Emily Howard: a novel

Chapter I

" I love the dead ! And well forget their little ill, Eager to bask my memory still In all their best of words and deeds, and ways and will. " I love the dead ! And fondly doth my fancy paint Each dear one wash'd from earthly taint, By patience and by hope made a most gentle saint." TUPPER. A fair child of eleven years of age was reclining on a sofa one evening near an open window, in a large house in Lisbon. The apartment was spacious and handsomely furnished, the floor covered with fine matting; and the white curtains were of embroidered India muslin, whilst a large India screen, and various VOL. I. B rich cabinets and rare paintings, combined with the most inviting chairs and sofas, and the most convenient tables a Parisian upholsterer could supply, to give an air of luxury and re finement to an apartment evidently used by the family as a daily sitting-room.

The window we have named opened into a very large verandah, beneath which lay a flower garden, and commanded a fine view of the Tagus and the opposite shore. It was a bright and balmy evening, very early in June, and the setting sun made the river look like a crimson flood ; whilst the numerous boats, whose sails caught a shade of the roseate hue, and were scarcely filled by the declining breeze, floated gracefully over the calm water, yet so slowly, that it seemed as if their crews were loath to reach the landing-place, and leave that element of beauty for the dust and noise of a crowded quay. There was some thing that spoke of holiness and truth in that vesper hour, and touched the heart of many a rough sailor, as he plied his oar or managed his sail, and felt his nature hushed within him by a spell he did not attempt to define.

Sounds, too, there were of melody, as occa- ■> sionally a large fishing-boat passed down the river ; and the fine fellows that manned her raised their voices in some national chorus, breathing forth the hopefulness of spirit with which they left their homes ; whilst more faintly there came wafted on the ear the musical tones with which the more adventurous seaman raised the anchor of his vessel, bound for a distant port ; mingling with the rattle of the heavy chain — that peculiar combination of sounds, which, to all who have lived near a sea-port, or who have from necessity passed years of exile from their native land, suggests such sadden ing thoughts of partings and of danger, and yet has something in its monotony that soothes the heart and tempts the soul into idle dreams. From the garden beneath the window, there rose delicious perfumes, and everything in that home, in the hour, the scene, the harmonious sounds, spoke of refinement, beauty, and peace.

But the child whose sofa had been moved near the window that she might look out on the noble river and enjoy the evening breeze, was clothed in the deepest mourning ; and her fair face bore traces of illness and of a pensiveness rarely seen in one so young. On a table by b her side lay books suited to her age, and work and flowers, and various little elegant toys that had been bought for her amusement ; but the child had " sighed amongst its playthings," and at length, putting them all aside, had sunk back wearied on her pillows, and lay now silent and motionless, her eye dreamily following the passing boats, and her slender hands crossed on her bosom, in one of those attitudes of per fect grace, children unconsciously assume. In the verandah there stood a lady and gentleman also in deep mourning — the former wore the dress of a widow, and although her features were calm, her eye was sorrowful and anxious, and had in it that expression which tells of a long concealed regret.

She looked considerably more than forty years of age, but her face possessed the remains of much beauty, and her tall form had still so much that was youthful and attractive in its grace and slight ness, that it appeared as if the countenance had prematurely gained through mental suffering its deep lines and faded colour. Her companion was a young and very handsome man, apparently about two-and-twenty ; his features were of a rare beauty, and his lofty forehead and calm hazel eyes, gave the impression of truth fulness and dignity of character. His figure was cast in proportions that combined strength and elegance ; his hair was of that dark glossy brown so often mistaken for black, and the clear paleness of his complexion, with his whole appearance, dress, and air, proclaimed him an Englishman.

These two persons were leaning against the balustrade of the verandah, the blinds of which were all thrown open, sufficiently removed from the Uttle girl within the room as to be able to converse in low tones without her catching their words, and yet so placed that they could watch her countenance and anticipate her wants. " My dear Arthur," said Mrs. Howard, when she had seen her child close her newest story book, and He down wearied and without a smile, though she caught her mother's eye, " I cannot tell you how uneasy I feel at Emily's state ; could you believe that that pale thin face is the same that used to delight us with its bright smiles, and was so radiant with the health and beauty of childhood ?" " But the doctor assures you there is no cause for alarm, and that change of air and scene will quite set her up again," answered Arthur Cour tenay.

