deavouring to rise and stretch out his hands toward the vision, Carteret fell back, fainting almost, and content to die now since he had seen her looking at him with such tenderness. He opened his eyes, he thought, sighing wearily at having banished his dream; but the figure of the maiden still stood by his side-the soft tearful eyes were still bent on his face-and as he gazed dreamily toward her, a sob so passionate in its grief that it seemed to tear the gentle bosom in its passage, displaced the silence and died away in the dim-lit chamber. Then the figure fell upon her knees at his side; he felt upon his thin hand two cold lips, and some tears; another sob issued from the lips, and leaving a letter lying upon his pillow, the form of the maiden slowly disappeared as it had entered-the head turned over the shoulder the tender eyes bent upon him to the last. "Oh, why could not my dream last!" murmured Carteret, half rising from his recumbent position, "it was such happiness to see her, even in slumber, looking at me with those eyes! Woe's me! even dreams are lasting for me!" Not And he fell back with a deep sigh. As he did so he heard a rustling sound, and with an astonished look, turned his head. Beside him, on the pillow, lay a letter unsealed, and opening it, he read it with the utmost agitation-an agitation which ended, however, in a smile, half happy, half sad, and a heightened colour. The letter was in the familiar running hand of the first note signed "Jocrissa," and ran thus: "Can you forgive one who has caused you so much suffering? They told me that you had fixed your eyes upon me in the ball-room, and that your haste to reach my side, caused this terrible encounter. My heart bleeds as I think that you are lying pale and weak upon a bed of pain: where you would not lie were it not for my criminal lightness of conduct. I pray heaven, night and morning, that you may recover; may my prayers be answered. I think already you gather strength, if I'm informed aright. Soon you will be strong and well again; until then I shall suffer as you suffer. "Will you pardon me still more? I allude to it, with cheeks burning in blushes, and a sense of shame that's overpowering, Sir. 'Tis my handkerchief which you retain-my hand wrote the note signed Jocrissa'-it was myself who committed that most immodest and unmaidenly action. I imagined you sunk in a deep sleep-I thought that you would not awake, and I should never blush at your gaze. I am ready to cry for shame as I think of it now-at the lengths to which my giddy fondness for mischief has carried me. Can you pardon me-and respect me, Sir? I fear not, in spite of all my shame and repentance, and bitter self-reproach. Oh! how could I act so! "I shall bear this letter to you myself; and if I look for a moment upon your pale face as you sleep, will you be angry with me? 'Tis a last consolation ere I go away, and I'll try and not cry and wake you. I am crying now, like a child, as I think of your suffering. See, Sir, that blot is where a tear fell on the paper as I wrote. Will you please forgive me, and not think unkindly of one who has acted so very, very weakly? You have a noble nature I think, and you cannot refuse me when I sue for your forgiveness, Sir. "A last favour-may I venture? "Tis this, Sir: that you will not try to discover who I am. I think I should faint with shame were I to encounter your eyesand the other night-oh! I suffered cruelly! We shall meet some day in the future, perhaps---and time will then have erased these recollections. I shall then sue for your friendship, as I now do for your pardon. "I cannot write more---only farewell. sad. He carefully refolded it--placed it beneath his pillow--and sinking back, mused long and sorrowfully upon his fate. For weeks the subject never left his mind; and when at last he rose from his couch, and returned to "Mayfield," he had the letter, every word, by heart. He met Mr. Fielding, who had just gotten out too, and the adversaries bowed low; but Carteret did not think of Mr. Field ing. VII. THE COMPACT. Carteret returned thus to the old existence of the past-to his reveries, his recollections and his dreams. The tender freshness of the Spring had melted into ripe luxuriant Summer, as a maiden opens, leaf by leaf, from bud to blossom, into the perfect flower of womanhood. The leaves of the Carteret woods had a deeper glow-a million flowers were scattered on the meadows, and along laughing streams-the birds carolled rapturously, and the winds sang joyous songs, as the rich Summer came and reigned in splendour. By the side of the little fountain in the forest, where he had first seen her, Carteret spent many