After a Dark Night-the Sun. A novel

Front matter

AFTER A DARK NIGHT- THE SUN. 3- loiri. BY C. G. HAMILTON. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. 1Lon_on : SAMUEL TINSLEY & CO., 31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND. 1880. [All rights reserved.] NOTICE. This work had already been printed, Avhen it was found that the title of it had been anticipated. This explanation is offered of the discrepancy between the wording of the title-page and the headlines. CONTENTS OF VOL. I. CKAF. PAGE I. EXILE, 1 II. LUCIA MORENA, 8 III. THE TORCH LIGHTED, 19 IV. THE RISING STAR, 33 V. THE VOCATION, 46 VI. THE PREACHER, 57 VII. BETRAYED, 67 VIII. OUT OF THE WAY, 82 IX. THE RIVEN CHORD, 90 X. THE SHIFTING SAND 103 XI. FORSAKEN, 115 XII. ELECTIVE AFFINITY, 127 XIII. THE BROKEN VOW, 145 XIV. A DREAM OF REUNION, . . . .163 XV. THE BIRTHRIGHT, CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE XVI. RESOLVED, 198 XVII.

SEVERED, .213 XVIII. UPROOTED 229 XIX. IN VAIN, .... 248 XX. THE LAST LINKS, 261 XXI. PREVISION, 274 XXII. RESTORED, 277 XXIII. REPOSE, .... 295 XXIV. STORM-DRIVEN, . .... CHAPTEE I. EXILE. Dall' adorato oggetto ATedersi abbandonar ; saper cbe a tanti Rischi corre ad esporsi ; in sen per lui Sentirsi il cor tremante, e nel periglio Non poterlo seguir ; questo e un affanno D' ogni affanno maggior ! Questo e soffrire La pena del morir senza morire ! Metastasio. The light mist which all day had lain heavily over city and field suddenly drew up like a curtain, and the afternoon sunbeams poured a flood of glory over tower, and town, and tree. It lighted the walls and balcony of an old ivy covered House in St. John's Wood, and the flowers that clustered round its pillars Avere glorified in the beam.

One of the windows, leading to the balcony, Avhich had been closed to exclude the fog, was now opened, and an old Avoman, issuing from VOL. I. A it, began to arrange the Venetian blinds Avith apparent regard to the comfort of some one Avithin. From time to time she paused in her task and looked into the room, marking with an expression of Avatchful tenderness Avhere the welcome shadow fell. There was much in her appearance that no observer could Have passed by indifferently. Her figure, considerably above the middle Height, was spare and very erect ; her features Avere High and strongly marked ; Her iron-grey Hair, braided over a forehead full of intellect and power, was confined under a closely qudlecl muslin cap. Her eyes, deeply set and intensely black, habitually expressed a penetrating and someAvhat severe observation, but now, as often as she turned to look within the room, they gloAved Avith the softest tenderness.

Chapter II. Lucia Morena

Her tears fell with the dews at even, Her tears fell ere the dews were dried, She could not look on the sweet heaven Either at morn or eventide. She only said, ' My life is dreary, He cometh not,' she said ; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! ' Tennyson — Mariana. The mother of Lucia Morena Avas a Venetian of noble birth. She was left an orphan when scarcely past childhood, and shortly afterwards Avas removed by her guardian, the Count di Montalba, to His Castle near Naples. When she had in some measure recovered the Health and spirits, so early shattered by Her trials, the Count placed her in a neighbouring convent to com plete her education, under the care of the good Sisters. Here she passed a feAV months of innocent repose, Avhen her peace was suddenly and for ever broken.

On the occasion of a noble Neapolitan lady taking the white veil, the chapel of the convent Avas croAvded Avith spectators, both native and foreign. Among these was a young Englishman, who had arrived in Naples but a few days before. His remarkable beauty of person and fascinating manner had already attracted much attention in the Court circles to which he had brought introductions. These bespoke him to be of a noble English family, but beyond this little was known of Him, for, though courteous and affable to aU, and apparently frank in speech, he maintained an impenetrable reserve on everything that concerned himself. Upon the occasion of this celebration in the convent at Santa Clara, Mr. Orville occupied a front place amongst the spectators. The services of the day had begun, and the rich tones of the organ, accompanied by the beautiful voices of the nuns, absorbed for the time the young Englishman's rapt attention.