" You know she has an excellent con stitution, and it is wonderful how rapidly children rally after the most severe illnesses." " They say the nights and mornings are still very cold at Cintra," said Mrs. Howard ; " yet one can hardly fancy it, this has been such a perfect summer's day — indeed, we have had summer here since early in April. But I do feel so thankful, dear Arthur, that you received that letter in time to leave England by this packet. I do not think I could have taken Emily to Cintra in its present deserted state, with no companion but myself — her nervous system has had too severe a shock ; but now, with you to enliven her, we can go the earliest day the doctor gives us leave." " How shall I ever forgive myself," said the young man, with much emotion, " for not having been here months ago ?

Had I been with you, I might have prevented much of the fatigue and excitement which has so affected Emily's health. I might have watched over her, whilst your attention was absorbed at her father's sick bed ; and, alas ! I was only amusing myself when those dearest to me were in sorrow." " You cannot reproach yourself for that," said Mrs. Howard kindly. "You could not guess how much we needed you ; and you came to us the moment you did know it." " I did not know how much I was needed" replied Courtenay, with a still deeper tone of sadness ; " but I cannot forget that my dear guardian, my second father, wrote to me many months ago urging my coming to see him, to discuss with him the plan for my future life ; nay, it was even a year ago that he first wrote so strongly : — it was for my advantage he took so much trouble, and was so kindly con cerned, and for my own pleasure I neglected his wishes and advice.

Never before had I been so long absent from this dear home, and how ungrateful must I have appeared to him to make such a use of my emancipation from guardianship. Month after month I intended to return here — Heaven knows what infatuation kept me in England, and now, God forgive me, he is gone, and I can never please him more — never more show him my sense of all his kind ness, never again profit by his wisdom and his experience." His features were agitated as he ceased to speak — with the abrupt pause of one who fears his voice will fail him, turning at the same time towards the river and bending over the balcony as if to admire the garden beneath. Mrs. Howard sighed as she looked at him ; she felt that he was right — that he must re proach himself, that he had indeed meant no unkindness, but that in the unfortunate delay to which he alluded, he had given only another proof of that indecision of character which her husband had often said was Arthur Courtenay's only fault ; and dearly as she loved the warm hearted ward who had been to her as a beloved son, she too greatly dreaded the effect of this fault on his future life to say a word that could seem to treat it lightly ; it pained her tender nature to see him suffer, and yet had he not suffered, she must have loved him less.

After a silence of a few seconds she laid her hand gently on his arm, and said : " There are few of us, I fear, who can think of any one over whom the grave has closed, and with whom we have lived in close intercourse, without some feeling of self-reproach, there seem then so many things we might have done, and so manv faults for which we might have shown more indulgence." Here Mrs. Howard paused a moment, and then in a voice that faltered considerably she continued — " It may be that our own short-comings appear to us for the first time in their true light, and we see the many ways in which we might have shown our love." " But you can never have felt this," ex claimed Courtenay, raising his head, " you, whose whole life is devoted to the happiness and comfort of others." Mrs. Howard shook her head, and her eyes filled with tears as she cast a look towards the sky and then at the sinking sun that now only peeped " like a star o'er ocean's western edge."

" When we think of the unseen world to which the spirit of man departs," she said in a tone of deep humility, " and of the condition of that soul which has been pardoned through faith in our Divine Redeemer, our best actions appear full of imperfection, and our hearts may well reproach us when we remember the dead, enfranchised now from every fault and gone far beyond the reach of our love or our repentance. That bright sun which is now hid from us will come again to-morrow, but the dead cannot return." She spoke with an accent of such deep de spondency, that Courtenay looked at her with unusual interest, and then said : " If you feel thus, you cannot wonder that I reproach myself so severely for my selfish neglect of all but my amusement during the last year." " I do not wonder at it, my dear Arthur ; it would be unlike you to feel it less acutely ; yet do not let us rest satisfied with our self reproaches, but rather profit by them.

Another day, I will tell you much that my husband said of you, and of his plans for you, during those months when he still hoped to see you, and to converse with you. Meanwhile, be comforted by this assurance, that he never doubted your affection. We both missed you, because you have so long been to us as an only son ; but he always said, ' It is so natural he should enjoy his present life in England,' and made every allowance for you. Let us now go to Emily — it is nearly her time for going to bed." As they re-entered the room by the window near which she lay, the little girl raised her eyes with a confiding look to their faces, and her lips parted with a smile as she held out her hands to both. In a moment Courtenay was kneeling beside her and her arms were round his neck, whilst he called her by every endearing name which he had lavished on her from the hour he first held her on his lap a little helpless baby — " his angel, his pearl, his rose bud, his darling sister;" and Mrs. Howard seated herself at one end of the sofa, and watched the two with a smile full of love and sadness.

