By a passing thought may be burst in twain, And we cannot unite the thread again. There are sounds that charm-there are sights that win,- A. M. W. THE DESERTER. On a wild and uncultivated spot in the Netherlands, stood a miserable and dilapidated tenement. It was the depth of winter, and there was nothing around it that looked like cultivation, unless the clearing away of a few trees, their black stumps still remaining, might be termed so; the snow lay in heavy masses on the roof, and the scraggy fir-trees bent beneath its weight. All was desolate, and except a small foot-path round the house and the smoke from a chimney, it might have been viewed as a building that even poverty itself thought untenantable. Yet within this miserable exterior was one room that bore every mark of comfort. It contained a neat bed, bureau, and carpet; a cheerful fire blazed on the large open hearth, near which was seated in an arm chair, a pale, emaciated woman, apparently in the last stage of a decline, and beside her on a low cricket a young girl, who sat anxiously watching her countenance, and attending to every want. As the wind howled against the little glass window, the only one that the house had ever contained, the woman looked out and said in a low voice, "My poor Philip !" "I wish," said the girl, "caressingly," he could look in upon us, and see how comfortable-and how happy we are" added she, after a pause. "Happy" repeated the woman, "yes I am happy; what mother could be otherwise with such a son! but can I forget that these comforts are purchased at the risk of his life ?" "My dear mother," said Bertha, "you know Philip always said he would be a soldier, and there never was a better time than now to fight, when every body says our cause is a just one, and then when he comes back so brave and beautiful, confess, mother, shall you not be proud of him?” A glance at her mother's countenance struck dismay to her heart; it said, I never shall see that time! She did indeed droop daily; the filial affection of the son had induced him to enlist as a soldier that he might provide his widowed and sick mother with the comforts of life; but his plan had been as imperfect as the short-sighted plans of mortals often are; the very method he had taken to prolong her life was fast undermining it; her nights were restless and her sleep unrefreshing; the horrors of war were always present to her mind, every new fall of snow seemed to her like the winding sheet of her son, and she regularly awoke towards morning with a cold dew upon her forehead. An old and faithful domestic who had long resided with them, with the sagacity of nature rather than art, perceived her life was drawing to a close; little skilled in sensitive reserve, he expressed his opinion to the mother and daughter without disguise, and it was received with calmness by the one, but with the deepest anguish by the other. A few days passed by, and even Bertha became convinced, that if Philip did not return immediately, it would be too late. Impelled by this thought, she hastily wrote him word that his mother's life was fast drawing to a close, and conjured him at all events to hasten home." If you come immediately." added she, "you may see her, delay but one hour, and that hour may be her last!" Bertha waited with inexpressible anxiety after she had dispatched her letter for the arrival of her brother. It was on the eve of the second night that he reached their lonely dwelling. The sound of his approach had struck upon the ear of Bertha, she hastened to meet him and conduct him to his mother, who received him with joyful surprise, and as she folded him to her bosom felt that life had still its value. That night Bertha slept quietly by the side of her mother and Philip took her place as nurse. Bertier, the father, was an Englishman; he had been driven by misconduct and misfortune to a foreign country, and with his wife and two small children lived on the scanty pittance he had saved from the wreck of his fortune. In the wild spot he had chosen they excited but little observation. Madame Bertier was still in the first bloom of intellect and vigour; she was wholly ignorant that misconduct had any part in the exile of her husband, and she often unconsciously tortured him by her consolations. "My dear Bertier," she would say when she saw him contending with the bitterness of his thoughts, "there is no calamity that cannot be borne but remorse; you have yet youth and the resources of your own mind; it is unworthy of you to sink under pecuniary misfortunes. Look at me, they have not withered my form or filled my heart with dismay; my spirit is still free to drink at the living fountain of life and joy.' But Madame Bertier's burden was light compared to that of her husband. His mind was unable to contend with the misery he had brought on himself, and he shrunk from personal hardships. He who had slept on beds of down, who had seen the star of knighthood glittering around him, was now an exiled wanderer! The thought was bitterness, and after a few years of gloomy and morose feeling he sunk a victim to consuming re morse. Madame Bertier wept for her husband till hope and comfort. crept in, in spite of herself. The exercise of dnty and maternal tenderness invigorated her mind, she devoted herself to the instruction of her children, and though her situation afforded no mechanical aids for education, she contrived to press into her service every object around her, and every resource of her own intellect to enrich their minds and ennoble their hearts. The result was what might be expected: Philip and Bertha inhabited an ideal world, they formed romantic conceptions of their own capacities, and Philip panted for an opportunity of signalizing a spirit which he believed was unconquerable. It was not till the hand