The music ceased. After a few moments the silence was broken by the soft fall of footsteps in the cloisters, and a band of young girls appeared, the boarders in the convent. First of these, a young Venetian of surpassing beauty riveted the gaze of Mr. Orville. The service went on, which separated a fair young girl for ever from the interests of the outer world. But Mr. Orville saw only the beautiful form of Lucia Morena, as she knelt among her com panions, heard only the rich tones of Her voice, as they fell upon his entranced ear. Though no Avords on that day were spoken between them, the young Venetian felt too deeply for her peace all that the stranger's eyes so eloquently uttered. A few days only had passed ere Mr. Orville accomplished the first object of his desire, — He obtained an introduction to the Count di Montalba.

From this time he occasionally met Lucia, in her visits to the castle of her guardian, and at the end of a few wreeks he sought her in marriage. The request Avas not pleasing to the Count. An alliance had already been arranged for Lucia amongst her own people, ancl to commit this delicate and fragile child of His adoption to the care of a stranger, to send Her to a far distant land, above aU, to intrust Her life's welfare to one in Avhom, despite the fascination that he exercised over those around Him, he could not feel con fidence, was to the Count di Montalba so impossible, that only the unhappy knowledge that Mr. Orville had won Lucia's affections prevented His placing an absolute interdict on all the stranger's future intercourse with his ward, ancl restoring her at once to the safe protection of Her convent.

As it was, he gave a conditional permission for the renewal of Mr. Orville's suit, requiring in the meantime that he should return to England, ancl bring full credentials regarding His famdy and position, accompanied by their sanction of the proposed alliance. In vain did Mr. Orville plead for an amelioration of these terms. The Count was inflexible, and Mr. Orville departed. Lucia returned to Her convent, but the light of Her youth came back no more. Gentle ancl loving as ever, she bowed to her fate with meek submission, but her feeble step and languid eye soon excited the anxiety of the venerable Abbess. She strove by every gentle and tender care to win back Her charge to health and cheerfulness, but in vain. She observed also that Lucia avoided as much as possible the duties of her religion, ancl withdrew from the society of her companions and of the nuns, ever seeking to be alone.

One evening, on retiring from vespers, the venerable mother, taking Lucia's hand, drew her with Her into Her private sitting-room. A slight flush mounted to the girl's pale cheek, and she seemed as if for the moment she Avould have withdrawn, but the instinct of obedience prevailed, and she followed the Lady Superior. " What heavy burden oppresses you," said the Reverend Mother, gently drawing the unhappy gui to her bosom — " a burden you wdl not confide to those Avhom God has appointed to comfort and guide you ? " It was in truth a burden that Lucia could no longer bear alone. The barriers were broken, the long pent-up grief gushed forth, and laying her head on the kind bosom of the Abbess, she con fessed that ere his departure she Had become in secret the wife of Mr. Orville. The tidings communicated by the good Abbess to the Count di Montalba pierced Him to the Heart — not only Avith the keenest soitoav for the fate of his adopted child, but with a pang not less bitter — the knowledge that the innocent being Avhom he Had striven to train in the paths of religion and virtue Had been led astray to share the guilt of a deceiver.

He now used every effort to trace the footsteps of him who had brought such misery to his home. Whether His unfortunate child had been married under an assumed name, or from what other cause, an impenetrable veil had fallen OA'er everything connected Avith the brief history of Lucia's love ancl sorrow, and she saAv her husband no more. The forgiveness of her guardian, his tender love, and the fond care of his venerable mother, the Countess di Montalba, shed a halo of peace over the close of Her young life ; a peace yet deeper dawned upon her soul, in the forgiveness of the God from whose path she had strayed. A few months passed ; she saw her infant clasped in the arms of the venerable Countess, she heard the promise of the Count to cherish and love her child as his own, and closing Her weary eyes on a world that had been so full of sorrow to her, she passed to eternal peace in the bosom of her God.

