The Ornithologist.
I was still young, when a sudden reverse of fortune deprived me of a kind father and affluence at the same time. A home was offered for my acceptance by Mrs. Priestly, a widow lady, whom I had never seen since my infancy, distance and circumstances having combined to effect this separation. Mrs. Priestly was not only my godmother, but she had been the earliest chosen friend of my own lamented mother, and now came forward to extend succor to the destitute orphan. In former years, I remembered to have heard that she had suffered deep sorrow, from the loss of her only child, a fine boy, who was heir to a princely fortune, independent of his mother's considerable possessions. There were rumors afloat, at the period of this bereavement, of a peculiarly distressing nature—strange, half-suppressed whispers of some fearful accident that had rendered the widow childless; but the memory of these things had passed away, and Mrs. Priestly's first despair and agony had settled down to a resigned melancholy. On her fine countenance premature age was stamped, a smile seldom visible, while her mourning garb was never cast aside; she was a lifelong mourner.
The outward aspect of Lodimer—so Mrs. Priestly's domain was called—was but little in accordance with the sad heart of its owner, for a more cheerful or animated scene I had rarely witnessed. The villa, surrounded by colonnades, stood on the side of a gently swelling hill, at the base of which flowed a broad and sparkling river, on which numerous boats and picturesque-looking barges were continually passing and repassing. Roses and thatch, light French windows and exotics, trimly-kept pleasure-grounds, slopping [pg 471] down to the water's edge, drooping willows and silver birches were accessories, doubtless, to produce an effect of combined elegance and grace, while on the opposite banks richly wooded hills were studded with white cottages, glancing in the sunshine; though even during rainy seasons Lodimer never looked gloomy, an indescribable air of joyousness and hilarity pervading it. The calamity which overshadowed Mrs. Priestly's existence had not occurred at this pleasant home, but at the distant seat of the widow's brother, Mr. Lovell, of Lovell Castle, where she and her son were on a visit at the time; and still Mrs. Priestly continued to pay an annual visit thither, never leaving Lodimer save for that purpose, but leading a life of extreme seclusion. I had the satisfaction of believing that my society tended to enhance the comfort of Mrs. Priestly; who, with the utmost delicacy and kindness, lavished a thousand nameless attentions—trifling in themselves, but keenly felt by the dependent; calling me her adopted daughter, while her candor demanded and received my grateful thanks, for I fully appreciated the excellent motives actuating Mrs. Priestly's avowal. She wished to prevent false expectations on my part, and yet to set at rest all anxiety respecting the future; informing me, that the bulk of her wealth she designed to bequeath to her nephew, Mr. Lovell's son, but that a moderate provision was secured for her dear orphan god-daughter. But my agitation gave place to surprise, when Mrs. Priestly continued, addressing me, “You have sense and discretion beyond your years, Evelin, my love, and when you came to reside here with me, I determined first to ascertain if this were the case, ere I confided my secret to your keeping—for I have a secret—which may not be mentioned at Lovell Castle, when you accompany me thither shortly. A few miles hence, an individual resides, to whom I intend shortly to introduce you. He is a most unfortunate person, and desires the strictest privacy; but Mr. Edwin is not unhappy, because he knows the 'peace within which passeth show,' while his intellectual attainments are of the highest order. But, in case you should weave a romance, Evelin, out of these details,” added Mrs. Priestly, faintly smiling, “it is but fair I warn you, that romance and Edwin may not be coupled together, for he is—alas! poor fellow—an unsightly and deformed creature; his captivations are those only of the heart and mind—in this he shines pre-eminent. Again let me remind you, my love, not to allude to Mr. Edwin in conversation; forget him altogether, except when you speak to me. I know that you are not tormented with feminine curiosity, or I would tell you to ask no questions. This is my secret, Evelin, which I fearlessly confide to your keeping.”
