bright as the blazing fire itself. If you look from the window you may see that everything without is chained down hard and fast in the iron fetters of the frost, and covered with a mantle of dazzling whiteness. With tenacious grasp the wintry king fixes the less obdurate snow to the heavy housetops, decking them as with hood and mantle; with malicious glee it rivets each drop of spilt water on the slippery pavement, bringing sudden humiliation, downfall and woe, to the heedless passengers; and from the southern eaves where the sun has for some short time exerted a feeble power, hang long icicles in curious spirals, like the curls of youthful beauty. Keen and cold, it revels in the piercing wind, which coming from the bleak north in full gush round the chill street corner, aggravates the wintry red and blue which battle for the mastery in the faces of the shivering passengers, and screams out its chill laughter in the gale, when some sturdy man who has but now chased its little glowing votaries from their icy play is suddenly overthrown himself by one incautious step, and with prostration lower than Eastern does homage to its power, to the great and loudly expressed satisfaction of the urchins aforesaid, who have resumed again their merry game with renewed zeal and vigour.

It is just the kind of morning to make dwellers at home hug themselves on their comfortable superiority over those whom necessity calls abroad, to dare the dangerous passage of these treacherous streets and meet the rough encounters of the biting wind. The room we stand in is the very picture of neatness and comfort; a beautiful infant of two years old is roaming with unsteady step about the bright fireside and over the carpet, a wide world to him, intently making voyages of discovery hither and thither, among the chairs and tables, the continents and islands of his navigation; and beside a pretty work-table, with her delicate fingers employed in still more delicate work, sits Mrs. James Melville, her brow furrowed and curved in deliberative wisdom, giving earnest heed to schemes which are being poured into her attentive ear, and ever and anon responding with oracular gravity. Who is this that seeks and has obtained the infinite benefit of Mrs. James’s counsel, and that now with deferential courtesy lays before her the inexpressible advantages he will derive from her advice and assistance, and insinuates the unending gratitude of which he has already given earnest in delicate and well-timed presents, such as delight a lady’s heart? He is speaking of a brilliant establishment to be offered to some one whom he seeks to win, and shall win all the more easily through his kind friend Mrs. James’s advice and co-operation. He is speaking of wealth which hitherto he laments,—and here the petitioner sighs and looks, or tries to look pathetic,—he has not properly employed, wherewith that as yet nameless third party shall be endowed, and he winds up all with an eulogium upon the extraordinary ability, and undeserved, but not unappreciated kindness of the lady who smiles so graciously at his well-timed compliments. Mrs. James is completely won over, and her full assistance and co-operation pledged, for the pleader is skilled in his craft, and wont to be successful. Who can resist Mr. Forsyth’s eloquence and special reasonings? The work of consultation goes on, the toils are laid for Mary, sweet Mary Melville’s unwitting feet, and Forsyth, on the strength of his ally’s assurances, has already brightened in anticipatory triumph, and if all things be as Mrs. James says they are, and all Forsyth’s promises be realised, is not Mary’s lot a bright one? Nay, but is this a man to hold in his hands the happiness of Christian’s sister?

