suspicion of an engagement
between them. Had she broken down then, she would not have forgiven
Royston to her dying day: she never _did_ forgive the chaplain. As it
was--by a strange anomaly--at the very moment when she became aware of
having been deluded and misled, in intention if not by actually spoken
words--when she had most reason to hate or despise the "enemy who had
done her this dishonor"--she felt his hold upon her heart strengthened,
as though he had justified his right to command it. Not to women alone,
but to all beautiful, wild creatures, the ancient aphorism applies: the
harder they are to discipline, the better they love their tamer. Cecil
thought, "there is not another man alive whose eyes could meet mine so
daringly:" and the haughty spirit bowed itself, and did obeisance to its
suzerain. Different in many respects as good can be from evil--in one,
those two were as fairly matched as Thiodolf and Isolde. Who can tell
what wealth of happiness might have been stored up for both, if they had
only not met--too late?

These two words seem to me the most of any that are written or spoken.
They strike the key-note of so many human agonies, that they might form
a motto, apter than Dante's, for the gates of hell. Very few may hear
them without a melancholy thrill; well--if they do not bring a bitter
pang. Like those awful conjurations that blanched in utterance the lips
of the boldest magi, they have a fearful power to wake the dead. Lo!
they are scarcely syllabled when there is a stir in the grave-yard
where sad or guilty memories lie buried; the air is alive with phantoms;
the watcher may close his eyes if he will: not the less is he sensible
of the presence of those pale ghosts that come trooping to their
vengeance. Many, many hours must pass before the spell is learned that
will send them back to their tombs again.

Not long ago I heard a story that bears upon this. The man of whom it
was told lost his love after he had fairly wooed and won her. It matters
not what suspicion, or misconception, or treachery parted them; but
parted they were for eight miserable years. Then the lady repented or
relented, and came to her lover to make her confession. When she had
done speaking, she looked up into his face: she saw no light of gladness
or welcome there--only a deepening and darkening of the weary look of
pain: the arms whose last tender clasp she had not forgotten yet, never
opened to draw her to his breast. H