The Count di Montalba Had learned from the old priest, who, deceived by false representations, had performed the marriage ceremony, that all formalities which made it legal had been duly observed. The Count carefully preserved the marriage certificate, and every document that could throAv any light upon the infant Lucia's parentage. But years passed on, and no trace Avas ever obtained of Lucia's unknoAvn father. She Avas reared under her mother's name, Lucia Morena, to which the Count added his own. Lucia was about eleven years of age Avhen the storm burst in Southern Italy, Avhich spread im prisonment and torture like a flood over the smiling land, and engulfed in its dark and turbid waters the best and bravest of her sons. The noble and the patriot, the soldier and the poet, alike were swept from then' places, to be shut up in loathsome dungeons, or taken by a more merciful fate from the life that the tyrant's Hand made a burden too heavy to bear.

The Count di Montalba was one of the first to be imprisoned in the dungeons of the Castello d'Uovo. The aged Countess survived but a short time the cap tivity of her son. The property of the Count was confiscated, and his home giA-en over to the para sites of Ferdinand il, and Lucia, nearly bereft of life by grief and terror, would Have been left Avholly unprotected but for the love of the peasant Avoman Avho had nursed Her. With the devoted fidelity of an Italian heart, she almost worshipped the child whom she had reared. She took her to Her cottage near Sorrento, and there watched over her with a mother's love, Avhile she rendered to her the homage of a subject to a little Queen. She gradually succeeded by the tenderest care in winning Lucia from the utter abandonment of her sorrow ; but the fate of Her guardian, ancl the Avoes of Her native country, to which Her young heart clung Avith passionate devotion, shadowed her soul with a deep melancholy, Avhicli only found outlet and relief at the foot of the Calvary, where she spent many Hours of each day.

On one brilliant spring day, about a year after the imprisonment of the Count di Montalba, a solitary traveller arrived at Sorrento. He Avas a venerable, white-haired man. His dress told that he was a clergyman of the Church of England. His aspect spoke yet more of sorroAv than of years, and the melloAv tones of his voice, the benignant gentleness of His manner and address, seemed to express a universal sympathy. Late in the even ing He issued from His hotel, and began to ascend the mountains behind Sorrento, that he might enjoy from the high ground the glorious beauty of an Italian sunset. The day was still sultry, and He gladly availed himself of the shade afforded by the thick foliage of the ravine. Emerging from it by a path which turned to the right near the summit, his attention Avas caught and arrested by the object upon which his eyes had turned.

A little Higher up the mountain than the spot upon which he stood a Calvary was erected, standing out taU and white against the dark background of olive and chestnut trees. At the foot of it knelt a young girl, apparently not more than twelve years of age. She wore the pure white dress of a Vota aUa Bianca. Her pale fair face was partially hidden, as she bowed so low that her forehead leant upon the feet of the Sacred Image. But her long golden hair lay in rich, halfcurled masses on her shoulders, bound simply by the blue ribbon of her vow. She seemed so intensely engaged, either in prayer or contemplation, that the slight noise caused by the rustling of the branches as the old clergyman approached did not disturb her. He wTaited for some time in silence, careful neither by word nor movement to break the spell.

At last the child arose, and, turning towards him, revealed a countenance of such pure and spiritual beauty as Held him for the moment awe-struck. Recovering himself by an effort, he addressed her. The first glance had been sufficient to reveal to him that it was no peasant blood which coursed through these pure veins. As he met the earnest gaze of her soft eyes, as he clasped her small Hand in his, and, seated by her side at the foot of the Calvary, while the glorious sunbeams fell in diamond showers on the blue waves of the Bay, and Capri lay before them clothed with a robe of fire, he felt that the fan child already trusted him with that knowledge of intuition Avhich is prior to and above all reason. A month later Mr. Vane bore his adopted daughter from her native shores, to be the light and treasure of his hitherto childless home.