Mrs. James is determined to signalise herself as a match-maker, and there are a thousand captivating circumstances which conspire to make her eager in the furtherance of Forsyth’s suit. She reckons up some of them: First, it will really be an excellent settlement for Mary; where among her father’s hum-drum acquaintance could she ever have found one anything at all like so good; secondly, Mrs. Forsyth’s wealth and style will bring even her, Mrs. James Melville, into a more brilliant sphere; and above all, there will be the crowning delight of overcoming, or rather being able to set at nought, all Christian’s opposition. Mrs. James, self-confident as she is, very bold, and even impertinent as she can be at some times, and strong in the might of superior elegance and beauty, has always been awed in the presence of Christian’s quiet dignity, and this had annoyed and galled her greatly. There is something in that grave dignity which she cannot comprehend, and still more aggravating is the fact, that do what she will, she cannot quarrel with her gentle sister-in-law, and that all her innuendoes fall pointless and harmless. Christian will not hear Mrs. James’s petulance, be it ever so loud, for with one calm word she shows her its insignificance; she smiles at her sarcasms against old maids, as she might smile at some nick-name of childish sport; nay, sometimes, and it is the nearest approach to mirth which Christian is ever known to make now, she will turn round in defence of the maligned sisterhood, and chase with lightfooted raillery, which savours of days of old, the heavy wit of her opponent off the field. Mrs. James never saw Christian ruffled or disturbed by any speech of hers, save on that occasion which introduced Forsyth to Mary, and she was too watchful and too much delighted to let the opportunity of prolonging her annoyance cease; and Mary, a frequent visitor at her brother’s house, has since that time, nearly a year now, met her sister-in-law’s accomplished acquaintance so often, that people begin to whisper about Forsyth’s devotion, and to look forward to a bridal; and when he is spoken of before Mary, they smile and look in her face, and the colour on her soft cheek deepens, and the blood flushes on her forehead, and then when they wonder at his versatile talents, as they often do, for he is intellectually in that society a giant among dwarfs, Mary’s downcast eyelids grow wet with pleasant moisture, and her heart thrills with pleasure, so that she, loving Christian as she does, is unconsciously furthering Mrs. James in her plan of annoyance. Our poor Mary!

But we are neglecting the conversation which is still going on between Mrs. James and her visitor. Forsyth is preparing to go, his visit has been already prolonged beyond all usual bounds, yet he lingers still, endeavouring with his persuasive eloquence to bring about one other arrangement.

“You will bring Mary here to meet me, on new year’s day morning, my dear madam?” he says softly, and in the most insinuating tone, “will you not?”

“New year’s morning,” interrupted Mrs. James, “that will never do. You know I have always a party on the new year’s night, I shall not be able to give you that morning.”

“Well,” answered Forsyth, as smoothly and persuasively as he could, “but if you could give us your presence for a few minutes, Mary and I, I hope, will be able to manage the rest ourselves, and you know, my dear Mrs. Melville,” he added still more blandly, “I am anxious to come to an understanding with Mary as soon as possible. Come, you must add this to the many kindnesses you have done me already. You will consent, I see.”

Mrs. James could not resist. “Well then, on new year’s morning be here, and Mary shall meet you,” she said, and her gratified friend bows over her extended hand. “You may come, Mr. Forsyth, on new year’s morning.”

Mr. Forsyth can never sufficiently express his obligation; and having succeeded in all things according to his wish with Mrs. James Melville, he takes his leave at last, and rejoices as he hurries through the streets, so cold and bitter to other passengers, but so bright and cheerful to him in his present mood, that soon now he will be assured of Mary. He has no doubt about it, none at all, and he is certain that all that he wants is just this opportunity which Mrs. James is to secure him, and then Mary Melville will be his own, plighted and pledged his own.

It is but a few days, yet new year’s morning is as tardy in approach as if, so big with fate to that young, ingenious, and unfearful spirit, it lingered on its way willing to prolong her state of happy unconsciousness. The elegant Mr. Forsyth yawns through the long weary days; though it is the time of his own appointing he is impatient and restless, and his yawning and irksomeness is redoubled on that dull, cold, cheerless evening before its dawn, and he gets really nervous as the time draws near. Strange that one so practised in the world, whose heart has been so long a very superfluous piece of matter, should have his dead affections so powerfully awakened by the simple grace and girlish beauty of guileless Mary Melville. Strange, indeed, and if he is successful in winning her—as who can doubt he will—what hope is there for our sweet Mary when his sudden vehement liking passes into indifference. Poor Mary’s constant heart should be mated only with one as warm and as full of affection and tenderness as itself; but who shall have the choosing of their own future—alas, who! or who, if the choice was given them, would determine aright?—not Mary. But there is a power, the bridegroom in anticipation wots not of, ordering the very words which shall fall from his lips to-morrow, overruling the craftiness of his crafty and subtle spirit, and guarding the innocent simplicity of the prayer-protected girl, defending her from all ill.