" It is turned into a white rosebud after all," said Courtenay, as he still caressed the child; <: but summer breezes will restore the blush, and Cintra dews will revive my faded flower." " Now that you are come, Arthur," said the little girl, " I long to go to Cintra, for you will dress my garden for me, and go out with me when I ride. I wish you would never go away again. Will you always stay with us now, Arthur?" The pretty lips were pressed to his forehead, but he had not had time for a reply, when the door opened, and a young lady about six-and twenty, evidently Portuguese, holding by the hand a girl about the age of the little Emily. entered, and with a smile advanced to the sofa of the invalid. " I had almost feared," she said, as she and her young companion stooped to kiss Emily, " that I should not be able to keep my promise and come to say ' good night,' we had so many visitors after dinner ; but to make up for my late appearance, I have brought Sophia to see you also.

Madame de Vasconcellos left her with me, that she might pay this little visit to her friend." " And I have brought you something here, dear Emily," said the beautiful little daughter of one of the most ancient houses in Lisbon, " which Margarida says they will not allow you to eat ; but I thought you would like the per fume as I do — and did you not say yours were not ready yet?" she added, as she uncovered a basket she had laid down on her entrance, and showed a splendid pine-apple round which were placed some fine blossoms of the passion-flower. " Oh ! thank you," said Emily, stretching out her hand and raising one of the flowers. " I believe we have had no pine-apples, but you have brought me those dear flowers which I prefer to any fruit. Arthur," she said, gently shaking the arm of the young man who had stood up on the entrance of Madame de Macedo, the Margarida referred to by Sophia de Vascon cellos, and was now conversing with her and Mrs. Howard ; " Arthur, 1 want you to hear such a pretty story which Margarida knows of a lady and a passion-flower.

She had fallen asleep one hot summer-day as she lay on a sofa saying her rosary, and she dreamt that she saw her lover, he held in his hand a passion-flower, but he looked very sad, and — oh, Margarida, do you tell it," exclaimed the little girl, her pale face flushing with a sudden fit of shyness as she lay back on her pillow. " Nay, darling, finish it yourself," said Madame de Macedo, smiling ; " you are getting on very nicely." " Come," said Courtenay, " I long to hear what the lover said." " Ah, he told her," said Emily, raising her self again, " that he should never see her again until she followed him to a land where there was no more sorrow, and no more death, and as he spoke he looked sadly at the flower. Then she wept and held out her arms towards him, but he said she must not touch him ; only in order that no one might persuade her he had not come to say farewell, he would leave her a sign by which she might feel sure of it."

" But that is not all," exclaimed Courtenay, as the child paused. " How well you remember every word ; you tell it like a book. Come, what was the sign ?" " He disappeared," continued Emily gravely and slowly, " when he had said these words, and she awoke, feeling some one touch her hand. There was no one in the room, but her rosary was no longer in her hand — it was gone, and in its place there was the passion-flower which she had seen in her lover's hand — and next day there came news of his death far away at Rio Janeiro." " What a beautiful story," said Courtenay with a smile ; " and do you believe it, Emily ?" " Believe it !" exclaimed Margarida and Sophia. " Of course she does — it is quite true. My mother," continued Madame de Macedo, " saw the passion-flower, it never faded, and never needed even water to preserve it.

The young lady was my father's niece, and when she died, a year after her decease the flower was placed in her coffin at her own earnest request." " And did a miraculous odour exhale from it ?" asked Courtenay with a smile of incre dulity, " and were miracles worked at the lady's tomb ?" " Ah, you are as unbelieving as ever, I see," said Madame de Macedo reproachfully. " I wonder what you Englishmen would say to Moses and Aaron if it pleased God to send them again nn earth." " Forgive me," said Courtenay earnestly ; " at all events, if I share the incredulity of my coun trymen, I do full justice to the beauty of your legend, and I perceive you will teach my little rosebud here to have as much faith as yourself in these interesting stories ; perhaps she may one day rival even your powers of narration ;" and seating himself beside Emily, who had lain down wearied with her exertion, he looked at her with much interest, and gently placed his finger on her wrist.

