delicate woman as for hours she watched by her patient, saw him deformed, foaming, wrestling with the fearful paroxysms-looked into the future, the dreary, sad, isolated future of her life-and thought on the past. Pictures, visions, too bright and beautiful for earth, ever and anon flitted before her eyes; a voice of melody pleaded in her ears, thoughts of the happiness she had momentarily glimpsed at crowded on her brain, but she struggled to cast off the temptation. All through the long chilly night this martyrdom endured, and as the cold grey dawn began to break, perceiving that Egon was still, she arose, and rousing the attendants, who slept over their watch, she was about to seek some repose in her own room, when an anxious, childish voice from the bed murmured, "Do not leave me, Renata; do not leave me !" "I was only going to my own room to rest me awhile; but I'll stay if you wish it." "No, no; rest you. But come back again. You'll not be long?-say you'll not." "I will not, dear Egon!" she replied gently, and he closed his eyes as if satisfied. On her toilet table lay a bouquet of camellias; they must have come from Emmerich, for he knew her passion for those lovely flowers. She sat down and forgot all in contemplation of these fair children of Flora; they were caressed, admired, whispered to; her face was buried among their cool leaflets; her lips pressed the soft blossoms: suddenly, on looking up she caught sight of the clock. Ah! I must go back again!" and the exclamation was choked by a sob; but she went, and with the flowers in her hand. | How beautiful! How kind of you to bring them for me!" exclaimed the invalid, as he held out his hand for the camellias. "Thanks! I'll preserve them in my herborium!" and grasping the bouquet in his emaciated fingers he fell asleep. Renata saw in this the picture of her life; unknowingly, Egon snatched its fairest flowers; in the sleep of his faculties he dried and withered its young buds and freshest leaves. We will not attempt to describe the arguments, the pleadings, the entreaties, by which Emmerich sought to win her from her stedfast purpose. The period of their stay at Vienna had just drawn to an end; the farewell must be spoken; and Emmerich refused to accept that farewell as eternal. "One year from this day, Renata, I will write to you these words: Lovest thou me? Wilt thou be mine?' If you answer Yes, it will be easy to obtain a divorce; ifbut I will not anticipate a negative; in patience and constancy I'll wait a year." "Do not! Rather forget my very existence!" she murmured. 66 As you will mine!" he said bitterly; then marking the large tears, which stole from beneath her long lashes, and rolled slowly down her pallid cheeks, he impetuously sank on his knees before her, saying, "Pardon, dear one! Wretch that I am to add one drop of bitterness to your cup! Pity me, for I deserve your pity as much as Egon! Farewell for a year.” Kissing her hands, he tore himself away, and on the following morning Renata and Egon quitted Vienna. It is needless again to describe the uniform monotony of Ebernbach; vain to attempt to picture all the thoughts and feelings of its youthful mistress, all her struggles, all her sufferings. To outward appearance she was the same, equally attentive and devoted to every duty, perhaps a little paler and thinner; but who shall tell all the emotions of that heart which had slumbered so long, and only awoke when too late for happiness! On the anniversary of their leaving Vienna came the letter from Pesth; it contained only these words : "Wilt thou be mine, Renata? I love thee devotedly as ever!" With a calmness which astonished herself she sat down to the desk and wrote: "I cannot, Emmerich! Resign all thoughts, all Leave me to my destiny." hopes of me. That second year was a sharper martyrdom than the first, perhaps because our heroine was weaker in health, and rendered anxious by the repeated nervous attacks which Egon suffered from; but it passed away and the letter came, and was answered as before; and he did not write again. Had she feared or hoped he would? She knew not herself. Now all was calm, cold, indifferent: the fight was fought, the struggle was over, the future was decided. Yet memory would exhibit her gallery of happy pictures; imagination would rove to forbidden subjects. We may resolve to perform our duty, we may school ourselves into iron rules, and compel every mechanical portion of our being to act its part; but the spirit, that subtle essence, will occasionally escape from these thralls. Often she looked back upon her early life, upon its gloom, its bitterness, its impassiveness; Egon's mother was the first person who called forth any warm affection in her bosom, and how soon was she snatched away! Then again came loneliness, independence, indifference; at Ischl was found the enchanter who had power to touch and unlock those deep well-springs which exist in every human breast; to awaken those affections which are the sunlight of existence; to teach her the extent of her sacrifice to Egon. Who that has known the warmth, the blessing of sympathy, regard, and friendship, would willingly live an isolated life? Who that has basked beneath Italia's skies does not shrink