CHAPTER II.

EW YEAR’S day at last arrived, the time so anxiously waited for by Forsyth; a cold clear winter morning; and Mary, invited specially by her sister-in-law, leaves home to help—to help in some little preparations for the evening, was the reason or plea assigned by Mrs. James to secure Mary on that morning; and even Christian had nothing to object to a request so reasonable, though it must be said that Christian did not like her sister to be much among Mrs. James’s friends. Nor had Mary herself been wont to like it either, but the Mary of a year ago is not the Mary of to-day; she has not grown indifferent to Christian’s wishes; very far from that, Mary was perhaps more nervously anxious to please Christian than ever in all lesser things; she felt that a kind of atonement, a satisfaction to her conscience, for her encouragement of the one engrossing feeling of her heart, of which she dared not indeed seek Christian’s approval. For the thought that in this most important particular she was deceiving, or at least disingenuous to her dearest friend, concealing from her what it so concerned her to know, gave Mary, acting thus contrary to her nature, many a secret pang. But though this secret clouded her brow and disturbed her peace at home, she hid it in her own heart. Still how strange that Mary should be lightsome and happier with her brother’s wife, whose character was in every respect so inferior to her own, than with her gentle sister; yet so it was, and Mary’s heart beat quicker when she entered James’s house, and quicker still when she saw there was some other visitor before her. Who it was she needed not to ask, for Forsyth sprung to her side, as she entered the cheerful room, with low-voiced salutation, and a glance that brought the blush to her cheek, and caused her fair head to bend over the merry little boy that came running to her knee, and hailed her as “Aunt Mary.”

“Call me uncle, James, that’s a good little fellow, call me Uncle Walter,” said Forsyth.

Mary’s blush grew deeper; but James the younger was said to resemble Aunt Christian in many things, and in nothing more than in disliking Forsyth; and he was not to be conciliated, either with sugar-plum or toy, but remained steadfast in his childish instinct of dislike, so he said bluntly, “No,”—a bad omen this; but Forsyth was not to be discouraged, and Mrs. James, nettled a little by it, proceeded at once to open the campaign. Some new music was lying on the table, and she pointed to it.

“See, Mary, here is a present from Mr. Forsyth,” she said, laughingly, “but there is a condition attached to it which depends on you for its fulfilment.”

Mary, glad of anything to hide her confusion, bent over the table to look at it. “Well,” she said, “and what is the condition that depends on me.”

“Nay, ask the giver,” said Mrs. James, “he must make his agreement with you himself, I cannot make bargains for him.”

Mary was half afraid to lift her eyes to Forsyth’s face, but she did so, and asked by a glance what it was he required.

“The condition is not a very difficult one,” said he, in his most bland and soothing tone, “it was merely that Mrs. Melville would get you to sing this song for me. I was afraid I should fail did I ask myself.”

“And why this song, Mr. Forsyth,” asked Mary, “is it such a favourite?”

“I heard you sing it a year ago,” was the answer, spoken too low, Mary thought, to reach Mrs. James’s ear, and again the blood came rushing in torrents to her face.

Mrs. James began to move about as though about to leave the room; this silence would not do, it was too embarrassing, and Mary resumed, though her voice had likewise grown imperceptibly lower. “Christian is very fond of this song, and we all of us like it because she does.”

Mrs. James heard this, however, and, elated by Mary’s coming to her house that morning, and her own expected triumph over Christian, she could not resist the temptation. “Oh, Christian has such strange notions,” she said gaily, “she likes things that nobody else does. I can’t conceive why you are all continually quoting Christian—Christian! one hears nothing else from James and you, Mary, but Christian, Christian.”

“Christian never set her own inclination in opposition to any other person’s wish in her life,” said Mary, warmly; “you do not know Christian, Elizabeth, or you would not speak of her so.”

