THE GHOST OF A DEAD LOVE.
Is this the face I loved of yore,
Ere years had run;
Alas! I care for it no more
Old love is done;
We soon forget what we adore
At twenty-one.
It was now about four o'clock in the afternoon and the short autumnal day was rapidly closing in, the grey veil of the sky was rent here and there showing a patch of pale cold blue, while the setting sun was tinting the ragged clouds in the west with iridescent hues.
Beaumont stood in the long, rank grass of the graveyard, thinking deeply, his eyes fixed dreamily on the ancient tombstones around with their half-obliterated inscriptions and weed-grown mounds of earth. Behind him was the old church, its grey walls covered with close-clinging ivy from out which peered the grotesque faces of the gargoyles, leering demoniacally at the silent figure. The great square tower, built of rough stone, stood out massively against the dull grey sky, and round it every now and then flashed the pigeons who lived therein, gleaming white in the faint light of the sun. He could hear the hoarse murmur of the river flowing past, the shrill voices of the children in the street, and at intervals the rising and falling of the organ music within. All this touched his artistic sensibilities and he fell into a strain of half-melancholy, half regretful reflection which, for the moment, gave him a better nature than the bitter cynicism of his usual thoughts.
This man was not altogether bad; he had originally started in life with the best intentions, but his nature had been warped and twisted by misfortunes and temptations into its present state. It was true that he was to all appearances thoroughly bad, and that many had cause to regret his friendship, yet occasionally he would do a kind action or help a poor struggler, which showed that some of his early belief in humanity yet remained in his world-worn heart.