FREI
El
(rttit.
NY COUSIN WILLIAM.
A SISIPLE TALE
I WAs - as sure as one human heart could
')e of another that my cOusinlta'm loved
Not that we ever spoke of Such a thing,
eiug mere:k 7 hildren—l. seventeen, he nigh
t oer. 6 - , lceeping June helydays at our grand
tother's-house. It was an understood thing
•i Our family that no cousins were allowed
frill iii love or Marry, so our ,fbndness was
course mere brother-and-sister liking. I
':ought it so till ono evening, coining. home
)m the rectory, my grandmother and the
.tor being a long, way. behind, we stood
)king up at Orion,"qud there, in: the star
ht, under the yew-hedge, William kissed
Williath kissed p . m.'. I smile•as I write it
w--but then, thOugh I said not a word, nor
either, when I parted from him and'went
to my own room, I lay awake half the
;ht weeping. Of course we 'could never
rtiirried—in fact, the notion of marriage
areely crossed my thoughts; but William
cd me—William had kissed me.
/ We had only been at The Ivies three weeks
the t•.ro families of which he and I were
lest children—yet for • a fortnight I had
own quite well that William liked me, and
• the last few days I had begun dimly to
1 that—l liked William. Not that we
re ever foolish as young people of Om. age
I,e ; lie wits too manly to "pay ellen
* _a - -I was too frank to play' the young
.ly in !ONT. Besides; what couple could do
• sentimental with a parcel of children ever
their heelo rthink we were hurdlraione
reeler a minute all day Ling. But some
w, in that quaint country-house, our lives
eiv tt:getber day by day—from th-e-.early.
. witing when I woke to hear his step °utile
-avel-walk, and his whistle along the garden
•low my window—through field-rambles,
. rides, and afternoon\ saunters up and
twn the yew-tree walk-until the -last quiet
Alf-hour, when his merry face grew serious,
•ad his careless, boy's voice, low, manly and
its lie read the . . _evening chapter for
---:ranc!nmannna.. , Then we used to bid good
.ight on the staircase, and my heart sank
.ick into its grave self, till his Whistle came
with the liird's morning songs at my win
ow, and I woke up again to another happy
ily .
Thus I had lived, thinking only of each
••our as it passed-each morning, evening,
.coon and night, until—William kissed me.
- I woke up at dawn, feeling sad and strange.
head ached—it was not used to weeping
Aid wakefulness. 'Why had I been so fool
? And all for nothing! For in the broad
•unshinc at first it seemed like nothing.—
lnd little Ada crept into my bed, and-put
-er sleepy lips to mine. She did . not know
—ay, it must hale been meant that, he would
iot have done it else, for he was of a shy,
‘ j trnest nature, though so merry—William
O -01 in,.
Still I felt strange—happy, but strange.
William was not in the room when T came
iloWn to breakfast, but there was the little
white rose that I always found on my plate.
I took it up—it looked different to all the
other ,many roses be had given 'me. But
..when he came in With Ada in his hand, and,
one of his own little brothers riding on his
back, we saidc"-Good morning, William,"
" Good morning, Mary,'! in our usual way.
Ile was so merry, and looked such a mere
boy, it seemed impossiblo that We' . .were in
truth such children. It was absolutely.ridie
ulous ill me to haVe had Such serious, even
'sad thoughts, as I had had the' few hours be-
Lore. ••
So all the morning ,we bepame,ehildren
-.gain, Williatn and:.l among Our two sets of
. .-oung folks, and except for An, occasional
;rave look beyond his years, or a sweet, fond,
tuiet smile turned downward on trie - yhen we
•
calked together, I. should have thought ,all t
.
mistake of mine that he was, or wished to
)e, any thing beside what everybody knew
! to r ;as-4-rnyloying cousin' William.
I do' .not think ho could tell—or any - one
—froin.any word or-manner Of mine- 7 41a I
MA ever for a single hour felt as aught but
•
• •;pis cousin nary. •
We made the, most of that, day, for it was
.he last when we two. should be sole regeti
• f the little flock' athe Ivies: • Another guri .