from the dreary wastes of Siberia? It was her duty to return to Ebernbach! True, it was so, and she had performed that duty, and not grudgingly, but to its fullest extent; but it was not the less a sacrifice; Renata was but human. Circumstance had made her stiller, less demonstrative and impulsive than most of her sex; had blighted and checked all her natural affections, in the very germ; still they were there; purer, more powerful, from being unhacknied, and concentrated by the very force of her character. Hers was not the fervid, romantic passion of a girl, but an affection based on esteem and friendship, sanctioned by the natural love of everything good and beautiful, and elevated by the very worth of its object; no lurid mist of passion clouded its purity; no vain thought of self-gratification sullied its memory: as we contemplate the far-off heavens, she remembered her intercourse with Emmerich, and it would have seemed as impracticable to reach the one as to renew the other. But her trials were not yet over: a letter reached her from Emmerich's mother, imploring her to use her influence to induce him to marry. "For these four years he has loved you, lived for you, forgotten the duties of his station, neglected the entreaties of his father, wasted his life in the vain pursuit of a shadow; his health, his energies, nay his very reason will become impaired. Oh, Renata, on my knees I implore you, give me back my son! Take from him all hope of winning you! Bid him fulfil our dearest wishes, and we shall ever bless you!" ran the epistle. She hesitated not, but wrote as the mother wished. Some three months afterwards she read the official announcement of the marriage of Count Emmerich with a daughter of Baron Bradick. Madame von Werden was there on a visit; she saw the colour fade from her sisterin-law's very lips; her face could not grow much paler than it was; she saw the hands clench as if to master some strong agony; the eyes close convulsively; the teeth grind together. "Dearest Renata, what is it?" she exclaimed, flying to her. Renata pointed with trembling finger to the announcement, then glided from the room. A thousand memories, trifles all and yet important, flitted across Madame Werden's mind, and revealed to her that the handsome, accomplished, talented young Count had found favour in her sister's eyes. Little did she dream what depth of suffering was concealed beneath the pale, melancholy countenance which, with its usual quiet firmness, soon appeared again and watched, spirit-like, over the comfort and well-being of all around it. Madame von Werden saw that Renata was altered, that she was more silent, sadder, gentler; but she wondered not, rather pitied and bewailed the change; she felt that in that lonely place, and with the anxiety relative to Egon ever on her mind, she should have become petrified. Often did she feel sharp pangs of regret when she reflected that her own hand had snatched this young girl from a world she scarcely knew, and placed her in a position, the miseries of which must sooner or later make themselves felt; yet what would have become of Egon but for Renata, who would have cherished and cared for him? And he was as much attached to her as he could be to any one; he sought her, and looked to her as a dog or a young child seeks and looks to the person who pets and cares for it. Poor Renata! with a soul thirsting for human sympathies, with a heart capable of pure and deep affections, with a mind fitted to admire and venerate intellect, she was chained here. The following winter Egon died in one of his fits. Madame von Werden travelled night and day towards Ebernbach, and on her arrival found her sister-in-law raving under an attack of brain fever. Then did she learn all that Renata had suffered, her trials, her temptations; from those wild ravings she disentangled the thread of that story so oft repeated in one shape or other, woman's self-sacrifice, endurance, and patience. And now, when she was free, Emmerich was wedded, wedded at her entreaty, by her command. Long and severe was the illness, slow the recovery; but as soon as Renata could travel she quitted Ebernbach; all there reminded her too vividly of the past; and set off to join her sister Eusebia and her husband in a tour through Switzerland and Italy. Emmerich had married to gratify his parents; almost hopeless of ever obtaining Renata, he had devoted himself to the duties of his position. His young bride found in him a kind, considerate husband, never very demonstrative, never harsh or tyrannical; and she was content and loved him sincerely: the deep regard which yet dwelt in his heart for another was not known to her; unaware of the strength, the ardour of his feelings, she could not contrast their present calmness now with their previous fervour; and he was fast subsiding into that quiescent state wherein we content ourselves with what is, and cease to sigh for the unattainable might be. The birth of a child, too, formed another link of union, awoke in him a new affection; the memory of Renata had begun to be remem bered as we remember a loved sister, a dear friend, when the intelligence that she was a widow reached him. She was free! Ah, if he had only waited a little longer! She was free; others would woo her; she might marry again! the thought was madness. In the struggle between the reawakened passion and his sense of duty to his wife, Emmerich's health, which had already suffered, began to fail so rapidly that his wife grew seriously uneasy, and insisted on his having the best advice. Change of air was recommended, and they quitted their home. In Prague they paused for a few days. Emmerich had strolled out one morning, and while crossing the Moldau Bridge passed a veiled female, clad in deep mourning. "Do I dream, or is that Renata?" he exclaimed. The lady paused, one hand clenched the balustrade, and her voice seemed to refuse to obey her. At last she spoke. 