absolute than Orient servitude adores in the symbols
of diadem and sceptre? What crest so haughty
that has not bowed before a hand which could
exalt or humble? What heart so dauntless that.
has not trembled to call forth the voice at whose
sound ope the gates of rapture or despair?
That life alone is free which rules and suffices
for itself. That life we forfeit when we love!

CHAPTER XVII.

How did I utter it? By what words did my
heart make itself known? I remember not. All
was as a dream that falls upon a restless, feverish
night, and fades away as the eyes unclose on the
peace of a cloudless heaven, on the bliss of a
golden sun. A new morrow seemed indeed upon
the earth when I woke from a life-long yesterday;
—her dear hand in mine, her sweet face bowed
upon my breast.

And then there was that melodious silence in
which there is no sound audible from without;
yet within us there is heard a lulling celestial
music, as if our whole being, grown harmonious
with the universe, joined from its happy deeps in
the hymn that unites the stars.

In that silence our two hearts seemed to make
each other understood, to be drawing near and
nearer, blending by mysterious concord into the
completedness of a solemn union, never henceforth
to be rent asunder.

At length I said softly: "And it was here, on
this spot, that I first saw you—here, that I for
the first time knew what power to change our
world and to rule our future goes forth from
the charm of a human face!"

Then Lilian asked me timidly, and without
lifting her eyes, how I had so seen her, reminding
me that I promised to tell her, and had never
yet done so.

And then I told her of the strange impulse
that had led me into the grounds, and by what
chance my steps had been diverted down the
path that wound to the glade; how suddenly her
form had shone upon my eyes, gathering round
itself the rose hues of the setting sun; and how
wistfully those eyes had followed her own silent
gaze into the distant heaven.

As I spoke, her hand pressed mine eagerly,
convulsively, and, raising her face from my
breast, she looked at me with an intent, anxious
earnestness. That look!—twice before it had
thrilled and perplexed me.

"What is there in that look, oh, my Lilian,
which tells me that there is something that
startles you—something you wish to confide, and
yet shrink from explaining? See how, already,
I study the fair book from which the seal has
been lifted, but as yet you must aid me to
construe its language."

"If I shrink from explaining, it is only
because I fear that I cannot explain so as to be
understood or believed. But you have a right
to know the secrets of a life which you would link
to your own. Turn your face aside from me; a
reproving look, an incredulous smile, chill—oh!
you cannot guess how they chill me—when I
would approach that which to me is so serious
and so solemnly strange."

I turned my face away, and her voice grew
firmer as, after a brief pause, she resumed:

"As far back as I can remember in my
infancy, there have been moments when there
seems to fall a soft hazy veil between my sight
and the things around it, thickening and deepening
till it has the likeness of one of those white
fleecy clouds which gather on the verge of the
horizon when the air is yet still, but the winds
are about to rise, and then this vapour or veil
will suddenly open, as clouds open and let in the
blue sky."

"Go on," I said, gently, for here she came
to a stop.

She continued, speaking somewhat more
hurriedly:

"Then, in that opening, strange appearances
present themselves to me, as in a vision. In
my childhood these were chiefly landscapes of
wonderful beauty. I could but faintly describe
them then; I could not attempt to describe them
now, for they are almost gone from my memory.
My dear mother chid me for telling her what I
saw, so I did not impress it on my mind by
repeating it. As I grew up, this kind of
vision—if I may so call it—became much less
frequent, or much less distinct; I still saw the
soft veil fall, the pale cloud form and open,
but often what may then have appeared was
entirely forgotten when I recovered myself,
waking as from a sleep. Sometimes, however,
the recollection would be vivid and complete:
sometimes I saw the face of my lost father;
sometimes I heard his very voice, as I had
seen and heard him in my early childhood,
when he would let me rest for hours beside
him as he mused or studied, happy to be so
quietly near him—for I loved him, oh, so dearly!
and I remember him so distinctly, though I
was only in my sixth year when he died.
Much more recently—indeed, within the last
few months—the images of things to come are
reflected on the space that I gaze into as clearly
as in a glass. Thus, for weeks before I came
hither, or knew that such a place existed, I
saw distinctly the old House, yon trees, this
sward, this moss-grown Gothic fount, and, with
the sight, an impression was conveyed to me
that in the scene before me my old childlike
life would pass into some solemn change. So
that when I came here, and recognised the
picture in my vision, I took an affection for the
spot; an affection not without awe; a powerful,
perplexing interest, as one who feels under the
influence of a fate of which a prophetic glimpse
has been vouchsafed. And in that evening,
when you first saw me, seated here——"

"Yes, Lilian, on that evening——?"

"I saw you also, but in my vision—yonder,
far in the deeps of space—and—and my heart
was stirred as it had never been before; and
near where your image grew out from the cloud
I saw my father's face, and I heard his voice,
not in my ear, but as in my heart, whispering——"