SHAKESPEARE.
"Une vie à bien faire uniquement passée
D'innocence, d'amour, d'espoir, de pureté,
Tant d'aspirations vers son Dieu répétées,
Tant de foi dans la mort, tant de vertus jetées
En gage à l'Immortalité.
"Tant de nuits sans sommeil pour veiller la souffrance,
Tant de pain retranché pour nourrir l'Indigence;
Tant de pleurs toujours prêts à s'unir à des pleurs,
Tant de soupirs brûlans vers une autre patrie,
Et tant de patience, à porter une vie,
Dont la Couronne était ailleurs."
LAMARTINE.
On a cold evening in February, Mrs. Middleton was sitting alone in the library of Elmsley Priory; the wind was howling round the old house in that mournful key which stirs up in the soul a vague emotion; the roaring of the swollen torrent was audible, and the low distant barking of the keeper's dogs chimed in with it. Mrs. Middleton was dressed in the deep mourning of a widow. She was not more than forty, and yet her hair was prematurely grey, and the heavy listlessness with which one of her hands hung by her side, and the other struck repeatedly and unconsciously the table on which she leant, told that the spring within was broken, and that suffering, and not time, had done its work upon her.
An embroidering-frame was near her, and after a while she drew it to herself and began to work. When she had made a few stitches she let the needle fall, and her head sank upon the support of the frame, and there she remained buried in thought till the door at the end of the library was softly opened. She looked up eagerly, and gazed in silence on the beautiful being who was approaching her, and who after kissing her on the forehead sat down near her, and employed herself with the work she had given up.
And that lovely vision, what was she like? What did that pale smooth brow, those earnest eyes, that bloodless cheek, and delicate form resemble? A lily shattered by the storm; a dove scared from her nest, but faithful in her fear. An expression wholly at variance with the features that wear it, is a startling thing. Tears in the eyes of an old and iron-featured man; laughter on a pale and dying face; care and deep-seated sorrow in the round lineaments of childhood, make us wonder and grieve; but more at variance than any of these was the expression of Alice Lovell's beautiful features with the character they seemed made to bear. Intense and anxious watchfulness marked it now, a tremulous quiver shook her hand as she drew the threads through the canvas; and though her large eyes were calm, and her attitude composed, the least sound made her start.
"How is he now?" inquired Mrs. Middleton in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
"Sleeping, thank God, and quietly too. Oh, Mrs. Middleton, hope is strong within me yet, and strength will be given us never to forsake him."
"Hope! strength! Alice, where are they to be found?"