'Emmerich! And looking so ill!" 66 He took her hand and drew it through his arm, and led her on towards the gardens. Those I love, Renata ?" And "Yes, your wife and child, Emmerich. now I must home; we leave Prague to-day." Ah, do not go !" he exclaimed, as with difficulty he kept pace with her hasty steps. "I must, Emmerich! Heaven's best blessings rest on you and yours!" She tore her hand from his convulsive grasp, and darted into the hotel. Once in her room, she sank on a sofa and buried her face in its cushions, while a flood of tears alone saved her from fainting. Emmerich walked home like one in a dream. Bitterly he accused Renata one moment for quitting him, the next thanked God that the trial, the temptation, was removed. The past rolled back upon him: he remembered how he had endeavoured to induce her to falsify her plighted vows, and abandon the man she had vowed to cherish and guard; and now he felt the sin of his conduct, felt how impossible it would be to him to abandon his young wife and infant even to obtain Renata; how dastardly, how dishonourable such conduct would be, nay more, how sinful; felt that Renata would be the first to despise him for it. "We may not love or live for each other, but we may strive to merit and retain each other's esteem and friendship. Renata! my better angel, I will deserve yours." Renata's life was now, as it had ever been, a lonely one. As a sister and daughter she was alone in heart and feeling; as a wife she had been the same; as a widow her position was little altered. She had proposed joining Count Sternfels and Eusebia because she knew them to be in embarrassed circumstances, and thought that they, like herself, would gladly leave home and its painful memories awhile behind them. The Count was a good-natured, easy, don't-care sort of man, with whom one could, by showing a little firmness, get on pretty well. Eusebia was a vain, weak, superficial woman, dreading poverty as the greatest of evils; she eagerly courted her wealthy sister, and already looked upon her daughter Mimi as Renata's heiress. "Of course my sister will never marry again," she would argue. "Why should she? She has wealth, rank, and independence. And on whom should she bestow her superfluous riches if not on us? We give her what she wants-societyand in return she supplies the deficiencies in our income." 66 Or, in other words, keeps the whole family, and in good style too," muttered the Count in reply. He seldom argued, so Eusebia had all the credit of convincing her antagonist. If any person seemed to find favour in her sister's eyes Eusebia was intensely jealous; she would fain have selected her companions and acquaintance had it been in her power, but Renata had been too long her own uncontrolled mistress to submit to anything like constraint. Forbearing, generous, and kind, she yet steadily pursued her course; nor need Eusebia have vexed and fretted herself so much, for Mimi was the only being who won Renata's love. They stayed some time at Nice on account of Eusebia's health, and there became acquainted with a gentleman who had met Renata at Vienna. As a near neighbour, and an intellectual, talented man, he was at first welcomed by all the family; but Eusebia soon perceived his admiration of her sister, and began to fear and dislike him, and to endeavour to infuse her sentiments into the minds of her husband and Renata; but the former really liked his new acquaintance, and was by no means a selfish, although a selfindulgent, thoughtless man; so he saw no reason why Renata should not marry again if she chose, and, to the great disgust of his wife, observed that the Herr Förster would make a capital brother-in-law; and the latter found in him a resource against that ennui, that inanity which characterized her daily life. Her mind, worn and enfeebled by the struggles, the sufferings of past years, now needed healthy stimulants; the platitudes of her brother-in-law, and the vapouring, the frivolity, and the discontent of her sister, often fretted her more than great trials had had power to do. And so it ever is; those daily vexations, those trifles have a deeper sting, and are more difficult to endure patiently than actual evils of magnitude, because in the latter we find a pride in the heroism of our endurance, while the former we despise; and yet they are the actual touchstones of temper and character. Few have occasion for the display of great self-denials or sacrifices, but we all find room for the exercise of patience, forbearance, and the