They arrived at His vicarage in Yorkshire towards the close of May. The home of Mr. Vane Avas shared by a widowed sister, whose heart of love at once opened to receive the desolate child into its tenderest depths. His ancient Housekeeper be came Lucia's devoted nurse. Here, cherished by the fondest love, watched over by a care that would hardly permit the Avinds of heaven to visit her fair young cheek, the tender exotic blossomed into a beautiful flower, the very light and life of Her adopted parents. Under their fostering care the happiness of her young spirit began to spring again, but the sadness VOL. i. b that had clouded the morning of Her days deep ened rather than lessened with her expanding powers. Blended with the Avell-springs of joy in her guardians' love, in the beauty of nature, whose SAveet influences filled her spirit, and the thousand interests of her daily life, there dwelt ever an abiding sense of her country's Avrongs, and the passionate yearning for the deliverance of her childhood's guardian, and her restoration to his embrace.

From Her earliest infancy Lucia had manifested the gift of song. Music was to her another, and hardly second, life. The labourer going out to his work in the early morning, the passing traveller, at noon or eAren-tide, would stop arrested on their Avay, as the full tones of her voice rose in richest melody beneath the arches of the old forest trees ; and as she poured forth Her soul in song alone, or to the charmed ears of her adopted parents, a flood of rapture would chase away Her sadness, and wake Her to the fuU light of gladness and Hope.

Chapter III. The Torch Lighted

Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs ; Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes ; Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears ; AATiat is it else ? a madness most discreet, A choking gall and a preserving sweet. Shakespeare. On a beautiful harvest evening, soon after Lucia had completed her seventeenth year, Mr. Vane and she were enjoying the sunset together from an arbour in the garden of the Vicarage. Lucia occupied Her favourite place, a low stool by the side of her adopted father. She had been singing to him the rich melodies of her native land, in Avhich he delighted, improvising as she sang an accompaniment on the guitar. She had ceased singing, and, leaning her arms on Mr. Vane's knee, Avhile his aged hand rested fondly on her golden hair, she was listening with rapt attention to the sweet spiritual thoughts and counsels Avhich often blessed those evening hours.

All Avas peace around them ; not a leaf stirred, not a sound broke the silence, save the twitter ing of the birds as they retired to roost among the trees. The perfume of flowers Hung heavy on the evening air, steeping the senses in a dreamy languor. Suddenly the sharp clear notes of a hunter's Horn broke the spell, immediately folloAved by the baying of hounds, and a troop of red-coated horsemen gleamed through the trees, and emerging, sAvept along the road at the foot of the rising ground upon which the Vicarage stood. The troop passed quickly, and were out of sight in a few moments ; but they Avere fodowed by a single rider, Avho seemed by some chance to have been distanced, and was now riding at a rapid pace to make up his lost ground. As he passed, Lucia started up with a cry of terror, but the warning came too late.

The over- Hanging branch of a tree had struck his forehead as He coursed onward with headlong speed, and brought Him to the ground. The horse con tinued his Avild career, but his rider lay bleeding ancl motionless on the ground. Mr. Vane and Lucia hastened to the spot. They were met ere they reached it by some labourers, who had seen the accident from an adjoining field. Lucia knelt on the ground and gently raised the head of the wounded man, still quite insensible. He appeared about twenty-four years of age. His features, now pale and stained with blood, Avhich had flowed from a wound in his temple, were of extreme beauty, and the smile that lingered round his half-closed lips, even while unconscious, was full of sweetness. By Mr. Vane's directions the workmen raised him in their arms, and carried him as gently as possible into the Vicarage.

Some time passed after He was laid upon a couch, ancl every remedy likely to be avadable applied by Mrs. Herbert, before he showed any signs of returning animation. At last a long, sighing breath was draAvn, the eye lids were sloAvly raised, and the gaze of deep hazel eyes turned on the countenance of Mrs. Herbert. They spoke a perfectly restored con sciousness. The medical skiU of the Vicar was of no mean order, and he had already used all simple remedies to give ease to the sufferer, before the arrival of a surgeon from the neighbouring market-town. Two of the patient's ribs were fractured, but a still more dangerous Avound was inflicted on the left temple, and the surgeon enjoined perfect quiet, to avoid the imminent danger of fever. Scarcely had the unexpected guest been carried to a bedchamber, and surrounded with every appliance for repose, when the rapid footsteps of an approaching horse were heard, and Mr. Dormer, the guest of a neighbouring proprietor, entered.