However, Mrs. Priestly did me more than justice, for though I certainly endeavored to indulge no idle speculations on the forbidden topic, yet I was not apathetic enough to forget it; more especially after accompanying Mrs. Priestly to see her mysterious friend, whose ménage, to say nothing of himself, might have excused a far more insensible person than I was for feeling a strong interest and sympathy. Surrounded by thick woods on all sides save one, which opened toward the same river that washed the emerald turf of Lodimer, we came to a small spot of ground resembling a “clearing,” and I fancied we were transported to those wild western lands I had so often read of—the old ivy-covered hunting-lodge in the midst adding much to the real beauty of the picture, though detracting somewhat from its savage charms. Quantities of feathered tribes were strutting about within the inclosure, or enjoying themselves in various attitudes of indolence or security; an immense aviary extended down one side of the clearing, fitted up with the view of affording as much solace and liberty of movement as possible to the inmates. The whole place seemed alive with fowls of the air, and we beheld a human form within the wire-work of the aviary, literally covered with birds, small and large, wherever they could find a resting-place—on head, arms, or back—and many more were fluttering and crowding over and around him, as Mr. Edwin—for it was he—proceeded to dispense food to his loving flock. Presently he made his escape, and approached us, with a jay perched on one shoulder and a magpie on the other, appearing to hold whispering discourse with their benefactor, who fondly caressed and chirruped to them in turn. He was of middling stature, perceptibly and painfully deformed; but his countenance was such an one as Raphael would have loved to portray—holy, placid, and spiritual, beyond any mortal face I have looked upon before or since. His voice was inexpressibly touching and melodious; it thrilled the heart of the listener, for there was an intonation of sadness in its tone, though the words were cheerful, as he cordially and warmly welcomed us. We followed him into a long, low-roofed apartment, the windows of which looked out on woodland vistas, and on all sides, from floor to ceiling, it was lined with books, and cases containing stuffed birds, for Mr. Edwin was devoted to the study of ornithology, and almost rivaled Audubon in patient watching and research. A married couple, of quiet and orderly habits, formed the domestic establishment at Ivy Lodge; and the profound stillness and solitude of this sylvan retreat was unbroken, save by the cooing of the cushat dove, the song-birds' varied notes, the sonorous hooting of the white owl up among the eaves, and the occasional screams of the splendid peacocks ringing through the greenwood glades.
Here was the paradise of the feathered creatures, here they were all fostered and protected; and Mr. Edwin had attained the mysterious art of taming the wild denizens of the woods as surely and wonderfully, if not quite as rapidly, as did that celebrated Arab horse-leech exert his skill on quadrupeds, whispering in the ear of vicious and hitherto untamable steeds, who immediately became docile and subdued. Even shy and stately swans knew this lonely clearing [pg 472] on the river banks, and frequently came to be fed by Mr. Edwin's gentle hand; the swans had a nest here among the reeds, and broods of cygnets were reared in this haven of peace. Mr. Edwin had made many beautiful copies of rare birds, which he could not otherwise preserve, the colors being brilliant and true to nature, as well as the size of each specimen; and I felt not a little delighted when he accepted my timid offer of assistance in this branch of his study, for I was afraid that my poor efforts would fall far short of his masterly productions. But Mrs. Priestly re-assured me, and she told Mr. Edwin that he had found a valuable coadjutor, for bird-painting had always been quite a passion with me—a strange taste, perhaps, for a young lady, though I know not why it should be considered more out of the way than copying flowers from nature. However, I exerted myself to the utmost, and succeeded well, for he gave my drawings unqualified approbation, and was eloquent in thanking me. I am sure the amiable recluse read my heart at once, and saw how eagerly and gratefully I availed myself of this opportunity, trifling as it was, of gratifying Mrs. Priestly, to whom I owed so much; for her affection toward Mr. Edwin rendered attentions bestowed on him personally felt and acknowledged by her. This similarity of taste, together with our mutual love and veneration for Mrs. Priestly, induced that kindly communion between Mr. Edwin and myself which afterward ripened into a lasting friendship, cemented by time. He was, indeed, wise unto salvation. Learned not only in this world's lore, but in that wisdom which maketh not ashamed, he bore his daily cross most meekly, and yet most manfully. Deeply alive to the beautiful, keenly sensitive on all points, tender-hearted and affectionate, he lived alone in the woodland solitude, not, I was convinced, from any morbid disinclination to encounter his kind on account of his personal affliction (he was too humble and good for that), but from some unknown and mysterious cause, some hidden sorrow, which rendered solitude in a retreat like this desirable. At Lodimer, I never gazed on the gay and sparkling river, without remembering that it flowed onward toward the swan's nest among the reeds. I never gazed on the thick, rich woods, or heard the wood-pigeon's cooing across the waters at the hushed evening hour, without a sensation of tranquillity and peace stealing over my spirit, as fancy pictured the lonely lodge, the soft twittering around it, and the dense shadows beyond.