of poverty pressed heavily on them, that Philip began to realize he had something to do, besides hanging over his mother and sister with a sort of idolatry. But he had no profession, no money, and no patronage-the army was his only resource and without consulting his mother he enlisted as a soldier; his bounty and pay had already secured to her a comfortable apartment, when he received his sister's letter. It would be difficult to describe the agony of their meetingMadame Bertier yet loved life, her heart still poured forth its tributary streams on all around her, and when she gazed on the manly form and finely marked features of her son, and recollected that for her sake he had enlisted as a soldier and was enduring hardship, and suffering; when she felt his powerful arm now raising her languid form, now supporting her against his broad chest, and now with the tenderness of a woman smoothing her pillow, perhaps too much of Bertha's pride mingled with her gratitude. For three days he devoted himself to his mother, listened to her dying precepts, and when she was unable to lie down, supported her in his arms. On the third night, when Bertha's faint breathing proved that she was asleep, Madame Bertier said, in low whispers to her son, "My dear Philip, I must acquit myself of a painful duty before I die, and I feel that my hours are numbered. Since your departure, I have found a letter that I ought sooner to have discovered. Prepare yourself, my child, to read it; God save you from misfortunes that bring temptations with them, sometimes too mighty for feeble man to resist; yet if they must come, hold fast your integrity. My child, my child, remember the anguish you have seen your father endure; it was not regret for the luxuries of life to which he had been accustomed, it was remorse. This paper contains the breathings of a wounded spirit. Read it." Madame Bertier laid her head back upon the pillow, and meekly folded her hands. Philip took the lamp from the hearth and seated himself opposite to his mother. There was something deeply impressive in the scene. Bertha still lay in serene and healthful slumber; she had made over all the responsibility to her brother, and, exhausted by daily cares, her repose was deep and unbroken. Philip looked at his mother; her eyes were closed, her lips moved; in his hand he held the last testimony of his father, it was as if one came from the dead and spoke; thoughts of himself, bitter thoughts mingled with his emotions, and he prayed God to enable him to bear calamities too mighty for human strength. At length slowly unfolding the paper he read these words: "To ADELAIDE BERTIER, "You have supported misfortune with heroism, you have felt indignant that I sunk under it, but now comes your task, and yet it cannot be equal to mine, for you are the injured. Adelaide, when you married me I was a ruined man in fortune, that you knew, but you did not know that I fled from my country to avoid an ignominious exposure. My son may at some future day claim my patrimony. By flight I have saved my name from disgrace, that at least may be transmitted without reproach. I cannot enter into details, they are too painful. One dying injunction I leave to Philip, that he is never to apply to my family under any embarrassment of circumstances or character-but if he should win himself honors and a name, then let him claim the patrimony of his father." Documents were enclosed in the letter directing him how to substantiate and prove his claims. Philip leaned his head on his folded arms, and felt that the proud cold letter of his father was consistent with the spirit he had evinced. But another source of intense agony connected with himself, pressed upon his mind. The voice of his mother roused him-he knelt by her bedside, but words, if he had any, died upon his lips, he was cold and motionless, and his high and noble forehead, yet unsunned and unmarked by care, was pale and bloodless. "Speak to me, my son," said she, "tell me the time will come, when you may realize your father's injunctions-when with Bertha in your hand you may present yourself as the descendant of a noble house. My boy you have begun the race of honor-press on, and never let it be said that your mother in the indulgence of womanish weakness made you effeminate." Her strength failed-Philip awoke Bertha, she sprang from the bed, and received her mother's parting blessing, though her eyes had closed. For one long hour the brother and sister watched by the bed-side, in the deep and solitary stillness of the night. The old domestic was called-he too sat gazing upon his mistress. Who has not witnessed in this world of death the last struggles between the soul and body? The long drawn breath, then the still frightful pause, and then another-but the last came, and after the final conflict, she lay as if in peaceful slumber! A few moments were given to deep and awful contemplation, then Philip suddenly arose. "Thank God," said he, "she is spared from heavier calamity than she has yet endured-Bertha, I must begone." 66 Begone!" exclaimed his sister, "why or wherefore? you cannot mean so." He groaned aloud, he wrung his hands in agony, and striking his forehead, said "it is for your sake I sake I go." She "And what will become of me?" she exclaimed. "Heaven only knows-if I stay, misery is certain." Then approaching the bed on which the body lay, he gave a long look, and folding Bertha in his arms, rushed from the house. heard not his retreating steps, for she lay insensible across the bed of death. When she roused herself, several men stood gazing upon the scene; it was life and death, youth and decay, blending before their time. "Where is Philip Bertier ?" said one of the men, we are in pursuit of him." "You cannot find him" replied Bertha wildly," he has left me.' |