" But tell him," said Sophia timidly, " why the lover left a passion-flower to console the lady ; perhaps he does not know its meaning, or what it reminds us of." " Yes," said Courtenay gravely, yet looking kindly at the blushing, earnest little face that turned towards him with an expression of dis appointment. " Yes, I do know that the pas sion-flower bears some marks that resemble the instruments of that death which conquered the grave, and therefore reminds us of a sorrow sur passing all human grief. But all this is too interesting and too exciting for this darling child," he added, appealing to Mrs. Howard. " Shall I ring for Josefa, and carry off my bird to its nest ?" " Do so, my dear Arthur," said Mrs. Howard, who had been sitting silent, and feeling anxious for some time lest this visit might cost her child a restless night.

Josefa, a faithful Portuguese bonne, obeyed the summons ; and whilst she collected the various belongings of her young charge that lay scattered on the sofa and table, Courtenay raised the tired child in his arms, and holding her for a moment like an infant to be kissed by her mother and her friends, he carried her off to her sleeping apartment. " Tell Sefa to bring my flowers, Arthur," whispered Emily, as he laid her carefully on a couch, and gave her a parting kiss. " What will that child be when she is a woman?" thought Arthur as he left her to return to the drawing-room, and half unconsciously he repeated to himself the lines : " A sensitive plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew ; And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light, And closed them beneath the kisses of night." VOL. I. C

Chapter II

" In dreams, in study, and in ardent thought, Thus was she reared." WORDSWORTH. "He is complete in feature and in mind, With all good grace to grace a gentleman." SHAKESPEARE Emily Howard was the only remaining child of her widowed mother ; and her father, one of the British residents in Lisbon, had died of a sudden and very rapid illness a month before the period when our story opens. From the hour of her birth she had been to that father an object almost of idolatry, and the passionate sorrow his death had caused her, acting on a highly sensitive frame, added to her having unnoticed passed two nights in his sick room, had brought on the severe attack of fever from which she was now only slowly recovering. Mr. Howard had not been a very considerate husband, although he possessed many noble qualities and a warm heart; but during the latter years of his life the natural reserve of his character had increased to such a degree, that his gentle wife learnt at last to tremble at a gloom which neither her charms, nor her love, nor all the blessings of their luxurious home could dispel.

It seemed to her as if something invisible had arisen between them, and her spirits sank under a trial of which she could hardly define the nature. Heavy sorrows also visited her — three fine boys were laid in the grave in the course of eighteen months, and for two years the house of the Howards was a childless one. During this period of affliction Mr. Howard had often looked with compassion on the bereaved mother ; but with him depression only produced a silence that was almost stern, and it was not until the little Emily was placed in his arms, that a smile of heartfelt pleasure again beamed on his countenance, whilst all the love that had been divided c amongst his sons, seemed gradually concentrated on the beautiful little girl who very early learnt that nothing delighted her father more than to have her head nestling on his bosom.

The daughter thus sent, as it seemed, to con sole both parents for their previous bereave ments, became through a strange fatality, a source of additional trial to Mrs. Howard, in consequence of the almost selfish manner in which her husband appropriated the child, as if bent on making himself the exclusive object of her affection, without consideration for the mother who had mourned so bitterly over the graves of her beautiful boys, and who only asked to share according to her right, the father's in fluence with their now onlv child. Mr. Howard's idolatrous affection for the little girl increased to a sort of mania as she advanced in years, and the grave man unbent from his usual seriousness to become her play fellow as well as her tutor. She passed many hours daily in his library, and at Cintra, a little plot of ground was laid out as her garden in front of this room, where, without leaving her father's sight, she could indulge her taste for early flowers, and amuse herself in weeding and digging when the weather was not too hot for such an exertion ; but the greatest pleasure the child had connected with this room, was the low seat and table her father had placed for her in the deep window, where she would sit for hours, studying the large volume of prints he had collected, and forming for herself long day dreams, suggested by the various subjects, and the many stories he related to her in connection with them.