• 'vas coming--a groWn.up' • young lady,. twen
i•one years old, an orphan, Midler Own Mi
s.. •2ess. :;She . had been •educated • abroad, anti
ow was going, or . wishing: to, go again - on
eontinent, as. a governess, so she said,
.ad ,wrote to gramimamma, who rpther:
un
tillingly , inyited her here, which we Were' all
sotrylnii?.as none Of, us. knew , the least
tbe..world about her except that her dame
as Melanie Blacquiero:b .. •y. • •1
William pulled many conikal, wry faces
at having to drive to. the •coach to meet her;
and seentea cpite determined not to like Miss
131'ecquiere at all.,
"Oh,•Mary, Mary," ho •said, as he put me
and Ada and James out of the phaeton, to
wall: home; "we are' so happy, just you and I
and the children. 'Mien shall . we have one
of pur old driv,es and malks again?". ;
Ali, when, indeed! I could see his fond',,
cind look, aS"he leaned over the cavil:lB;e
the,look which only came into his eyes . when
they turned toward me. William, William,
we all change—little blame to us for it; but
our eyes spoke true that day
We gathered at the hall door, in great en
riottityFto see William chine back with Miss
Blacquiere, who to us was quite an awful
personage. , A governess, too. We hoped
she,,Would always sit in the parlor, and pay
visits with grandmamma to the i reetorrand
elsewhere, and take no notice( of us. We
pitied William, and wondered "% r ?lotever he
'would find to talk to *hey upon dtving the
ong drive home.
But he seemed to have got through it pret
w well—at least to judge by the way the)
;oth were laughing as they drove up the gar
len, and William handed her down with the
grace and self-possession of a grown-upcav
alier.- .I ought to have said, tiTt though but
eighteen, lie was very manly-looking, strong
and tall
Miss Blacquiete was quite a little person,
and not grave or ancient in the least; she
hardly looked so•old as I. I did not notice
whether she WaS pretty until William called
Inc aside and asked me if I did not think her
so? I said, ."Yes, - o 1 course, as indeed any
,ody would. - She lmd a slthilike a rose-leal
lelicate features, laughing eyes. In fact, her
to-cc hail-hut one faelt,.though_Willimalook,
ed. astonished when I mentioned it,— a cur
tain opacity 'of expression, liken beautifully
shaped lantern with the light taken out. For
all else, thongh rather Frenchified, she was
very agreeahle indeed. The children liked
her—William,' yes, William evidently liked
her. Into such an abundance there was no
Reed for me to throw in , my mite, so I hesi
ttited a little, to see and judge first, being al
ways rather stingy in the small coin of love.
Melanie—everybody called her Melanie af
ter she had been here a week and a half—
had now been' with us a weekvioining-in all
our amusements, playing with the children,
though not quite so much as she did at- first,
Aay jug: they tired her; and she seemed very
soon to grow tired of things and people.—
She had bestowed an immensity of friend
ship and confidence on me when she first
came; hut gradually it faded out. It might
be iny fault—l do not know. may us
well tell the truth, tint like Melanie
131acq Mere.
It was not out of selfishness or wicked
jealousy, God knows. Because so sure was
I of—things which ito one else saw or gues
sed—that it never entered my mind to die
jealous. William might talk with her, or
walk with her, and she seemed to likeliang
ing on his aria, and patronizing him as a
woman of twenty-one will patronize a boy of
eighteen, yet it never troubled me in the
least, any more than if she had been Miss
Miles, the rector's sister, who kept his house,
and was, no body knew, how old. 'lt never
entered into my head as a,,filiThability that
-what any one more worldly-wise must have
seen was not only possible, but extremely
probable.
Still I did not like Melanie. She made a
confidante of me, doubtless wishing to show
off before a simple country maiden seven
teen years old i and then I found out by slow
degrees her real character There is not
many ',women like her. 1 trust in God l at
, least, not Englishwomen. Suffice it, that
tstie was altogether false, ft painful, sli6w,
beautiful foulness, a creature that reverentiOt
uothiug,"believed in nothing, loved nothing,.
a woman With some brain, no heart and no
• .
, . Of course, being young. land imexperien
ced,lWas some time in finding out the whole
of thiS, but,,l vary soon saw enough to make
Me shrink from heii,shocked . and deceived.
I kept it tetn . ygelf---therewas no one at the
Ivies for me to tell any thing to hut William
'—and how cotild I tell William? . .