I obeyed Mrs. Priestly, and never asked a question concerning Mr. Edwin, but I pondered much on this interesting subject; and whenever my thoughts turned away from the vanities of this world, they always rested with satisfaction on the ornithologist.
As the time drew nigh for our departure to Lovell Castle, I observed a degree of restlessness on Mr. Edwin which I had not hitherto noticed, and frequent gloomy abstraction, which he vainly endeavored to shake off in our presence. Mrs. Priestly often conversed alone with him, when traces of agitation were visible on her countenance, and tears on his; and when she bade him farewell, these words lingered on his lips—“Tell dear Mildred how happy I am.”
Lovell Castle was a dark, frowning pile, bearing an ancient date, while some portions were more antiquated still, and had fallen into disuse. It was a real castle of the olden time; I had often read of such with interest and delight, but now I could explore for myself. Here were dungeons and vaulted chambers, trap-doors and loop-holes, intricate passages, secret hiding-places, and curious old oaken chests, battlements and turrets, carved work and tapestry, banqueting hall and chapel—in short, all the appendages necessary for romance in feudal days.
The family consisted of Mr. Lovell, Mildred, his eldest daughter by a first wife, and Harold and Rose, the children of the second Mrs. Lovell, who had died when Rose was an infant. Mildred was tenderly beloved by Mrs. Priestly; and, as she never quitted her hypochondriacal father, it was principally to see this dear niece that the widow left her quiet home on the margin of Lodimer's blue waters. I was absolutely startled by the extraordinary and striking likeness between the ornithologist and Mildred Lovell—the same placid, sweet expression of countenance, the same gentle, winning manners, too. While in unobtrusive performance of her duties toward God and man, this good daughter and sister journeyed onward through life, ministering to the comfort and well-being of all, but without exacting a meed of praise or a single glance of admiration. Mildred was nobody at Lovell Castle; but, had she been absent, her absence would have been universally bewailed, and her value known: they were perhaps too used to the blessing to appreciate it, even as the sun shines day after day, and we do not remark it as any thing unusual.