every-day virtues of domestic life. We do not, however, mean to infer that Renata was deficient in these, but simply to state that the society and conversation of Herr Förster was an agreeable change from the monotony of her every-day existence at Nice. In the variety afforded by travelling and change of scene we need but little more, the beauties of nature, the charm of motion occupy and satisfy, and common-place people pass current; but when these stimulants are past, when uniformity is the order of the day, an active mind begins to weary, and especially if it be one that fears to fall back on the past, one that seals up the chambers of memory, and seeks to live in the present and for the future. We cannot live for ourselves or to ourselves alone; it is the unalterable condition of human nature that life can only be fully felt to be life when it is devoted to others. However painful, however vexatious, however wearisome may be our duties towards those with whom we are brought in juxtaposition, we are more contented while fulfilling them than we ever can be while alone in the world with but ourselves to care for. While Egon lived Renata felt that she had something to do, some one to whom she could be useful, some one who looked to her for comfort, for care, for happiness; now she was useful to none. Eusebia would have been just as satisfied without as with her, provided she had the money; the Count was too heedless, Mimi too young to interest her, and Renata certainly found pleasure in the attention and devotion of Herr Förster. He was not an Emmerich 'tis true, but Emmerich was lost to her for ever; her own act had given him to another, and she had no right even to think on him. She seldom opened the piano, or if she did it was only to play modern songs and airs; music, the music she had so loved, opened the floodgates of memory, and inundated her soul with recollections which must not come. Herr Förster procured for her a packet of sacred music, some of those glorious effusions of the old masters which waft the soul on heaven-born pinions upwards; these she studied at his request, and the study soon became a passion; a new world opened itself to her; higher and brighter aspirations, solemn and soothing thoughts floated in that harmony, angel-voices whispered words of peace, and she felt herself a new being. Time flew onwards, Förster became each day more enamoured of Renata; but though she greeted him cordially, was evidently pleased to see him when he came; nay, even sought his society; he saw no ground for believing that his passion was reciprocated, and too proud to offer only to be refused, he resolved by absence to break through the spells which were entwining themselves around him; and accordingly departed. The worth of a thing is rarely appreciated until we lose it; so it was here: Renata felt a vacuity; she missed the interesting conversation, the thousand little unimportant attentions of her absent cavalier; in her walks, her rides, in the garden and the salon, his loss was felt; and it was with no little pleasure that some three weeks afterwards she saw him once more crossing the lawn and springing towards the house. He too had found absence unendurable, and returned to dare his fate. Unable to deceive herself as to the feelings with which Förster regarded her, Renata took the opportunity afforded by a long stroll to narrate all the events of her life. "And you still love Emmerich?” he falteringly said. "I shall never forget him," she replied gently. Will you promise me one thing, lady? Think of him in words, and speak them to me." "Willingly! But you would weary of a theme so uninteresting to you." "Nothing which relates to the Lady of Dobeneck, nothing which admits me to her friendship and confidence can be uninteresting. You do, you must know my feelings, your very words this day attest that fact; but they have failed to alarm me. Oh, how willingly, how joyfully would I entrust my happiness to you, could I but hope to obtain an interest in that pure, noble heart! Lady Renata, may I, dare I speak my love?-or hope to be heard with favour?" "Believe me, Herr Förster, I am not insensible to your merits, that I know how to value the honour you do me; but it were not to prove this to give you a heart worn with past sufferings, chilled, blighted, and incapable of strong attachment." "Oh, say not so, Renata! Permit me to entrust my happiness to its noble impulses; suffer me to endeavour to re-kindle its best feelings!" he took her hand and gazed anxiously in her countenance, and listened eagerly for the words her lips had parted to utter, when a voice cried, "Renata! Aunt Renata! Here is a letter for you; I have run so fast to overtake you!" it was Mimi, who breathlessly held out a letter, which her aunt took with trembling hands. "Gracious heaven! it is from Emmerich, and sealed with black!" she exclaimed, turning pale; scarcely conscious of what he did, Förster, in the passion of the moment, snatched the epistle from her, and would have torn it to atoms, but she caught his hands. "Let me destroy it. Why should he disturb your peace again? Why should he step between us and snatch from me the bliss I all but grasped a moment ago?" he fiercely