.Nevertheless, Our way of life l at tit Ivies
was completely.altered,andthe change came
very gradually—so that no one noticed it,
scarcely even I, until I began to , find out that
I Was lett all;day ever with the children,,
while she and William were •babitnally to
gether. At last :the little ones grumbled.—
sayingeausia William was not so nice as he
used to be-----that he was getting too Mitch of
a;mati . to Play. With them now; bid liked best
to,go.about all day with Melanie. One day
they ,told, him ; so to, his' face, and 'William
blushed scarlet; but said nothing. • This
Stria in`c its strange, - for he was of ft quick
temper, and': could not avoid giving word for
word.. - When hd went iiway,-I scolded the
qcralb:
children quietly for teazing "him, and showed
them that it was only his good . nature and
politeness to a stranger. And rtruly thonght
so ,myself—knowing, , or, believing, how lin_
possible it was a noble lad lileo William could
have any sympathy with such a woman as
Blacquiore; • For her—she would
get tired ()this company, as she did of every
thing else, and set him free as soon as she
foUnd some one else 'eqUally-useful.
, This came to pass.• The rector and his
sister. called,, and like most other folk, took a
very great fancy td Miss l3lacquiere. There
had not been such a charming girl in the
village for years, Miss Miles said. Such a
merry, warm-hearted, innocent young thing
"Warm-hearted " innocent I"—Hcaven help
us all! But I luid not courage to be that
mean thing—a backbiter and tell-tale; and
she would soon be clear away; so I held Iny
tongue.
The second week of Melanie's visit mat
ters changed. There was nothing but dining
and going between the Reetory and the Ivies.
No wanting of William continually to take
her walks and rides. She was well satisfied
, with the pudgy little rector anadils prosy sis
ter for company. True, she madgatuti of
them for our entertainment every night; but
then she went out 3 yith them again next
. day.
William had never eared fig• the Miles's;
still he went there with or for Miss Blacquieo
every day. He said it was but' polite, as he
was the only gentleman at the Ivies, and she
was my grandmother's guest. lint often lie
came home alone, and wandered about the
garden restless and cross. For now, some
times, the children said, and, alas! I could
not deny it, that sweet tempered, kind cous
in NVII,S " Very cross indeed."
"C: lfryon stay - with --us- one afternoon—
just this one afternoon?" cried Ada, calling
to him from the hay-field, where we were t'.l
sitting. "Nobody wants you at the rectory
to-day, and we want you dreadfully, cousin
William." •
Ile was very food of Ada always. He
came and sat,dowli with us qn the haycock.
"Why are you not at Meriton AbbeY to
day, with Melanie and the Miles's? You like
Meniton."
" No—l did not want to go."
"Perhaps," Ada .snid_wickedly = -§be was•
a precious little thing perhaps, cousin Wil
liam, nobody wanted you? Melanie said so,
for I heard her."
He looked startled a momen't,•then
ed. "Oh, so did I. It was only her jest.
She is such a merry_ creature, isn't she, Ma-
BEI
" Very merry."
"I lon't, think you like her as much as the
rest ,do?"
" I not, Well; I can't like
every body. Do von like her so yen- pitch,
then?" Fur I wanted to know if he did, anti
had Ao rare opportunities now of asking him
any serious question.
But. he passed this off with a jest, and
went on plucking the thorns off a' branch of
wild roses.
"Why do you do that? Who is it for?"
"Only Melanie; she wants it for her hair
o-night, and one wouldn't like her to wear
Any thorns."
"I hate Illelanie," said Ada, petishly.—
You never do any thing for ns children now;
it's always Melanie. I shouldn't wander if,
supposing you were big enough, you wanted
to be Melanie's sweetheart. The maids say
so." And Ada, after having thrown her
shaft, ran away.
"Oh, Willltunl" I turned to Mtn, half
hMging at the idea. His face startled—e'en
shoched me. "Oh, William!"
"It's quite true, Mary." ° •
Ile rose up, and left me sitting by myself
alone.
"Ifew well I remember that long, still af-
ternoon, lying on the hay, with• Ada and the
rest -playing little distance, 'off, runt the
sound of scythes sharpeningi and wood-pidg
eons cooing in. the plantation, and the great
wide. starry blue sky overhead, with net a
single cloud.
I hope no one. - will - think that was what
people call "disappointed." That
nnell should even: , be marriedovhieh I al
ways kn6w a'thing,Asimpossible as that the
sun should go down eastward through thllt
mjeLminmer 814. As soon as he went out
into the world, our.cousifily . fondness would
of necessity "fade into•the light of common
day:" but it was swept while it lasted. And
now to finclit all a mistake—to know myself
only second in his thoughts---that though be
dearly liked me, he loved Melanie Blae
(vivre:. „.
It was suffered when young, suffered and
over soon, in a few hours, so far as any per
sonal pain was entice:rued, but at the .tiMe . it
vas a sharp pang. Tor -ears the scent of a
,hay-field made me turn Sick and cold. -
'By f!uppr•tint-e, w< met, I had con
quer.,l ev, ry Wati my dear cousin
William once More, and I was his faithful
cousin Mary
Now began a new life—full of new inter
ests, pains and fears; we never said another
confidential word together: Ind, since I could .
read William's heart in his face, my eyes
were rarely , off Ilia' from morning till night.