“Miss Melville’s good qualities,” chimed in Forsyth, “Miss Melville’s rare qualities, must gain as much admiration wherever she is seen, as they seem to have gotten love and reverence from all who are within the range of their beneficent exercise, and who have the privilege of knowing their value fully;” and he smiled his sweetest smile in Mary’s face, as she looked up to him with grateful glistening eyes, and inwardly thanked him for his appreciation of dear Christian in her heart.

How superior, thought Mary, is he to such worldly people as Elizabeth, and her coterie, he appreciates Christian, he can estimate her properly. Yet Mary, all the time that her heart glowed under these feelings towards Forsyth, felt that she had thwarted Christian’s warmest wishes, and is still farther thwarting them by the very look with which she thanked Forsyth for his championship. Mrs. James is at the window carefully examining the leaves of some rare winter plants—another gift of Forsyth’s giving; and there ensues another awkward silence. At length she breaks in once more.

“Am I to have my music, Mary? will you fulfil the conditions Mr. Forsyth has attached to this, or shall I have to send it back again?”

Forsyth is leaning over her chair, anxiously waiting for her answer. Mary is at a loss what to do, but cannot say, No. Again Mrs. James is occupied with the flowers.

“This is an era with me, Miss Melville,” Forsyth whispered in Mary’s ear; “this day twelve months I first saw you.”

Mary’s fingers still hold the music, but the sheets tremble in her hands. “Is it, indeed?” she says. “Oh, yes! I remember, it was at Elizabeth’s annual party! It is an era to us all, also. We too have many recollections connected with the New Year, but they are all sorrowful.”

“Not mine,” returned Forsyth. “Do you know, Miss Melville, I was much struck then by your resemblance to a young man I once knew in Edinburgh, a very fine gentleman-like lad of your own name too. I often wonder what has become of him. I had some hand in inducing him to change some ridiculously rigid opinions of his; when a fit of superstitious fear came over him, and I believe his regard for me changed to a perfect hatred.”

Here Mr. Forsyth looked over to Mrs. James, as much as to say, it was full time for her to go away.

The light is swimming in Mary’s eyes, everything before her has become dim and indistinct; and she trembles, not as she trembled a moment since, with agitated pleasure—it is horror, dread, fear that now shakes her slender frame, and looks out from her dim and vacant eyes. There is no trace now of the blush which wavered but a little ago so gracefully upon her cheek, it is pale as death, as she sinks back into her chair. Forsyth and Elizabeth both rushed to her side. What is, what can be, the matter?

“Nothing, nothing, I shall be better immediately,” she said, shuddering as she raised herself up again, and drew away the hand which Forsyth had taken; “I am better now, much better.”

A look of intelligence and mutual congratulation passed between her companions. Poor thing, she is agitated, and out of sorts with the novelty of her position; but what matters that, they are quite sure of Mary now, and Mrs. James glides quietly out of the room.

As soon as she has gone, and they are left alone together, Forsyth with all the eloquence of look and tone and gesture he can command, pours his suit into Mary’s ear. How entirely will he not be devoted to her, to her happiness. How perfectly does she reign in his affections; but it seems, unless from a shiver, which thrills through her frame from time to time, that he speaks to a statue, alike incapable of moving from that charmed place, or of articulating anything in answer to his petition. Forsyth becomes alarmed, and entreats, beseeches her to speak to him, to look at him only, to return the pressure of his hand, if nothing more definite is to be said or done; and suddenly Mary does look up, pale and troubled though her countenance be, into his face, and speaks firmly:—

“Where, Mr. Forsyth,” she said, gazing at him as though she could penetrate the veil, and read his inmost heart; “where did that young man go, that you were speaking to me of just now; the one,” she added, with hasty irritation, as she marked his astonished and deprecating gesture—“the one you thought resembled me; to what place or country did he flee? Answer me.”

“Mary, dear Mary!” pleaded Forsyth, “why ask me such a question now? why terrify me with such looks. That superstitious fellow can be nothing to you; and you, dear Mary, are all in all to me.”

Mary’s voice is still trembling, notwithstanding her firmness, and the very force of her agitation has made it clear. “Where did he go to?” she repeats once more.