Rose was a volatile, thoughtless girl, yet affectionate and kind-hearted withal, and dearly loved her elder sister, who had indeed filled the place of a mother to her. Rose had elastic, unvarying spirits, which were not unwelcome in that dull old place, and kept the inmates from stagnation. She and Harold were the father's darlings, though all Mr. Lovell's hope and pride centred in his son. Pre-eminently beautiful in person, active and graceful, Harold Lovell was born the same year as his deceased cousin, Jocelyn Priestly, and the youths had strongly resembled each other, not only in person but in disposition. The partial parents had not, perhaps, read those dispositions truthfully, or in both their children they might have traced evil propensities, which went far to counterbalance the good—revengeful passions, and a proneness to selfish indulgence, which not all their brilliant acquirements and feats of gallant prowess could conceal from a close observer of character. They were at the same school together, and at Lovell Castle for the vacation, when that sad catastrophe took place which plunged the family in irremediable [pg 473] affliction. Mr. Lovell, who had always been a nervous, ailing man, never recovered the shock, and latterly he had sunk into complete indolence, and left the care and management of his affairs entirely to Harold, who, however, ill-fulfilled his duties. The aversion which Mrs. Priestly entertained toward her nephew, and which she vainly strove to conceal, had once been the source of painful contention between Mr. Lovell and his sister, though now it had settled down into a silent grief never alluded to by either of them. All these particulars I had heard from Rose; and much I was amazed at Mrs. Priestly's conduct, coupled with the avowal she had made to me respecting the disposal of her property in favor of her nephew; but I knew her to be a just and strong-minded woman, and felt sure there was some mystery connected with these family details, which Rose was bursting to disclose, the first convenient opportunity. But I gave her no encouragement to do so, for I thought that, had Mrs. Priestly wished me to know the secret motives by which she was actuated, her confidence would have been already bestowed; and it seemed a breach of trust, or dishonorable, to gain the knowledge by other means. The sweet benignity of Mildred Lovell, her untiring patience and unaffected cheerfulness, as well as the strong resemblance of feature, continually reminded me of Mr. Edwin, and I pondered often on the parting words which I had heard him address to Mrs. Priestly—“Tell dear Mildred how happy I am.”
And what was Mildred to Mr. Edwin? Wherefore was he exiled and alone? What had he done that his name was forbidden to be spoken at Lovell? These ideas constantly haunted me, despite my determination to exclude such idle questionings concerning the mysterious affair. Rose sometimes communicated some portion of her own gay spirit to me: we were thrown much together, for Mildred was constantly occupied with her invalid parent, and Mrs. Priestly shared the duties of her beloved niece. But I often desired the solitude which was more congenial to my turn of mind, though it was not always easy to obtain it, as Rose, from a mistaken kindness, continually watched my movements, and accompanied me wheresoever I desired to go. It was impossible to check the affectionate girl in a direct manner; but I discovered that there was one locality particularly avoided by all the inmates of the castle, which had fallen into decay, and was seldom approached by Rose. This was the western wing or turret; and thither, accordingly, I often bent my steps, in search of quietude, and also of a magnificent prospect to be viewed from the summit. In this sumptuous home at Lovell Castle, my thoughts often wandered to Ivy Lodge on Lodimer's banks, and its lonely occupant, apart from the vanities of life, contented and cheerful under afflictions which were, I felt sure, of no common nature. I compared the pious recluse with the heir of Lovell, toward whom an inexpressible feeling of repugnance reigned in my breast. Harold was devoted to field sports and the pleasures of the table; he was, in fact, the real master, consulting only his own time and inclinations on all occasions. His bloated, though still handsome countenance, evidenced excess; while a dictatorial manner, as of one unused to reproof or contradiction, was habitual. A constant restlessness and irritability, a quick turn of the eye, a wild glance, betokened a mind ill at ease. He was a scoffer at religion, too, an unkind brother, and an undutiful son to the doating father, who yet believed and saw no faults in his offspring. Despite her brother's harshness, Rose, with devoted sisterly affection, extenuated Harold's conduct, and it was very beautiful to witness her womanly tenderness and forbearance. It might be that Mildred was the child of another mother, and that circumstances had somewhat weakened the ties of blood; but notwithstanding her general kindness of demeanor toward all, including Harold, there was a perceptible shade of coldness when addressing him. She never volunteered an embrace, to be cast off, like the persevering, warm-hearted Rose; she never clung to her brother, praying him to remain at home, when he was about to engage in any hazardous or foolish exploit. No; there was some sin or sorrow which had weaned and divided this brother and sister, until the erring one should turn and repent. And who could doubt that Mildred Lovell would open wide her arms to receive the penitent?
I had sought my favorite deserted turret, to contemplate a glorious sunset behind the distant mountains, when Rose joined me on the summit, from whence we gazed on the dizzy depth below. She was unusually serious and pale; her laugh was hushed, and she spoke in whispers.