He was greatly altered; it was more a man's
'passion than a boy's that was consuming
him. He did not follow her about;or whine,
or sigh, or mall` a fool of himself, as youa,g
lovers generally do; but I sometimes caught
him gazing at her when no 'one saw, and I
felt he would have laid down his life for that
IMMO
That woman, who was—what I knew her
to .be.
If William had loved a girl of his age—a
girl he could have married—above all, a goad
innocent, noble girl but for him to love Me
lanie Blacquierel Whether lie thought it
hopeless I cannot tell; probably no young
lover ever clods think the maddest passion
quite hopelg i es; hut any one in their senses
could see that Melanie cared no more for
him than she did 'for any one else who was
amusing and useful to her, while the use and
amusement of them lasted. As for marry
ing William, why, she hall told
,me over and
over :gain that she only wanted "en bon
paFti"—that love was mere nonsense, and
sham, that all husbands were alike afte;the
honeymeon. "It would be very convenient
for her to be married soon," she said, " in
stead of going out governessing; find as for
the bridegroom, why, she would take what
ever Ileaven sent, and be thankful."
She repeated this to me with smiles and
smirks. one night
.when, she.sat at my bed's
foot, having (-tune home from a party at the
rectory. And that very evening William hail
been 'talking - to gl - Rho:lmam and me, - -arg - Ji•
ing whether, instead of his beginning' the
world as a clerk in his father's hank*, it would
not be wiser 'flit. him to dash at once across
the seas to Australia, work hard, grow rich,
and cone back in a few years a man, and fa
prosperous man, to settle in England?' Pour
tuiyl I knew as well as if he had fold me,
ii hat was in his bold, brave, tender heart l
-1 sickened when 1 looked at Melanie Mac
iinivre
Things went on thus a few days longer.—
Sometimes she stayed at-home, went about
with him, was merry and kind, and Willimit
was his own_ happy self once more. Then
she changed her manner, and he was misera.
We. Sometimes, in a dim, vague way, he let
me guess at his sutTerin! , :a—Me, his cousin
Mary, that he was so fond of always., Butif,
made half desperate fur his sake, I hinted a
word against his idol, ho, only said sharply.
- Oh. I forgot you don't like her, Mary," and
was silent altogether.
So I found it was no use fur me to do am
thing but sit by mutely and..wateli.
( The holydays were nearly over. Wiliam'
was going home. Eh; education was finish
ed niav, and he wah immediately to commence
the hard duties of life. PeOlaps, in their
daily routine, this fan', silent passion—for,
of course, conceived so early and for such an
unattainable object., it could 'not be any thing
but sileut—would fade a*ay. I hoped . so.—
All I longed for was to get his departure safe
over. Strange! - I counted the days- , . - - - -;the
hours—till William (Pent away.
The last evening came.. It was a soft,
warm, rainy. July night ; lint II , had been hi
.doors all 'day, and I went out even 'in the
midst of the rain. I walked up and down by
the few-liede which sheltered inc. The ail
dren were al in bed ; my grlndinamitia, Me
lanie and William 1 had left in the drawing
. At last I thought of something I had
org,ottnn to tell William. • I•liad,been putting
his books and chitties together, ns, indeed, he
asked me, and it was a pleasure to do any
thing for him. 1 did it almost in a motherly
7ashion : he seemed now such a deal older
MED
than I.
came in and went straight to the drawing
room. fly grandmother was gone to bed ;
the other two were there. Melanie sat on the
sofa, laughing immoderately. William stood
opposite ; there was a dark flush on his face!
but he, stood unflinching and firm. I knew
—I guessed. 0, poor William.
Stop, Mary, don't run off—the best 'joke
in the world.. William Says—shall I tell her,
William'?'.
' No—yes,' he added, recovering hithself.
'I nm neither afraid'' for ashamed, Mary. I
have been telling her what you know—that I
love her dearly; that if she'will wait until I
am my own master, and have a home to of
fer, I will marry her.' •
Ho said it so quietly,. enrnestly, in such
Manly simrlicity withal, that even Melanie
could not laugh any longer. at the boy. She
~only Said, lightly, •
Nonsense! HoW can you be so foolish,
'William? Why, I itm a woman and you aro
only a lad of eighteen. Marry Me, indeed!'
will. I will, make myself worthy to be
your husband. .You know hew much
older I have grown Since I loved p . n. Bo:
as you call me, I can feel like a man; I eart
act like a-man, strong and brave, to meet the
battle of the world—if you only love me, lile•
lanie. •
It was the truth he spoke 5 his voice stead
fast, passionate and low, gave ,, evidence of
that even Melanie seemed to believe it.