“I do not know; I believe to America, the universal refuge,” answered Forsyth, half angrily. “But why do you torment me thus, and answer my entreaties by such questions? What has this to do with my suit? Will you not listen to me, Mary?”

As he spoke, she rose with sudden dignity, and repelled the proud man who subdued and supplicating half knelt before her. “Much, Sir,” she said, with emphasis; “it has much to do with what you have said to me. I, to whom you address your love—I, who have been deceived into esteeming you so long—I, am the sister of Halbert Melville; of the man whom your seductions destroyed!”

It is too much, this struggle, the natural feeling will not be restrained, and Mary Melville hides her face in her hands, and tries to keep in the burning tears. Forsyth has been standing stunned, as though a thunderbolt had broken upon his head, but now he starts forward again. She is melting, he thinks, and again he takes her hand in his own. It is forced out of his hold almost fiercely, and Mary, again elevated in transitory strength, bids him begone; she will not look upon the destroyer of her brother with a favourable eye, nor listen to a word from his lips.

A moment after, the passengers in the street are turning round in astonishment, to look at that face so livid with rage and disappointment which speeds past them like a flash of lightning, and Mrs. James Melville was called up to administer restoratives to her fainting sister—sweet gentle Mary.

CHAPTER III.

HRISTIAN MELVILLE is seated alone by her fireside, engaged in her usual occupations, and full of her wonted thoughts; but her present anxiety about Mary has taught her to linger less in the past, and to look oftener forward to the future than she has been accustomed to do heretofore, since sorrow made that once bright prospect a blank to her. Nay, Christian, in her happier hours, has grown a dreamer of dreams, and all her architectural fancies terminate in the one grand object, the happiness of Mary. She sees the imminent danger she runs of having to relinquish her one remaining treasure, and that into the keeping of one she distrusts so much as Forsyth. Christian cannot tell how it is that she has such an unaccountable, unconquerable aversion to him. True, his name is the same as that of Halbert’s tempter; and association is the root, doubtless, of all her prejudice—as prejudice everybody calls it—and Christian tries, as she has tried a hundred times, to overcome her repugnance, and to recollect the good traits of character that have been told her of him, and to school her mind into willingness to receive him as Mary’s choice; and she breathes, from the depths of her heart, the fervent petition for guidance and deliverance so often repeated for her innocent Mary—her child, her sister—and then her thoughts speed away, and Halbert rises up before her mental vision. What can be his fate? Long and wearily does she ponder, and bitter fancies often make her groan in spirit as one burdened. Is he still a living man?—still to be hoped and prayed for; or, is Halbert now beyond all human hope and intercession? Her heart grows sick and faint as she thinks of the possibility of this; but she almost instantly rejects it; and again her soul rises to her Lord in earnest ejaculations. Oh! but for this power of prayer, but for this well-ascertained certainty, that there is One who hears the prayers of his people, how should Christian Melville have lived throughout these three long anxious years; how should she have endured the unbroken monotony of every uneventful day, with such a load upon her mind, and such fancies coming and going in her heart; how possibly subdued the longings of her anxious love through all this time of waiting and suspense? But her prayer has never ceased; like the smoke of the ancient sacrifice, it has ascended continually through the distant heaven: the voice of her supplications and intercedings have risen up without ceasing; and surely the Hearer of prayer will not shut his ears to these.

There is some commotion going on below, the sound of which comes up to Christian in a confused murmur, in which she can only distinguish old Ailie’s voice. At first she takes no notice of it; then she begins to wonder what it can be, so strange are such sounds in this quiet and methodical house, though still she does not rise to inquire what it is. Christian is engrossed too much with her own thoughts; and as the sounds grow more indistinct, she bends her head again, and permits herself to be carried away once more in the current of her musings. But the step of old Ailie is coming up the stairs much more rapidly than that old footstep was wont to come; and as Christian looks up again in astonishment, Ailie rushes into the room, spins round it for a moment with uplifted hands, sobbing and laughing mingled, in joyful confusion, and then dropping on the floor, breathless and exhausted with her extraordinary pirouetting, throws her apron over her head, and weeps and laughs, and utters broken ejaculations till Christian, hastening across the room in great alarm to interrogate her, afraid that the old woman’s brain is affected,

“What is the matter, Ailie?” Christian asks. “Tell me, what is the matter?”