“Why do you choose this spot, Evelin, to indulge your reveries?” she said, “for I can not bear to remain here; and Harold would not ascend this western tower for all the universe.”
“And why is it so distasteful to you, Rose?” I inquired, with some curiosity, “for the view is the most superb I ever witnessed. Is this wing of the castle haunted?” I added, with a smile, taking her arm, and making a step nearer to the edge, guarded only by a very low, broad parapet.
She convulsively drew me back, exclaiming—“Oh! Evelin, if you knew the dreadful recollections attached to this turret, you would not marvel at my being so nervous. I do not believe it is haunted, but there are folks who do. They report that white fleecy shadows hover around it by night, though perhaps the owls and birds building in the crevices may account for the supposed supernatural appearances.”
“And wherefore, Rose, is this turret in such bad repute? What are the dreadful recollections attached to it? A legend of olden times, perhaps?”
“Alas, Evelin,” responded my companion, “'tis a reality of our own. My poor cousin, Jocelin Priestly, met with his fearful end here. He fell from this dizzy height on the shaven turf beneath, and lived but a few moments afterward.”
“But how did this fatal accident occur, Rose?” I inquired. “Why have you never mentioned it before?”
Paler than ever, Rose replied, with a faltering voice, “Because it was not an accident, Evelin” (she shivered, and put her lips close to my ear). “He was cast down intentionally.”
“By whom, Rose?” My heart throbbed violently; strange thoughts were rushing through my brain.
“I dare not tell you; I am forbidden to reveal more. I was very young at the time, and things were hushed up; but poor Milly has been a changed being ever since.”
“Mildred!” I exclaimed, in surprise; “what effect could this tragedy have on her, more than on other members of your family?”
“It had, it had, Evelin, because she desired to screen the guilty; but ask me no more, and let us quit this hateful place.”
My mind was bewildered and uneasy. Who could the guilty person alluded to be, and wherefore such a mystery preserved? The wildest conjectures disturbed my imagination, while redoubled love and sympathy were given to the bereaved mother. But this tangled web was soon to be unraveled—unraveled in an awful and sudden manner, for that avenging arm was outstretched which no mortal can withstand.
We were preparing to return home, and I was happy in the near prospect of seeing dear Lodimer so soon. Harold Lovell left the castle at early morn in high health and spirits, to attend a race meeting, some few miles off, with several boon companions. A quarrel arose, and Harold, deeming himself insulted, and more than half inebriated, struck a desperate gambler, who demanded satisfaction on the spot. Harold fell, mortally wounded, and was borne back to Lovell on a litter, late in the evening. The father's despair, blessedly merged in insensibility, the sister's agony, we draw a vail over.
Mrs. Priestly, Mildred, and myself, with the medical attendants, alone were calm and of use, so far, indeed, as human aid extended. The domestics were wildly running hither and thither, but to no purpose: Harold Lovell was rapidly dying. Mrs. Priestly supported the expiring sufferer; she bathed his temples, and spoke words of peace. You would have deemed him the son of her fondest love, all dislike merged in pity and the tenderest solicitude. Suddenly Harold opened his glazing eyes to their widest extent; he recognized her, while a shudder convulsively shook his whole frame. He essayed to articulate, and at length these broken sentences were heard, “Forgive me, Aunt Priestly—now forgive. 'Twas I did it! Edwin is innocent; I am the murderer. Oh! mercy! mercy!”
Mrs. Priestly had sank down beside the couch, as with clasped hands she raised her streaming eyes to heaven; then burying her face, she murmured—“I do forgive you, poor boy, and so does Edwin, freely.” The spirit passed into eternity as she spoke these words. I saw Mildred fling herself into Mrs. Priestly's arms, and I remember no more, for, unused to such scenes, my strength succumbed.
