Page:Once a Week Jun to Dec 1864.pdf/489

 474 was a case-so Astley tried to persuade himself—so extraordinary, so different from anything that had ever been in the world before, that no law, human or divine, could apply to it. But above all the thought rose dominant, that by whatever mystery of unconsciousness deprived of memory, she was still Holt’s wife and not his, and with this thought piercing him like a sharp sword, he said that he believed she ought to leave him.

She rose up, cold and proud in a moment, and would have left him then, but at the threshold her spirit failed, and she turned again to throw herself at his feet, with tears and sobs.

Night has veiled many sights of woe, the clouds of night have many times been pierced by cries of anguish, bitter cries for faith and patience, going up above the stars right to the feet of God, but night never shrouded deeper woe than this, bitterer cries never pierced the shuddering darkness.

When morning dawned they were both very calm and still. Their tears were shed, and their eyes were dry. He had decided for the right, though his heart was broken in the conflict; and she, woman like, had accepted the right, not because it was so, but because he said it was so.

“I shall die,” she said, in a voice from which all passion had departed. “I can bear no more and live, but I can bear even this and die.”

Who can describe that parting? When the sun set, it was upon Astley broken-hearted and alone. Holt had taken away his wife. Seven days passed, and Astley never left his desolate home. He made no distinction of day or night, but lay down to sleep—if the stupor which from time to time rendered him unconscious could be so called—at any hour that sleep came to him.

At the close of the seventh day he tried for the first time to look his fate boldly in the face. “I am not dead,” he said, “therefore it is clear that this grief will not kill me.” That night he undressed and went to bed.

The night six years ago, when the sheeted figure lay upon the table, and he dreamed fantastic dreams of terror connected with it, came to mind more distinctly than it had ever done before. His sleep was broken and feverish, and haunted by wild dreams. Twice he awoke feeling certain that he had heard a knocking at the door, and twice he slept again when he found that all was silent. But he awoke a third time in the grey dawn and heard the sound again, a feeble knocking at the outer door, which ceased suddenly. He rose, determined to ascertain the cause; he unbarred and opened the door, and there fell forward across the threshold the dead body of Mary. A. M.

evening of the fifteenth of February, 183— was a gala night in Paris. “Don Giovanni” was to be performed at the opera by an assemblage of talent rarely announced for one night, even at the opera-house of Paris or in the great opera of “Don Giovanni.”

Yet it was not the names of the artistes that most attracted the attention as one read the bills—nobler and more celebrated names caught the eye. They were those of the reigning king and queen—Louis Philippe and Marie Amelie. The affiches announced that they would honour the opera with their presence on that evening. They had been but a short time restored to their native land, and this was their first appearance at the opera since the “three days” of July had placed them on the throne; for this reason as many Orleanists as could obtain tickets had secured them for the opera of the 15th February to hear “Don Giovanni” and to see their king and queen. About six o’clock (for be it remembered, the Paris opera did not begin at the present London hours) carriages were to be seen conveying their gaily-dressed occupants to the classic building. An unusually handsome equipage stood at the door of a large house in the Rue des Champs Élysées, evidently also for the purpose of taking some fashionables to the opera. This carriage and house belonged to the Baron de V, who was just then standing at the bottom of the noble staircase inside the mansion, calling playfully to his wife, telling her that the carriage was waiting.

“I’m coining, I’m coming,” was the answer to this appeal; “don’t be in such a hurry!”

As the last piece of advice was proffered the speaker appeared at the top of the stairs.

She was a dark beauty of about one and twenty, and was dressed purely in white. She came fluttering downstairs, chattering meanwhile to her handsome husband, who stood looking admiringly at her.

“Now I’m quite ready, so please don’t scold. I’ve only got my bracelets to put on, and those I want you to clasp for me. Here’s the esse, if you’ll take them out, and here’s my wrist. Now, suppose I were to lose them in the crowd, what would our good mother say?”

A smile was the only answer the baron vouchsafed, as he took the bracelets out of their case and clasped them on the fair white arm of his bride.

They were very costly, being each composed