“Oh, Miss Christian!” and poor Ailie’s wail of sobbing mixed with broken laughter sounded almost unearthly in Christian’s ear. “Oh, Miss Christian! said I not, that the bairn of sae monie prayers suld not be lost at last?”

“Ailie! Ailie! what do you mean? Have you heard anything of Halbert?” and Christian trembled like a leaf, and could scarce speak her question for emotion. “Ailie! I entreat you to speak to—to answer me.”

And Christian wrung her hands in an agony of hope and fear, unwitting what to think or make of all this almost hysterical emotion of the old faithful servant, or of her enigmatical words. “Look up, dear Christian; look up!” Ailie needs not answer. Who is this that stands on the threshold of this well-remembered room, with a flush of joy on his cheek, and a shade of shame and fearfulness just tempering the glow of happiness in his eyes?

“Halbert!”

“Christian!”

The brother and sister so fearfully and so long separated, and during these years unwitting of each other’s existence even, are thus restored to each other once more.

A long story has Halbert to tell, when Christian has recovered from her first dream of confused joy, a three year long story, beginning with that fearful night, the source of all his sorrows and his sufferings. Christian’s heart is bent down in silent shuddering horror as he tells her of how he fell; how he was seduced, as by the craftiness of an Ahithophel, into doubt, into scoffing, into avowed unbelief, and finally led by his seducer—who all the previous time had seemed pure and spotless as an angel of light—into the haunts of his profligate associates, so vicious, so degrading, that the blush mantles on Halbert’s cheek at the bare remembrance of that one night. He tells her how among them he was led to acknowledge the change which Forsyth had wrought upon his opinions, and how he had been welcomed as one delivered from the bondage of priestly dreams and delusions; how he was taken with them when they left Forsyth’s house—the host himself the prime leader and chief of all—and saw scenes of evil which he shuddered still to think of; and how in the terrible revulsion of his feelings which followed his first knowledge of the habits of these men, whose no-creed he had adopted, and whose principles he had openly confessed the night before, sudden and awful conviction laid hold upon him—conviction of the nature of sin; of his sin in chief—and an apprehension of the hopelessness of pardon being extended to him; and how, turning reckless in his despair, he had resolved to flee to some place where he was unknown, uncaring what became of himself. He told her then of his long agony, of his fearful struggle with despair, which engrossed his soul, and how at last he was prompted by an inward influence to the use of the means of grace once more; and how, when at length he dared to open his Bible again, a text of comfort and of hopefulness looked him in the face; that he had said to himself, over and over again, “It is impossible!” till hope had died in his heart: but here this true word contradicted at once the terrible utterance of his self-abandonment. “All things,” it was written, “are possible with God;” and Halbert told her, how the first tears that had moistened his eyes since his great fall sprang up in them that very day. He told her of the scene so fair, where this mighty utterance of the Almighty went to his soul, and where he found peace; in the words of the gifted American—

He told her of his happy progress, from that first dawning of hope to the full joy of steadfast faith. He ran over the history of the past year, in which from day to day he had looked forward to this meeting; and he told with what joy he had slowly added coin to coin, until he had saved a sufficient sum to carry him home. Then, when he had finished, the sister and brother mingled their thanksgivings and happiness together, and Christian’s heart swelled full and overbrimming: she could have seated herself upon the floor, like Ailie, and poured out her joy as artlessly. But it is Halbert’s turn now to ask questions. When will little Mary be home? how long she stays. Halbert wearies to see his little sister, but he is bidden remember that she is not little now, and Christian sighs, and the dark cloud, that she fears is hanging over Mary’s fate, throws somewhat of its premonitory gloom upon her heart and face. Halbert, unnoticing this, is going about the room, almost like a boy, looking lovingly at its well-remembered corners, and at the chairs and tables, at the books, and last his eye falls on a card lying in a little basket, and he starts as if he had encountered a serpent, and his eye flashes as he suddenly cries out, almost sternly, as he lifts it and reads the name.