Very likely—l don't doubt it.' You are a
.line fellow. I always liked you, William, but
I couldn't wait for you—l couldn't indeed.'
Don't jest: I love your merry.smil s es g bat
speak earnestly this once, dear Melanie. You
are not so much older than I. In three years
I shall be of age—you will be 'only twenty
four. Give me till then—hold yourself free
till then.'
' Oh, Mary, what an obstinate lad it is l*
Why, I have had a dozen boys sighing! and
dying for me, and I never had the least trou
ble with them before. They were quenched
at a word, poor fellowa? Really, William, yen
mnst ; have a little sense. This love-making
is very inconvenient to me j st now.' .
'lsit ?' He flamed up. l May I ask Why? ,
She began to titter and pl y 4 ..with her hand
kerchief. ' Well, perhaps I had better tell
you---,you'll know it to-morrow. You see',
William, I have a great liking for you. In
fact, under some circunistances, I Might have
had a nice, harmless little flirtation with you ;
hut rill going to give up all that sort of thing'
' Melanie I' -.
' stop. No need to look ,so glad. I
going—to be married.'
William stood, quiet.as a strillC
' Yet,' I said, 'you told us all you wero not
engaged. It •was just-like you. • WhO is the
fort a Ode man 7'
clion't sneer ; he 18 fortunate. It isn't ev.
ery .pretty girl- that would take up with final •
a round, dumpling of an old parson.: But
love's all stuff and folly. Since he wants.me,
111 have him. I hate teaching, and I
shall make a very comfortable, dashing Mrs.
She danced about the room in exuberant
pleasure. Her end attained, there was no
need to burthttrn herself with More virtuous
The mask fall and showed herself
to William as I had seen her, and prayed that
he might see 'her, for many, many miseraLle
days.
He sat down., leaning" ein his hands. It
must have te. , n' a cruel mornent—Lthe ma-
meet that shattered forever his boyish dream
—a dream so intense, so unlike a boy's, that
I doubt if , any one would have broken it save
she herself. But his nature was so intrinsi
cally pure slid noble—it So revolted from ev
ery thing false, or foul, or mean, especially in
a Wolllllll—that one glance into this girl's
real heart, or rather the thing which did du
ty tin• one, and the charm was snapped for-
UM
I whispered, touching his baud.
lie caught mine and clasped them hard.
• I know you are true, my cumin Mary.
Then he rose and walked dieect to Melae
nie, who stood pulling her curls out at the
glass.
• •
William, rkre you cured'?' .
Quite,' lie said, after a grave bend and
smile. Miss Blacquiere, I thank you for
your confidence.. I hope your marriage will
be as happy—no; happier than it deserves to
be.'
`And you wont say any thing of this littlo
affair of yours, or go and bnak your-heart
about mO either'?'
Certainly not.'
Whinie seemed annoyed at his coolness.
You are the stupidest, oddest fellow 1, And
there's Mary crying like a watering-pot. Well
go to her, she'll comfort you.
She will always,' said William in a low
voice, as he put his arm 'round her and gave
her a ki,s 'on the foiehead, tender, brotherly,
but, 'oh I not like the Drat. , •
He Went away next morning. his life and
mine sloped wide apart. We did not.meet
•
again for many, many years.
* * *
My cousin William is a middle-aged man
now, a prosperous man too, a husband and
father of a . large.family. He comes now and
then to see my sisters and me, in our.quiei
cottage; we are very happy in his coming,
and rather proud 'of speaking to the neigh
boriabefif'qnr cousin William."
Wo never spent another summer at the
and nevor shall again. I told him one
day lately ~that the yew-hedge had been cut -
down. " What yew-hedge ?' he Said ; and
with difficulty reinembered it. But I saw-it s
and see it still sometimes very clear, Elio a
picture in % a dream, all in the soft dusk of
that midsummer night, with ,Orion shining
through the trees. Anti however foolish it
was, and howevei much better thinii — Ob as
they are than as they might have been, I feel
glad , that I was William's first youthful fan
cy, tha . t. I lnulhhis first, shy, innocent, boyish
kiss, and that he had mine.
Fl