fewer than usually occur; yet at that age to enter upon a new scene, to be forced to abandon the home of years, the very household articles consecrated by habit and association, to relinquish comforts rendered absolutely necessary by long use and advancing infirmity, these are trials of whose magnitude the prosperous can form no adequate conception. Different in degree from the agony which wrings the warm heart of youth, such agony as was felt by poor Sybil in tearing herself away from the dwelling of her childhood; they fall, perhaps, with more of crushing weight upon the spirit, from which the elasticity of youth, as well as its keen, quick sense of sorrow or joy, has long departed. There is no rebound, no reaction, in the breast of advancing life, when overtaken by heavy affliction. And heavy, indeed, was Colonel Lindesay's; not for himself, but for the young, innocent, and nearly unfriended daughter, whom he felt that he must ere long leave behind him in a cold-hearted world, without those pecuniary means which might render her independent of its niggard kindness. He had already, in silence, but not the less in deep anxiety, seen her drooping, and losing spirits and bloom, under a sorrow to which neither of them ever ventured an allusion, but which the father's heart could well divine; and now he had the added misery of feeling that a loss had fallen upon him of whose full extent and cruel consequences, as regarded her future lot, she could as yet form no idea, but which the bitter experience of after years would every day bring more sternly home to her. Generous, unworldly youth makes light of the evils of poverty, but maturer age well knows that there is no earthly ill which, when long continued, or hopeless, falls with a deadlier pressure on every hour of existence, or tells with a more killing effect on every emotion of the soul. Meanwhile, the struggle came to an end; the bitter hour of parting arrived, and passed away, like all our earthly hours, whether of joy or woe, though it left traces behind, in the hearts of those who experienced its agony, which time might soften, but never could efface. The advice of an old East Indian friend, now settled in the island of Jersey, had induced Colonel Lindesay to resolve on retiring to that cheap and beautiful place of residence ; and there, shortly before the close of leap year, did Sybil find her father and herself established. It is needless to dwell on the emotions which wrung her heart on being thus removed, as it seemed, for ever, from the possibility even of hearing of one whom she could not cease to remember. These were for her private hours, her secret tears alone. In her father's presence her care, her tenderness, her anxious thought of his comfort, seemed even redoubled; and in the necessity for exertion, in the real privations, the actual cares of life, the stern realities of this world, as they manifest themselves to one compelled to find affluence and comfort exchanged for struggling and comparative penury, if she learned to feel some-not a few-of the bitter, she yet unconsciously became in herself an example of the "sweet uses of adversity." Her character rose, refined and purified, from the waves of trouble that passed over her. Her poetical impulses were exchanged for humble religious faith; the hand of Providence, as directing the path of life, manifested itself more clearly to eyes purged by the euphrasy and rue of affliction, from the dimness of mortality, and Sybil, as she became sadder, became also wiser. But a darker sorrow was in store for her, in the death of her beloved and only parent, whose health never recovered from the shock his unexpected misfortunes had occasioned him. He died, and his daughter, as she hung in anguish over his lifeless remains, felt indeed what it was to be left alone in the world. Hitherto she had had the strongest of all possible motives for exertion; she had had her father's comfort to study, his happiness to look to; she had been forced to act and think for him, as well as for herself; and most precious privilege of all, she had had his affection, his unfailing love, to flee to as a refuge from all suffering, to hang upon as an unfailing anchor of her soul, when tending to sink under painful restrospection. Now all this was over; she had no one now to live for, to struggle for; she was the first object of no human heart; except the dear brother from whom half the world divided her, there was no living being to whom her affection was of consequence; the one unfailing fountain of love in this worlda parent's love-was sealed for evermore, and she was desolate. She felt, as she turned away from her father's lonely grave, that she would gladly, joyfully, have welcomed back the worst hours of poverty and sorrow, have thankfully endured "the loathliest, most despised life," that ever worldly loss entailed, so she might again have had his tender love as a motive and a reward for her exertions to assuage its troubles. Providentially, as Colonel Lindesay thankfully felt and acknowledged it, the only brother of his late wife arrived from India, his term of service having expired, about six weeks before the death of the colonel. Mr. Murray hastened to Jersey upon the entreaty of his brother-in-law, and at once willingly undertook the office of trustee to the little property devolving upon Sybil and her brother. Having laid her father's head in the grave, he escorted his mourning niece to London, and introduced her to his wife, by whom she was kindly received as the future inmate of their home. The final arrangement of her father's affairs left a sum for his daughter considerably under two thousand pounds, and this was all of worldly property to which she could look forward with any certainty, although her brother, full of the sanguine anticipations of youth, wrote to her of his expectations of realizing a fortune large enough for them both, and of returning from India to make Sybil mistress of his house, before they should both be old and grey haired. Meanwhile he sent her many little presents, and all the money which he could spare; and these tokens of fraternal affection were very precious to the sister's heart, the more so in proportion to the dearth of all other household ties, the sense of which weighed so heavily upon her. Her letter to Juliet has given an idea of her movements since becoming an inmate at her uncle's; and now once more she found the path of her life leading her to Scotland, where Mr. Murray, full of enthusiastic attachment to his native country, had resolved to look out for landed property, in which to invest some of his eastern riches. One trouble