said. "Oh, give it to me, I implore you! If you love me give it me!" As you will, lady!" he bitterly exclaimed, resigning it, and crossing his arms on his breast. The letter had been sent to Ebernbach, and thence forwarded to Nice by her people; it ran thus: joice that I am so? I follow this letter immediately, "Renata, I am free! Surely it is no sin to re If you are not at Ebernbach, I'll seek you through to throw myself at your feet and speak all my love. the world, my own Renata. AS EVER, THY EMMERICH. Förster took the paper from her nerveless hands and glanced over it. "Why did I not destroy it?" he muttered. "And art thou lost to me, sweet one! One half-hour and I had won her; but 'tis better since she still loves him so!" And he stamped on the epistle in impotent rage. Renata sat on a bank, her face buried in her hands, her whole frame trembling with emotion that was not joy or rapture, but seemed solemn, and almost chilled her with awe. Must the temple of her love be built on graves? The cold hand of death must it be which should alone bring her and Emmerich together? There was something fearful in the thought. Mimi, who vainly strove to comprehend all she saw, aroused her aunt, and begged her to go home with her. Farewell, Herr Förster!" she murmured. "You love him then still? There is no hope for me for me who but now hoped everything." "Question me not now! The hand of fate is here; its finger points me out a path I never thought to tread. These things are an inscrutable mystery." "Renata, you are marble-ice! No, no, you are good, pure, and resigned. Happiness attend you." At the garden gate he quitted her, and Renata retired to her own room, not to think or feel, but to sit like one stunned by some heavy blow. Several days elapsed. Herr Förster quitted Nice; he could not stay to witness his rival's bliss. Eusebia grumbled and murmured as if some grievous wrong had been done her when she heard what visitor was expected. The Count went out daily to learn the news and read the list of fresh arrivals. One day he brought home an account of the storms which had been raging among the Alps, and the avalanche which had fallen at the Col de Tende. Shortly afterwards the servant announced a strange gentleman. 66 "It is he!" exclaimed Renata starting up, but she had no power to go and meet him; her feet were as if glued to the ground. The stranger entered; it was the valet who had been at Ischl with Emmerich. 66 Where is your lord?" she exclaimed. "Why this silence? He is not dead? Say he is not." Bela's looks replied, and he wrung his hands convulsively; she sank on her knees and prayed. "Where is he?" at length she cried, starting up. "Take me to him!” They conducted her to the Hotel des Etrangers. In the very room she had occupied on their first arrival at Nice lay the corpse of Emmerich; in the ante-room a fair young child, clad in deep mourning, played about in utter unconsciousness of her irreparable loss. Physicians were there, but vain was their art, the soul had fled from its tenement of clay. Renata sat down by the bed-side, and gazed with dry, tearless eyes on the beautiful placid features of the dead; peace was in each lineament, and the calm repose of the whole gradually communicated itself to her; at length she bent down, and printed a holy kiss on the cold marble forehead. Bela described Emmerich's long illness, and the death of his lady in child-bed; the sorrow of his lord, his gradual recovery of his spirits, and apparently of health; the journey to Ebernbach, and Emmerich's impatience and vexation at finding her he sought not there; his hurried journey towards Nice, in spite of a return of his old complaint; the storms they encountered while in the Alps; the injury Emmerich received from the avalanche; his travelling still on notwithstanding; and his sudden death on the previous day. All that night Renata sat by the little orphan. The next day arrangements were made for conveying the lifeless body to Pesth to the aged parents. Renata would not part with the child, it was his legacy to her; and the heart-broken grand-parents acquiesced in her wish to retain it. Once more Ebernbach became the abode of its mistress; the witness of her deep grief for the dead, of her intense love for the orphan. Renata never again quitted its solitudes; her life was devoted to the good of those around her; her hopes centered in heaven. Her trials had rendered hers not a blighted or useless life, but made it a saddened and serious one; she ceased to pursue the phantom happiness; but in its stead found peaceful resignation, and learned to be sincerely grateful for the blessings and powers of usefulness vouchsafed to her. Forster achieved a brilliant diplomatic career, and married Mdlle. Werden's daughter some few years after parting from Renata. THE OLD FARM-HOUSE. BY A. T There's a bleak bare hill, which scarce looks bright There's a blackened pond, where mosses creep That bleak hill was once the sweetest spot She roved all day with the bird and bee Through the dingles wild and meadows free, And at eve brought home, from the forest dells, Bright stores of berries and buds and bells; Her red lips kissed off the dews which sleep, Like crystal gems, in the flow'r-cups deep; |