“Christian, what is this—what means this? Mr. Walter Forsyth a visitor of yours; it cannot be. Tell me, Christian, what does it mean?”

“It is Mr. Forsyth’s card,” said Christian gravely; “an acquaintance, I am afraid I must say a friend of ours. Indeed, Halbert, now that you are home with us again, this is my only grief. I fear we shall have to give our little Mary into his keeping, and he is not worthy of her.”

Halbert is calmed by his long trial, but his natural impetuosity is not entirely overcome, and he starts up in sudden excitement and disorder. “Walter Forsyth the husband of my sister Mary! Walter Forsyth, the infidel, the profligate; better, Christian, better a thousand times, that we should lay her head in the grave, great trial as that would be, and much agony as it would cause us all, than permit her to unite herself with such a reptile.”

“Halbert,” said Christian, “the name misleads you; this cannot be the man—the Forsyth who wrought you so much unhappiness and harm, and has caused us all such great grief and sorrow; he must be much older, and altogether a different person. This one is not even a scoffer, at least so far as I have seen.”

“Christian,” cried Halbert vehemently, “I feel assured it is the same. Do not tell me what he pretends to be, if he has any end to serve he can be anything, and put on the seeming of an angel of light even. I tell you, Christian, that I am sure, quite sure, that it is he. I met him as I came here, and I shuddered as I saw him, and even felt myself shrinking back lest his clothes should touch me; but little did I suspect that he was about to bring more grief upon us. Does Mary, do you think, care for him?”

Christian could not but tell him her fears; but she said also that Mary had always avoided speaking to her on the subject. What could they do? What should be done to save Mary? Halbert, in his impatience, would have gone to seek her out at once, and have pointed out to her the character of her lover; but Christian only mournfully shook her head, such a plan was most likely to do harm and not good.

“You must be calm, Halbert,” she said, “this impetuosity will be injurious—we must save Mary by gentler means, she is far too like yourself to be told in this outspoken manner—the shock would kill her.”

But old Ailie is stealing the door of the room open timidly, to break in on the first hour of Christian’s joy, and when she entered she did it with a look of sober cheerfulness, widely different from her late joyful frenzy.

“Miss Mary came in a while since,” she said, “and ran straight up to her own room, without speaking, or waiting till I telled her of Mr. Halbert’s home coming, and she looked pale and ill like; would you not go up, Miss Christian, and see?”

The Melvilles are Ailie’s own children, and she has a mother’s care of them in all their troubles, bodily or mental. So at her bidding Christian rose and went softly to Mary’s room: the door was closed, but she opened it gently, and standing hidden by the curtains of Mary’s bed, was witness to the wild burst of passionate sorrow and disappointed affection in which Mary’s breaking heart gushed forth, when she found herself once more alone. Herself unseen, Christian saw the scalding tears welling out from her gentle sister’s dim and swollen eyes, she saw the convulsive motions of her lithe and graceful figure, as she rocked herself to and fro, as if to ease or still the burning grief within: and she heard her broken murmurs.

“Had he but died before I knew this, I would have mourned for him all my life, even as Christian mourns, but now—but now!—such as he is”—and her burst of sobbing checked the voice of her sorrow. A moment after she started up and dashed the tears from her eyes, with some vehemence. “Should I not rather thank God that I have been saved from uniting myself with a godless man—with my poor brother’s seducer?” and she sank on her knees by the bedside. Poor Mary’s grief was too great for silent supplications, and Christian stood entranced, as that prayer, broken by many a gush of weeping, rose through the stillness of the quiet room. She had never, she thought, heard such eloquence before of supplicating sorrow, had never seen the omnipotence of truth and faith till then; gradually they seemed to subdue and overcome the wildness of that first grief, gradually attuned that sweet young sobbing, struggling voice, to sweetest resignation, and ere Christian echoed the solemn “Amen,” Mary had given thanks for her deliverance, though still natural tears, not to be repressed, broke in on her thanksgiving, and silent weeping followed her ended prayer. But when she bent her head upon her hands again, Christian’s kind arm was around her, Christian’s tears were mingled with her own, Christian’s lips were pressed to her wet cheek in tender sympathy, and the voice of Christian, like a comforter, whispered,

“I know all, Mary, I know all; may God strengthen you, my dear sister—you have done nobly, and as you should have done; may God bless you, dearest Mary.”