hours every day. It was a sad consolation to him, thus to pursue his reveries and dreams on the very spot which her feet had pressed-to lie as he he had lain that morning, under the deep shadow-and so, thinking of her, with her handkerchief upon his heart, to summon from the air her beautiful image, soft, tender and smiling, as he had imagined her when writing the eloquent letter asking him to pardon her. The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts, the poet tells us; and thus stretched beneath the great ancestral oaks, the young man's sorrowful fancy entered new realms of being-passing beneath other skies; and in this noble land of reverie, where the winds were ever, singing and the streams laughing, he spent tranquil hours beside his beauti ful mistress. It was his only consolalation this dreaming-he thought with a wistful smile: for she had forbidden him to search for her, or at least had begged him not to. All was over for him thus, if he had chivalry sufficient for the self-denial; he could think of her only, and wait patiently for chance, or rather providence. Carteret pursued his way toward the forest so systematically every day, and rema ned so obstinately buried in his own thoughts at the mansion, that his father was constrained to observe it; and, one morning, as upon a former occasion, made these habits a subject of remonstrance. "What you say is very just, sir," replied Carteret, "and I am conscious of the want of energy in my character, of the unfortunate tendency I have toward reverie. 'Tis the stress of circumstances, however. Shall I speak of them, sir?" "Nothing connected with yourself is indifferent to me, my dear Edmund. If anything concerns yourself, speak frankly." "Well, I think I may, sir." And Carteret narrated to his father all that has been related of the unknown damsel. "You see, my dear father," he said, smiling sadly, "that I'm mastered by the most dangerous combination of circumstances possible, to one of my poetic and imaginative temperament. I might have met this very young lady in society, and simply thought her very handsome; but she comes to me in a dream, and it is useless for me to conceal the fact that her image never leaves my recollection or my heart. Like a child, I wish this particular toy-not any other, however splendid and as I can't get it, I am dissatisfied, and worthless." Carteret smiled as he spoke, with that sad expression, habitual with him of late; and then relapsed into his dreams again. The old gentleman looked at him for some moments with an air of pitying affection, and then with a deep sigh, commenced the task of reasoning against his infatuation. At the end of an hour, he ceased speaking in despair; his words had not made the least impression upon his listener, who remained obstinate in his citadel of sadness. 'Well, well, my dear Edmund," added the old gentleman, "I should have known better than to imagine that words could affect you greatly. Nevertheless, you will injure your health, if your mind thus dwells forever upon one thoughta single image. Why not endeavour to divert these thoughts? You say this strange young lady requests you not to follow her, and says she's going away— doubtless she's gone now-why not endeavour, I say, to forget her; why not change your habits?" "And marry, as you formerly suggested?" asked the young man, smiling. "Yes, Edmund-I predict that matrimony, and its increased responsibilities, would very soon dissipate this dream— these recollections of a somewhat eccentric young lady." "You mean a marriage with Miss Walton, do you not, sir?" Carteret said again, smiling. sessed of an extremely rosy and good humored countenance. The elder Carteret and himself had been bosom friends in youth and manhood, and each had deeply regretted the hasty words which caused the rupture of friendly relations. As we have heard old Mr. Carteret inform his son, this rupture was now cemented again-the old kindly feeling was restored; and it thus happened that when the young man dismounted at the great portico, and ascended the broad steps, Colonel Walton came forth to meet him with the most beaming smiles, and pressed his hand with a cordiality which evidently proceeded from the heart. Having answered the many questions addressed to him by the old gentleman, in relation to the health and happiness of of the household at "Mayfield," Carteret inquired for Miss Walton. "Why, bless my heart!" cried the worthy Colonel, "to think of my sitting here, talking away, as if a young fellow like yourself called exclusively to see me. Yes, Edmund, 'twould be the greatest Say to Mary that Mr. Carteret has called possible happiness for me." And