All my thoughts were, however, diverted to
channels of far deeper interest even than those in
which my mind had of late been so tumultuously
whirled along; when, on returning home, I
found a note from Mrs. Ashleigh. She and
Lilian had just come back to L——, sooner
than she had led me to anticipate. Lilian had
not seemed quite well the last day or two, and had
been anxious to return.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

LET me recal it—softly—softly! Let me recal
that evening spent with her!—that evening, the
last before darkness rose between us like a solid
wall.

It was evening, at the close of summer. The
sun had set, the twilight was lingering still. We
were in the old monastic garden—garden so quiet,
so cool, so fragrant. She was seated on a bench
under the one great cedar-tree that rose sombre
in the midst of the grassy lawn, with its little
paradise of flowers. I had thrown myself on the
sward at her feet; her hand so confidingly lay in
the clasp of mine. I see her still — how young,
how fair, how innocent!

Strange, strange! So inexpressibly English;
so thoroughly the creature of our sober, homely
life! The pretty delicate white robe that I touch
so timorously, and the ribbon-knots of blue
that so well become the soft colour of the fair
cheek, the wavy silk of the brown hair! She
is murmuring low her answer to my trembling
question—

"As well as when last we parted? Do you
love me as well still?"

"There is no 'still' written here," said she,
softly, pressing her hand to her heart.
"Yesterday is as to-morrow in the For ever."

"Ah! Lilian, if I could reply to you in words
as akin to poetry as your own."

"Fie! you who affect not to care for poetry!"

"That was before you went away—before I
missed you from my eyes, from my life—before I
was quite conscious how precious you were to
me, more precious than common words can tell!
Yes, there is one period in love when all men are
poets, however the penury of their language may
belie the luxuriance of their fancies. What would
become of me if you ceased to love me?"

"Or of me, if you could cease to love?"

"And somehow it seems to me this evening as
if my heart drew nearer to you—nearer as if for
shelter."

"It is sympathy," said she, with tremulous
eagerness; "that sort of mysterious sympathy
which I have often heard you deny or deride;
for I, too, feel drawn nearer to you, as if there
were a storm at hand. I was oppressed by an
indescribable terror in returning home, and the
moment I saw you there came a sense of protection."

Her head sank on my shoulder; we were silent
some moments; then we both rose by the same
involuntary impulse, and round her slight form I
twined my strong arm of man. And now we are
winding slow under the lilacs and acacias that belt
the lawn. Lilian has not yet heard of the murder,
which forms the one topic of the town, for all
tales of violence and blood affected her as they
affect a fearful child. Mrs. Ashleigh, therefore,
had judiciously concealed from her the letters and
the journals by which the dismal news had been
carried to herself. I need scarcely say that the
grim subject was not broached by me. In fact,
my own mind escaped from the events which had
of late so perplexed and tormented it; the
tranquillity of the scene, the bliss of Lilian's presence,
had begun to chase away even that melancholy
foreboding which had overshadowed me in the
first moments of our reunion. So we came
gradually to converse of the future—of the day,
not far distant, when we two should be as one.
We planned our bridal excursion. We would
visit the scenes endeared to her by song, to me
by childhood—the banks and waves of my native
Windermere—our one brief holiday before life
returned to labour, and hearts now so disquieted
by hope and joy settled down to the calm serenity
of home.

As we thus talked, the moon, nearly rounded
to her full, rose amidst skies without a cloud.
We paused to gaze on her solemn haunting
beauty, as where are the lovers who have not
paused to gaze? We were then on the terrace
walk, which commanded a view of the town
below. Before us was a parapet wall, low
on the garden side, but inaccessible on the
outer side, forming part of a straggling
irregular street that made one of the boundaries
dividing Abbey Hill from Low Town. The
lamps of the thoroughfares, in many a line and
row beneath us, stretched far away, obscured,
here and there, by intervening roofs and tall
church towers. The hum of the city came to
our ears, low and mellowed into a lulling sound.
It was not displeasing to be reminded that there
was a world without, as close and closer we drew
each to each—worlds to one another! Suddenly,
there carolled forth the song of a human voice—
a wild, irregular, half-savage melody—foreign,
uncomprehended words—air and words not new
to me. I recognised the voice and chant of
Margrave. I started, and uttered an angry
exclamation.

"Hush!" whispered Lilian, and I felt her
frame shiver within my encircling arm. "Hush!
listen! Yes; I have heard that voice before—
last night——"

"Last night! you were not here; you were
more than a hundred miles away."

"I heard it in a dream! Hush, hush!"

The song rose louder; impossible to describe
its effect, in the midst of the tranquil night,
chiming over the serried roof-tops, and under the
solitary moon. It was not like the artful song
of man, for it was defective in the methodical
harmony of tune; it was not like the song of
the wild bird, for it had no monotony in its
sweetness: it was wandering and various as the
sounds from an Æolian harp. But it affected
the senses to a powerful degree, as in remote
lands and in vast solitudes I have since found
the note of the mocking-bird, suddenly heard,