But the care of young Stanhope became a favourite object, and no assistance which the most efficient friendship could bestow was withheld from the boy's mother. Lisfarne was part of the property which devolved to this invaluable neighbour of ours by his brother's bequest; and the retired beauty of the scenery determined him to make this his asylum. His next object was to induce the beloved companions of youth, who had shared the gladness of his brightest, and dispelled the clouds of his darkest days, to come and live in his immediate vicinity. He purchased Glenalta for my father, and by his good taste and activity, transformed its rude wilds into the little paradise which you see. Here resided the happiest family which, I believe, ever existed; but I cannot talk of home, I must proceed with the story which I promised you:—Mr. Otway received a letter from a Solicitor in London, to say that the interests of his young ward (not that he was legally so) required his immediate attendance in town. It was to him a most disagreeable undertaking. A recluse through long habit, and devoted to the society of Glenalta; active in the discharge of such multiplied duties at Lisfarne, as could ill spare his vigilant eye and beneficent heart, it was great pain to set out upon a journey without understanding its object, and plunge anew into scenes which he had abjured in idea for ever. But dear Phil. only hesitates till he has satisfied himself concerning what is right to be done, and there is no farther pause—he proceeds to execution. To London he went, and never shall I forget how much we longed for his return; and what blazing fires of heath telegraphed his approach upon our neighbouring hills. On reaching town, he only waited to refresh himself before he set forward to the Solicitor's, from whom his summons had issued, and the mystery was soon unravelled. Mrs. Stanhope had married a young fortune-hunter, and was endeavouring to prevail upon her son, then a child of fourteen, to make a settlement on his pennyless stepfather. Relying on the influence of her former attractions, she had prepared a scene, and desiring her Attorney carefully to abstain from giving Mr. Otway the least intimation of her new tie, she burst upon him in the moment of his entrance at Mr. Scriven's house, dressed in fashionable attire, which had succeeded in all the gay colouring of a London milliner's shop, to the garb of sorrow in which he had seen her arrayed in one personal interview after her husband's death. The only time of their meeting had been upon that occasion, when he begged permission to consider himself as guardian to her child, thus proving that, though he had ceased to love, he still felt the kindest and most sacred interest in her fate. Disgusted now beyond the power of controlling his feelings, he put a speedy termination to a conference, the manner, as well as the matter of which had excited his utmost indignation; and assuring her that if any undue advantage was taken by her influence over the minor, a suit should be immediately commenced against her and her husband, he took a hasty leave. Frightened by these menaces, the lady retired, and soon announced her departure to the Continent, where, about two years ago, she died of a broken heart. Mr. Otway's business completed, he quickly returned to his favourite retreat, and loved to wander alone along the beach which surrounds a part of his demesne. My dear father once caught him upon a rocky promontory with pencil and paper in his hand. The question of 'what is that? Has Otway secrets with me?' was answered by 'it is a worthless scrap; take it, but Henry touch not that chord again—it jars upon my ear, and spoils all harmony.' I will now read you the lines which my father obtained by this surprise. It is the only poetry which even mamma has ever seen of her friend's writing.—Here Emily read to me the following stanzas:—
On first seeing Stella in a coloured dress after her second marriage.
"Stella! thy beauty rested on the shade Of sorrow's lonely night, like that fair flower,[A] Queen of the dark, whose tender glories fade In the gay radiance of a noon-tide hour.
"That flower supreme in loveliness—and pure As the pale Cynthian beam thro' which unveiled It blooms—as if unwilling to endure The gaze by which such beauties are assailed.
"And in the solitude of Nature's sleep, Unfolds such treasures to the midnight gloom, As gem the vault of Heaven in silence deep When widowed wanderer seeks the mouldering tomb.
"Yes! like the velvet-soft, and snowy star, Wrapped in thy sable garb, it erst was thine, With unassuming lustre, spreading far, In mild and chastened majesty to shine.
"Each stranger footstep that approached the fane, Eager to view, yet fearful to intrude; Seemed to partake the dread of giving pain, By glance unhallowed, or by finger rude.
"And has Aurora chased the sable cloud, And, even jealous of a twilight grey, Dispelled with sudden touch that mourning shroud, And with her saffron robe unfurled the day?
"Alas! the graceful Cactus now no more, Queen of the dark, asserts her silver reign, Her empire nought on earth can e'er restore, With other faded flowers she strews the plain."
[A] The Cactus Grandiflora, or Night-blowing Cereus.