the old gentleman urged eloquently the desirable character of the proposed union. His feelings were evidently so much interested, that the young man could no longer smile. At the end of another hour's discussion, this compact was made between them. Carteret would pay Miss Walton two visits each week for a month, and would endeavour to interest the lady in himself, and himself in the lady, to the best of his ability and skill. If, at the end of that time, neither himself nor Miss Walton were at all interested in each other, then he was to return, without being molested, to his dreams, thenceforth to be passed without notice. So the interview ended, and on the next morning Carteret mounted his horse, with a weary smile, and set out for Mr. Walton's. VIII. THE FIRST VISIT. Colonel Walton was a fine portly old gentleman, very richly clad, and pos to see her," he added to a servant. In ten minutes Miss Walton entered, and the Colonel having retired to attend to some planting, Carteret found himself seated opposite the young lady whom he was sent to fascinate, or be fascinated with, himself. They had often met in remote childhood, but distance, and the rupture between the elders had quite caused Carteret to lose sight of the lady, who rarely attended parties; they thus met very nearly like strangers. At the end of an hour Carteret rose, and with a courtly bow, returned Miss Walton his thanks for a very pleasant conversation. Would she permit him to call again very soon-might he say the same week-in an unceremonious manner? He trusted they would be friends. To all of which Miss Walton, with a puzzled expression and some amusement, replied that she should be very glad to see Mr. Carteret--that he must come without the least ceremony, which she could not endure and any want of friendship should not be upon her own part. Having achieved this amicable understanding, Carteret made another bow, and requesting Miss Walton to present his adieus to her father, issued forth, and gravely rode away. "Well, that is an admirable farce," he said, smiling sadly, "'tis really supremely ludicrous. Nevertheless, my word is given, and I'll duly pay the eight visits. Then if Miss Walton is neither in love with me, nor I with her, I shall be at liberty. True, she's a handsome dame, and has magnificent dark eyes and hair. But I know a pair of blue eyes, and some golden locks which quite disarm Miss Walton's. There! there! let me not dream; tho' 'tis all that's left me!" And piteously sighing, Carteret returned to "Mayfield," and his dreams, beside the fountain in the forest. IX. THE SECOND VISIT, WITH A CATASTROPHE. Three days afterwards the young man rose from the breakfast table, where he had scarcely touched anything, sighing deeply, and with something very much resembling an expression of ill humor. On that day, he was to make his grand visit to Miss Walton, in accordance with the compact; and he mounted his horse wearily, with the air of a man who undertakes a most disagreeable duty, from which he would gladly be relieved if such a thing were possible. As he went on through the fresh woodland, however, and by smiling fields, a vague and unknown lightness came to his spirit; something like a heavy weight seemed to be taken from his bosom; and he went on rapidly, with laughter almost, through the beautiful weather. The winds whispered joyous secrets, all the birds sang with a clearer and serener melody; the white clouds floating over the deep blue, made signs to him as they passed, and seemed to smile at him. 66 doubtless 'tis because I'm going to behold my future bride !" He uttered the words with a merry laugh, and putting spur to his horse went on so rapidly that the Walton mansion soon rose on his sight; and riding to the door he dismounted and entered, greeting heartily the old gentleman, and Miss Walton, who very graciously extended her hand, smiling. "You see, madam, I have carried out my threat of coming as a friend," he said with a courtly bow, "'tis charming weather, is it not?" "Most beautiful," replied the lady; and the conversation having commenced thus auspiciously, the young man and his fair companion were soon exchanging all sorts of views, the pauses being filled up with some songs on the harpsichord, Miss Walton performing admirably upon that instrument. It was at the conclusion of one of these old ditties that Carteret, turning over the pages of a volume of Mr. William Shakspeare, came sudenly upon some words which made him arrest his idle hand, and remain abstracted for a moment. The words were those of Ro meo: "If I may trust the flattering eye of sleep And breath'd such life with kisses on my lips He was