And Mary’s head, as in her old childish sorrows, nestles on Christian’s bosom, and Mary’s heart is relieved of half its heavy and bitter load. Poor Mary! the days of childhood have indeed come back again, and, as the violence of the struggle wears away, she weeps herself to sleep, for sorrow has worn out the strength of her delicate frame, already exhausted by the varied and contending emotions of the day, and now the tears slide slowly from beneath her closed eyelids even in her sleep.

But Halbert is at the door anxiously begging for admittance, and Christian leads him in to look at little Mary’s sleep. It was a child’s face, the last time he looked upon it, a happy girlish face, where mirth and quick intelligence rivalled each other in bringing out its expressive power; he sees it now, a woman’s, worn with the first and sorest struggle that its loving nature could sustain, and a kind of reverence mingled with his warm affection as he bent over his sleeping sister; he had yielded to temptations, oh, how much weaker, since his heart was not enlisted on the tempter’s side; he had made shipwreck of his faith and of his peace, for years, fascinated by attractions a thousand times less potent than those which this girl, her slight figure still trembling with her late emotions, still weeping in her sleep, had withstood and overcome; and Halbert bent his head, humility mingling with his rejoicing. Had he only been as steadfast as Mary, how much sorrow and suffering would they all have been saved.

They have left the room awhile with quiet footsteps, and there is much gladness in those two hearts, though trembling still mingles with their joy; for, if Christian fears the effect of this terrible shock on Mary’s health, at least she is delivered; there is great happiness in that certainty, she has found out Forsyth’s true character, though it passes all their guessing and conjectures to tell how.

And now Halbert is asking about his father, and James and Robert, and expressing his fears as to how they will receive him, the truant son. His brothers will be rejoiced; but Christian shakes her head half doubtful, half smiling, when Halbert, “and my father”—she cannot say, but an hour or two more will bring that to the proof.

“Do you know, Christian, I feel myself like one of the broken men of the old ballads, and I am in doubt, in perplexity, and fear, about this meeting.”

“If you are broken, if your ship has been cast ashore, we will get it mended again,” said Christian, with more of humour and lightheartedness than she had either felt or used for many a day. “But no more of that, Halbert, just now. Tell me, will you go to see James to-night?”

“No, I can’t; it would be unseemly besides.”

Halbert will not leave his sister the first night of his return, and Christian feels relieved; after a pause, he continues:

“How do you like Elizabeth now, Christian; are James and she happy together?”

“I have no doubt they are,” said Christian, evasively; “why should they not be?”

“But you don’t like her.”

“I never said so, Halbert.”

“Well, that’s true enough; but I inferred it.”

“Nay, you must make no inferences. Elizabeth can be very pleasant and lovable; if she is not always so, it is but because she does not choose to exercise her powers of pleasing.”

“So she can be lovable when she likes. But it was she, was it not, that introduced Mary to Forsyth?” said Halbert, his brow darkening.

“You must forgive her that, Halbert; she was not aware of his character when she received him as her cousin’s friend,” and Christian looked distressed and uneasy, and continued; “and Halbert, you must not cherish a vindictive feeling even against Forsyth, bad as he is, and great as is the mischief he did you; promise me that, Halbert, promise me, now.”

“Well, I do promise you; I could not, if I would; and I now pity him much more than hate him.”

They sat together conversing, till the shadows began to lengthen, when Christian, compelled by domestic cares and preparations for the evening, left her new found brother for a time.

CHAPTER IV.