Sybil had experienced within the last year, in the shape of a strong and persevering attachment formed for her by a friend of her uncle's, a Mr. Dundas, whom she had first met abroad, and who had now followed their party home. This gentleman, who was some ten years her senior, and a man of most amiable and respectable character, as well as of considerable fortune, was favoured in his suit by Mr. and Mrs. Murray, to a degree that rendered it very difficult for their niece to repress attentions which gave her much pain, because prompted by a sentiment which she could not return. The knowledge that he had preceded them to Edinburgh, and the dread of his paying them a visit on the morrow, formed the strongest alloy to her pleasure in finding herself there once more. Many and various, indeed, were the reflections which thronged upon her mind as she sat down that night before her toilet-mirror, to prepare for retiring to rest. She cast her eyes round the elegant sleeping apartment with a melancholy half-smile. "I was less sumptuously lodged long ago, at my own dear home," thought she; "but I had a lighter heart in those days. Has he forgotten them? Ah, me! men have not our memories. And I am changed-my very face is changed since then!" as she cast her eye over its reflection in the glass. And so, in truth, it waschanged from the character of sunny loveliness which had animated it four years before; yet it was an alteration which few could have criticised. A paler tint had overspread its clear soft fairness; the girlish rounding of the cheeks had fallen into a more oval contour; there were fewer smiles dimpling round the mouth, though its expression of sweetness remained unaltered-if possible, augmented; and there was a deeper well of feeling in the dark grey eyes, a loftier expression of thought and intellect on the polished forehead, where the parting clusters of her rich brown ringlets disclosed it to view; all that alteration, in short, which tells to the eye of a physiognomist that the heart of which such a countenance is the index, has not passed from youth to womanhood without its own share of experience in the loves and the sorrows of our mortal nature, but which tells at the same time, that what the heart has lost in juvenile lightness and joy the soul has gained in intensity of thought, in depth of feeling, in hallowed submission to the unerring will and the righteous appointments of Heaven. No one whose admiration was worth having could quarrel with such a change; but Sybil was not dreaming of admiration; her thoughts had reverted to other times, to -the light and bounding hearts The world has yet to wring; The bloom that, when it once departs, Alas! there are few amongst us, tutored in submission though our minds may be, who can refuse the tribute of a sigh to retrospections such as these; and we humbly believe that there are none in whom such a sight of unmurmuring regret as she breathed for them would be reckoned a sin. We bear about within us hearts originally formed for the unfading joys, the undying loves, of eternity; is it then a wonder that we should sigh and weep over the dear, though vanishing, treasures of time? Such sorrow can only be sinful in excess, when it blinds us to aught beyond our earthly hopes and their frustration. As Sybil extinguished her chamber light, and laid her head upon her pillow, a low strain of music stole upon her ear. She raised herself in bed and listened. It gradually increased in loudness, then ceased for a short space, then again burst forth, almost beneath her window, in a lively air. She sprang from her bed, and wrapping her dressing-gown around her, drew back the window-curtain, and looked out. In the clear obscure of the northern midsummer night she distinctly perceived the musicians standing beneath the railings of the square garden. They played on various wind instruments, and seemed to belong to a band; perhaps who could tell?-the identical, the well-remembered band of other days. Whilst Sybil leant upon the window-sill, and listened intently to their performance, the air which they were playing was suddenly exchanged for a slow and plaintive measure. It was the unforgotten melody-" Somebody." Strange! by what accidental coincidences the finest and tenderest chords of the heart may be made to vibrate! The hour, the scene, the memories called up by these notes from her spirit's inmost recesses, alike conspired to awaken the gush of feeling that swelled the breast of Sybil. She hid her face in her hands, and gave way to an overwhelming burst of tears. CHAPTER V. They stood aloof, the scars remaining, The thoughts of that which once hath been. Coleridye. On the following day our heroine gladly escaped from a visit which, as she had anticipated, the party very early received from Mr. Dundas, to enjoy a meeting with her cousin, at which even the placid Juliet shed tears of pleasure, mingled with those of sad retrospection. It was arranged that Sybil should dine tête-a-tête with Mrs. Maitland, her husband being absent from town; and the evening accordingly found them seated together, and alone. Mrs. Maitland's pretty baby had been kissed, played with, and at length despatched to bed, and there was no one present to restrain the full tide of recollections which rushed upon both their minds on finding themselves once more together. "I am sure I remember this house, Juliet," said Sybil, as she looked round the drawing-room; " did not Mrs. Hope live here?" "She did," replied Juliet. "It was sold after her death, and Edgar bought it. We have been at one or two delightful balls in this house, Sybil." "That we have," replied Sybil, with a mournful smile; "how could I forget it? How many changes there must be amongst those who used to meet here four years ago! Tell me, Juliet, did Matilda Hope marry that handsome Robert Wedderburn? We used to be so sure she would; they always danced together." "They will never dance together again though," answered Juliet. "What prevented the match I don't know, for they certainly were much attached, but I suppose it was want of fortune. She has now been married above two years to a Sir John Stewart, and Mr. Wedderburn has some diplomatic appointment abroad; he never returned here after her marriage. And pretty Jane Hope is dead!" "Poor Jane! Is it possible ?" "And Emelia Shaw is married to Anthony Mowbray." "Nonsense!" "Yes, indeed; who would have thought it once? And-oh! I should never have done, Sybil, were I to begin telling you of all the changes amongst our old friends. There are many sad hearts amongst those whom you left gay and happy, I assure you." May, 1846.-VOL. XLVI.-NO. CLXXXI. D |