She was an intelligent child, with an aptitude in learning that rendered her a pleasant scholar, and a quick perception of all beauty, moral and material, that made her an interesting com panion to a father so fond and so intellectual as Mr. Howard. He became ingenious in devising new sources of pleasure for her, and often forgot the book or letter he had placed before him, in order to gaze on her graceful form or speaking face, whilst he pictured to himself what she would be when grown to womanhood. His daughter ! there was such a charm in the very word — his boys had been taken, and deeply had he son-owed for them ; but his daughter would more than supply their loss, for she should never leave him, even if she married, his home should still be hers ; and she should so learn to cling to him, should be so bound to him by every tie of filial respect and affection, that not even a husband should have the power to break that double bond.

Such were his dreams — vain and selfish as day-dreams too often are, leading men to waste precious hours that might be given to the duties of the present, in contemplating a future, that is ever receding before them. When it was too late to make reparation, Mr. Howard felt, with bitter contrition, how selfishly he had acted towards his wife, and how little he had done to supply to her the companionship and love her confiding, affectionate nature required. He had even occasionally displayed a feeling of jealous displeasure when she asserted a claim to her child's society and affection, so fearful was he of not being that child's first object; and Mrs. Howard, who looked with alarm on the dangerous system of indulgence pursued with a creature as sensitive and excitable as she was attractive, often anticipated, with a sad and apprehensive heart, the time when her duty as a mother would call on her to brave her husband's anger, in order to check what was so full of peril to her daughter's happiness.

But her disquietude proved as vain as her husband's dreams. Mr. Howard died before Emily's character suffered materially from the self-indulging habits of irregularity he was fos tering for his own gratification. His illness was sudden and rapid ; and bitter was the self reproach that seized on his mind, when he felt death approaching. Unable to converse at any length, it was only then by broken sentences, and his looks of deep distress, that he expressed his repentance of the fault that had made his wife's latter years so joyless, and it was with an eager ness, the remembrance of which made her heart ache for many a long day, that he entreated her to forgive him. The child who had been the cause of jealousy between them, seemed now only second in his thoughts; and when she hung over him in tears, calling him by all her accus tomed names of childish endearment, he would gasp out at intervals: "Emily, my darling, love your mother — be good and dutiful to her."

When Mrs. Howard had closed her husband's eyes, and thrown herself exhausted on a sofa in her darkened dressing-room, the recollection of the many times her spirit had rebelled against him excited a feeling of remorse, and her thoughts flew back to those early days of their union, when no clouds had obscured her happiness ; but she had long since learnt in every sorrow to seek relief in prayer, and Heaven sent her, ere many hours had elapsed, an unlooked for motive for exertion, which forced all her thoughts and feelings into a new channel. Her child was taken ill, and for several days a severe fever caused considerable anxiety on her account, and kept her mother constantly by her bed-side. Her sorrow for the loss of her father was so intense, as to cause surprise in all who witnessed such strong emotion in one so young; and even after her fever was subdued, her spirits continued depressed to an unnatural degree, causing a new pang to the heart of her mother, who began to fear she never could fill the place of the father so deeply mourned.

It seemed as if he who had tried so unjustly to engross all her affections, had not only de frauded her of her rights during his life, but had carried away with him to the grave all that might have afforded her consolation ; and Mrs. Howard longed in her turn to be the chief object of her child's love, with a craving that made her forget, in her plans for achieving this, the danger she had already dreaded, of bringing her up in an ideal world of beauty, unconscious that a check must be put, even on the purest tastes. Arthur Courtenay, whom we have already introduced to our readers, had been an orphan since the age of seven, and left by his father to the guardianship of Mr. Howard, his dearest friend, in whose house the boy found a home, that supplied to him all the advantages and pleasures he had lost in his own, and in Mr. and Mrs. Howard two friends, whose kindness never allowed him to feel the real heaviness of his bereavement.

He repaid them for their care with the love and respect of a son, and to Mrs. Howard his thoughtful tenderness was often a great solace, pouring balm into her wounded spirit, when he was himself not aware how much she was suffering ; and when she lost her eldest boy, who was two years younger than Arthur, the latter became inexpressibly dear to her, from the passionate sorrow he seemed to feel at the loss of his companion, Mr. Howard's affection for his ward was also very great. He was the son of his dearest friend, who had been his beloved and chosen companion in youth, and who had saved his life at the risk of his own ; but the boy soon won for himself a degree of love and respect from his guardian, that increased as he advanced to man hood ; and Mr. Howard found in each succeed ing year, when he returned from England for his summer holidays,, that the son was likely to become as attractive and as gifted as his father had been.