awakened, so to speak from the reverie which the words produced, by the voice of the young lady, who asked with a smile if Mr. Carteret had found a passage of great beauty? The young man started, and closing the book, apologized for his abstraction; then he commenced a dissertation generally upon Mr. William Shakspeare, of whose merits the lady also discoursed with an acumen and power of critical analysis which excited her com "Why really I'm growing a fresh boy panion's astonishment and admiration. again!" muttered Carteret gaily, something like my old youthful feeling of romance and joy has come back to me: So the morning passed, and rising, Carteret went through his speech again about his friendly visits-to which the young lady made a similar reply, accompanied by a similar smile: then with a friendly pressure of hands, they separated, Carteret mounting his horse to return. "Really!" he murmured, "I begin to think that I should not be so unfortunate were I to espouse Miss Mary! What wit and point, and insight she possesses!and I think her dark eye glanced with rare brilliance as she delivered her opinion of Miss Juliet! She's a noble girlbut ah! I'm not in a condition to admire her sufficiently! There's a little maiden whom I've never heard discourse about Shakspeare, and yet think of eternally: could a dream about her, have given me this unaccustomed spirit,' which I've felt all day? Did she come and kiss my lips in sleep? Alas! 'tis only in dreamland that I'll see her ever again-woe's me! my lightness is all leaving me!" And going along with drooping brows Carteret mused sadly, and lost sight, as he mused, of the entire world around him. From this reverie he found himself suddenly aroused, and by an incident of a startling character. He had thrown the bridle on the neck of his horse, suffering him to proceed wherever he would, and the animal had diverged into a bridle path, under the impression, common to the most intelligent horses, that such was the nearest route homeward. The road debouched into a glade of the forest, and through this glade Carteret suddenly perceived another figure coming to meet him: a young girl whose horse had become frightened, and now dashed at headlong speed toward the young man. The girl's cheeks were pale with fright, and the rein having escaped from her hands, she was entirely at the mercy of the animal. Carteret saw that the danger was imminent-her condition almost desperate; and bracing himself like iron in the saddle, he caught the bridle of the flying horse, as it rushed past him, and received in his arms the fainting form of the young lady. It was the lady of his dream! For a moment Carteret held the languid form upon his heart; and a delicious thrill ran through his breast, as returning to consciousness, she turned upon him those large blue eyes which he had seen so often in his dreams. She shrunk from him, and burst into tears as she recognized him; and her cheeks burned with blushes, of the deepest crimson. "Are you hurt?" he said, a wild delight scarce permitting him to speak. "I thought the stirrup injured your ankle." "No-no, Sir!" she murmured, in a hurried and faltering voice; "you are very, very kind; but I can walk I think; please let me walk!" He saw her shame and confusion at resting thus in his arms, and without a word dismounted, looking around for the horse she had ridden. The animal had disappeared some moments before, with hanging reins, toward the main road, and he turned again to his companion. So It was well that he did so. In the quick wrench from the stirrup, her ankle had been badly sprained, and a violent swelling had already commenced. acute was the pain now, as she was deposited upon her feet, that her cheeks turned suddenly as pale as marble, her eyes closed, and losing consciousness she fainted, and would have fallen had not the young man caught her in his arms. Carteret was a dreamer, but once aroused, he was accustomed to act quickly. He raised the figure of the young lady--deposited her before him on the saddle--and thus carrying her like a child upon his breast, struck the spur into his horse, snd returned at full speed toward Colonel Walton's. The rapid movement, with the fresh wind fanning her brow, restored the young lady to consciousness; and, looking at her companion wildly, she murmured a few indistinct words. Then realizing her position, she shrunk from him again and sobbed. "Pray do not afflict yourself thus," said the young man; "'tis a gentleman and friend who supports you. Your strength is not sufficient for walking— and we shall soon be at the honse of a most hospitable friend of mine-into whose care I shall deliver you, madam." |