" We have been dreadfuUy anxious," He said, as he met the Vicar in the hall. " Missing our friend, who is a stranger in the neighbourhood, I turned back Avith another member of the hunt to search for him. AVe had not gone far when we were met by one of the countrymen who had assisted in conveying him into the Vicarage. He gave us tidings of this most unfortunate acci dent, and I hastened on hither, whde my friend returned to the Hall to convey the sad news." From Mr. Dormer the Vicar learned that his visitor Avas the son of Sir George Seymour, whose place, Glenravon Castle, he had heard spoken of as one of the most beautiful in South Devon. Mr. Dormer's father and Sir George were close neighbours. Mr. Seymour Had accompanied His friend to enjoy a few weeks' Hunting in the north, and they had arrived only the day before the accident took place.

It was manifestly impossible to remove Mr. Seymour to Alford Park, Avhich was some miles distant, but Mr. Dormer was anxious to see his friend, and the Vicar conducted him to his room. Mr. Seymour was awake, and the flush on his cheek and brightness in His eyes indicated that the dreaded fever had already set in. " I am sorry to see you thus, Harry," said Mr. Dormer in a low voice, laying his hand gently on his friend's throbbing brow ; " but you must keep ATery quiet, and Ave shall soon Have you all right again." " I will," replied the sufferer in an exhausted whisper, as if faintness was struggling with agitation. Mr. Dormer bent low to catch the whisper. " Let no one Avrite to my mother," he said. Freedom from emotion must be secured at all hazards ; so the required promise was given. The sufferer appeared satisfied, ancl composed Himself to rest.

When the Vicar and Mr. Dormer returned to the library, Mr. Dormer informed his host that Sir George and Lady Seymour were then in the South of Italy, whither they had gone for the recovery of Lady Seymour's health. A few weeks flew swiftly past. Henry Seymour was so far restored that no reason remained for his lingering at the Vicarage. Those Aveeks had floAvn on golden wings. The beautiful vision that he had seen for a moment on first recovering consciousness greeted his longing eyes no more whde he was confined to a sick-room ; but, a few days after he was pronounced out of danger, the Vicar yielded to his earnest entreaties that he might be permitted to join the family circle in the drawing-room. From that evening he became a member of the charmed circle. The weather, though the autumn Avas noAv far advanced, remained warm and bright.

Seymour's couch was soon removed from the drawing-room to the lawn, and here many hours of each day were spent, sometimes in conversation with the good Vicar and Mrs. Herbert, the kind and gentle nurse, Avhose care Had mainly con tributed to his recovery, while his eyes would follow each movement of Lucia, as she pursued Her occupations beside them, or passed to and fro on errands of ministration. And in the evenings, when all work of the day was over, Avhen nature itself Avas wrapped in repose, then the little group would linger, while the sun Avent down in glory behind the western hills, and the moon, sading along through the blue depths of the sky, cast over the tranquil scene a mantle of silver light, — then conversation woulcl sink into silence, till the full music of Lucia's voice broke in waves of melody upon the silent night, and wrapt the soul and senses of Seymour in elysium.

Those blissful days were ended now. Early on the following morning Seymour would leave the home that Had been truly to him an ark of peace, a scene of enchantment, surpassing his brightest day-dreams. A cloud had hung all day over the spirits of the little party. Scarcely for an Hour had they been separate, jealous of the winged moments that brought nearer the dreaded parting. Towards evening the Vicar was summoned to visit a sick parishioner at some distance. He had not been long gone when a messenger returned from Him to ask some luxuries for the sick woman, which Mrs. Herbert was obliged to go and prepare. Lucia had been singing, but she ceased as her aunt left them, and Seymour did not ask her to resume her song. The sun Had just set, and the after glow yet lingered, rich and warm, in the western sky.