Mr. Lovell and his son were laid side by side in the family vault on the same day; the broken-hearted father surviving his beloved child but a few hours. That son's dying confession was repeated to him, although he took no notice at the time, and lived not to make restitution to the innocent; but to his daughters, as co-heiresses, the whole of his immense wealth descended; and yet Mr. Lovell left a son—a good, noble-hearted son, whom he had unjustly disinherited. When the disinherited was told that the only words his departed parent had spoken after receiving his death-blow, the only token of consciousness he had evinced was in faintly murmuring, “Bless Edwin, my son,” that son valued the world's wealth but as dross in comparison; nor would he have exchanged those precious words for all the uncounted riches of the globe! His father then had believed him innocent, and had blessed him; and Edwin, the ornithologist of Ivy Lodge, came to Lovell Castle, justly lord of all, but owning nothing save a thankful heart and a peaceful mind, to be clasped in the arms of his faithful sister Mildred, for they were twins, and linked together in heart. Then, and not till then, were the following particulars narrated to Rose and myself by Mrs. Priestly. Rose mourned deeply for her brother, but justice to the living demanded full disclosure of the truth.
Edwin had never been a favorite with his father, a fall in infancy having rendered him unsightly, and probably occasioned the delicate health which induced that love of studious repose so opposite to those qualities which Mr. Lovell admired in his younger son. A tutor was provided for Edwin at home, while Harold, with his cousin, Jocelin Priestly, was sent to a public school. With unfeeling thoughtlessness, Jocelin used often to amuse himself by joking at the expense of Edwin's personal deformity, calling him “hunchback,” and many other nick-names, all of which the amiable youth bore with unflinching patience and fortitude, ever returning good for evil. The quarrels and rivalry between Harold and Jocelin were violent and unceasing; and, previous to the last vacation, they had risen to a fiercer pitch than formerly, Jocelin Priestly having carried off a prize from Harold, which the latter declared was unfair. Jocelin's spirits were outrageous, and in reckless levity he made so unceasing a butt of the unfortunate elder brother, that Edwin determined to keep himself as much aloof as possible from the boisterous pair, whose bickerings and headstrong passion disturbed his equanimity. Mildred, whose love and veneration for her beloved brother was returned by him with a depth of affection which only the isolated can feel, vainly tried to make peace and preserve concord. Mrs. Priestly, with a mother's doating partiality for an only child, never allowed Jocelin to be in fault, though she would chide his exuberant spirits, and liked not that he should wound the gentle Edwin, whom she dearly loved. Mr. Lovell, on the other hand, laughed at the [pg 475] lads' faults; and, when he could not laugh, winked at them: “Edwin was a milk-sop, and Harold and Jocelin fine, high-spirited, handsome fellows, who would grow wiser as they grew older.” Mrs. Priestly “hoped so”—she “prayed so; and Jocelin was so clever and handsome, that a little steadiness was all he needed; there was nothing else amiss.” So argued the blind mother; and, next to Harold, his uncle Lovell's affections were lavished on this nephew.
When these two youths made their appearance at the castle, Edwin frequently retired to the western turret, where he could read and meditate alone, and enjoy the lovely landscape. Here he was resting on a projecting stone, which served as a bench, part of the edifice screening him from view, when Jocelin Priestly appeared on the summit with a telescope in hand, and, with boyish recklessness, jumped on the low parapet, balancing himself on the extreme verge, as he applied the glass to his eye. In another moment Harold came leaping up the turret-stairs, boiling with furious passion; and, darting forward, he clutched at the glass, screaming, as he did so, “How dare you take my telescope, sir, when you know I forbade you?” There was a struggle, a violent thrust, succeeded by a scream of horror and despair, and Edwin beheld his brother Harold alone on that dizzy height.
All this had passed in a moment a of time apparently. Harold looked round with a wild, terrified glance, and fled, Edwin's limbs refusing to sustain him in his efforts to reach the parapet, as he lost consciousness, and swooned. Jocelin Priestly's fall had been noticed by a gardener, who gave an instant alarm; but the ill-fated lad expired in his distracted mother's arms, after articulating, “I am murdered.”