Even the tAvitter of the birds, as they sought their nests among the branches, Avas hushed, and no sound broke the silence that reigned, save the song of the labourer on His homeward way, as it rose and fell on the calm night air, or the occasional baying of a stag in the neighbouring woods. The silence of all around was unbroken for some time by Seymour or Lucia. He was reclining on his couch, she was seated on a low chair by his side. " Lucia," He said at last. She raised her eyes in quiet response, and met a gaze that spoke more than words could utter. Again there was sdence between them, but Seymour had taken her Hand and held it in a clasp, close and tender as if he woulcl never let her go from His side. "Lucia," he repeated at length, "I cannot leave you." She looked up ; there was love, deep, intense, in her quiet eyes, but their gaze was very calm, — a calm that troubled Seymour, and stirred up all the turbid waters of His soul.

His cheek flushed and paled again, his hand trembled. " You do not love me, Lucia," he said, almost impatiently ; " if you cared for me, even a little, you could not part from me so coldly." She turned on him one quick glance of reproach ; her lips quivered. " There is no parting to those who love," she said. " You may go far aAvay, my friend, but Ave shall be united stdl in spirit ; " — she added in a lower tone, " in thought, in prayer." "Friend?" repeated Henry; "is it friendship only that you can give me, Lucia ?" He raised himself on the couch, and, still retaining her hand, looked earnestly in the pure pale face. For the first time it was troubled, and a faint colour tinged Her cheek. " There is no deeper love," she answered in a low and trembling voice ; " it is the union of the soul."

" I must Have more," he answered quickly ; " I cannot leave you thus. Promise, Lucia, that you wid be my Avife." "No, 0 no!" she said quickly, "I cannot; I will never leave him who has been more than father to me, unless — " "Unless what ?" said Seymour impetuously. "Untd my native home claims me," she an swered. A cloud that had darkened Seymour's brow as she spoke passed, but only to return again more darkly than before. Agitating ancl perplex ing thoughts seemed to chase each other in rapid succession through his mind, and that beautiful countenance, which until now had ever borne for Lucia the brightness of a summer day, became suddenly transformed into the stormy and agitated gloom of a winter night. Lucia gazed on his face AAdth a startled, almost awe-stricken expression. Suddenly he rose from his couch, and by a quick impetuous movement, before she Had time to prevent Him, he drew her to his breast.

" I aviU return, Lucia," he said. " A few short weeks, or months at the furthest, will see me Here again, and you must, you must promise me that nothing shad then divide us. — But why Avait ? " he continued, in a yet more eager and excited tone ; " why trust our fate to a distant and uncertain future ? This is Friday ; I will remain here OA'er Sunday. Our banns may be proclaimed. Then the Vicar can unite us before I go, and if I must leave you, it wdl at least be with the knowledge that you are mine, beyond the poAver of anything on earth to sever us." Lucia by this time had freed herself from his embrace, and stood a feAV paces distant. The flush that for a moment coloured her pale cheek Had passed, leaving it paler than before. Her lips trembled no longer, the gaze was calm, almost proud, that met Seymour's ardent imploring.

" You must not speak to me thus," she said ; "let us return ; see, my aunt comes to meet us." As Lucia spoke Mrs. Herbert issued from the gate of the flower-garden beneath the drawing room Avindows ; but, as she was still at some distance, Seymour continued speaking in an eager though repressed tone — " I cannot, I cannot part thus from you, Lucia ! Permit me at least to ask Mr. Vane's consent." The look that answered him was full of tender ness, but it was the compassion of a pitying spirit that breathed from it ; and if the fire of mortal love mingled its glow Seymour did not read it there. Without Lucia's permission Mr. Seymour sought his venerable host before retiring for the night ; but the sanguine hopes that he ventured to entertain were utterly disappointed. Mr. Vane Avas too kind and gentle to resent as an insult the infatuated proposal which Avas urged with such passionate appeal ; but the tone of the kind and gentle, yet decided, refusal of Henry Seymour's request was such as to make him feel that the proposal was degrading to the woman he loved, and to inspire him with remorse that he had even for a moment thought of Her stealing unknown into a famdy of strangers.