Edwin was found on the summit of the western turret, his incoherent exclamations and agitation being considered proofs of guilt by his father and tutor. He solemnly asseverated his innocence, but refused to enter into particulars until his brother Harold returned, for Harold was absent, it was supposed, in the adjacent woodlands, where he ofttimes resorted to practice with his gun. When he did return, Harold with well-acted surprise heard the dreadful tidings, and demanded, in a careless manner, where Edwin had been at the time? When informed that he was found on the summit of the tower, and of the deceased's fearful avowal in his dying moments, Harold exclaimed, “Edwin has indeed avenged himself on poor Jocelin.” And Edwin was branded as the dastardly wretch who had taken his cousin's life thus!
Edwin denied the foul deed with indignation and horror; but, when Harold's words were repeated to him, he hung his head, and blushed scarlet. He spoke no more, save to affirm his innocence; and, when questioned as to Jocelin Priestly having been near him on the tower just before he met with his death, Edwin admitted the fact; but, when further pressed, he became confused, and painful internal struggles were evident.
Mr. Lovell discarded his son forever. He would not harbor, he said, one who had vengefully taken the life of his beloved nephew; the law, indeed, could not reach the criminal, but a father's malediction could! So the hapless Edwin was disowned and disinherited by his indignant parent, who granted him a stipend barely sufficient for subsistence, and thrust him forth as an alien. Harold had not encountered his brother's placid gaze; he shrank from being alone with him, and when Edwin begged for an audience, it was refused. Mildred protested her brother's innocence. Edwin had never swerved from truth in his life; and, strange to say, there was another who sided with Mildred, and that other, the miserable mother of the victim. She had scrutinized and watched Harold Lovell closely; and when Edwin knelt beside her, and said, with quiet, but impressive calmness, “I am innocent, aunt; I never injured a hair of my cousin's head,” he was believed by that jealous, breaking heart.
“But you were there, Edwin,” cried the poor lady; “you witnessed it: he came not to his end by fair means. Speak—your brother—was it he did this foul deed, for he envied and hated my son—the base, cowardly traitor!”
Passion choked Mrs. Priestly's utterance, and Edwin was mute. Neither prayers nor entreaties induced him to explain past circumstances connected with the direful catastrophe. He bore the burden of another's guilt; he bore in silence the contumely that should have been heaped on another, and was banished from the parental roof. But conviction found its way to Mrs. Priestly's heart; and, though Mr. Lovell was implacable, nor would listen to a suspicion implied that he might be deceived, the mother intuitively shrank from contact with the false-hearted Harold Lovell. As years progressed, the truth became more and more firmly impressed on her mind; and to him, accused by his own father of being her only child's destroyer, she left the bulk of her fortune, and established the outcast in her near vicinity, firmly trusting that the Almighty, in his own good time, would bring the real culprit to light. Her heart fixed on this culprit, but Mr. Lovell continued in error and darkness. Those precious words spoken in his last hour proved, however, that darkness was dissipated, and error abandoned, when the dying man murmured a blessing on his exiled son, who had sacrificed himself to shield an ungrateful brother from shame and opprobrium.
Within two years after her father and brother's decease, Rose rewarded the long and sincere attachment of a neighboring squire by becoming his wife. Lovell Castle was sold, and Mildred repaired to Lodimer; while, on the original site of Ivy Lodge, a more commodious dwelling was in course of preparation. There she resided with her beloved brother for the remainder of their joint lives, and Mr. Edwin found in his sweet companion not only a valuable coadjutor in his favorite pursuits, but an absolute rival in the affections of his feathered pets; while the [pg 476] swan's nest among the reeds on Lodimer's fair waters continued to be as carefully preserved and guarded as it had been during the solitary years of the now happy ornithologist.