SOUVENIRS OF THE SEA. 1870. ACROSS the bridge, along the quay, A bench apart from all the rest Could tell a story often told; For here once more I seem to hold A hand eight years ago I pressed. It lay in mine as softly fell The summer twilight's creeping calm; The gentle hour breath'd forth a balm, And held us with its mystic spell. We said no word; but hand-to-hand At length Aurora sigh'd and spake : "We may not hope some happy chance Will alter bitter circumstance; Then here our farewell let us take." We rose up while the shadows brown And at her father's door we stopped; Eight years ago! and can it be The same lone bench upon the pier ; And that, around me still, I hear The ripple of the self-same sea? 'Tis we who change. The seas remain Obedient to one ebb and flow; Nor, in their constant courses, know These plunging waves that round me roar, But we who let our feelings range In wild caprice from year to year; And toy with hope and sport with fearWe see them fix'd and deem it strange. Yet something in the memory Of past romance will hold us still, And something of its ancient thrill Will linger changeless, like the sea. 1878. THE past is gilded with a rim, The old had stolen from above, Yet she who bears the name of wife, Is not the sorrow-stricken form Who sat in twilight on the pier ; Oh, sea, that saw both old and new MATTHEW SETON. HORACE: A NOVEL. BY MATTHEW SETON, Author of "Sidera," "The Love of Lennox," etc. CHAPTER I. THE CRADLE. "First the babe, Mewling and puking in its nurse's arms." As you Like It. SIR HAROLD WINN sat toasting his toes before a huge fire in the library. It was Christmas Eve; the hour was about four o'clock, and as Sir Harold had not yet rung for the lamp, he sat in the twilight. The big flames, as they mounted up the chimney, created an expression on his face of high good-humour, and every now and then he would rub his hands up and down his knees with a chuckle to himself, which implied much gratification of some kind. At the same time, whenever the slightest sound outside the room attracted his attention, he turned round eagerly towards the door with a manifest look of anxiety and expectancy. Presently, his toes being sufficiently toasted, he rose from his chair and began to parade up and down the room, stopping occasionally to give himself a hearty slap on the thigh, and repeat, with a chuckle, the exclamation: "Gad! to think of it! Is it possible?" It is not for a moment to be assumed that, because of these singular demonstrations, the baronet was in the least degree of unsound mind. Sir Harold at this period was in ample possession of the mens sana in corpore sano; speakable advantage. He was a man of middle age, of middle height, and of military carriage; he was, indeed, a colonel in the British army. He had been through the Crimean campaigns, serving as aide-de-camp to Lord Raglan, and afterwards in the same capacity to that unfortunate commander's successors. He could tell of fearful battles, and of "hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach." heights stormed; he had been present at the heroic struggle of the Guards at Inkermann, and had lost an arm in the act of delivering a message to Sir George Cathcart, just before that hero received He had seen the Alma forded, and its his mortal wound. despatches. He had then been sent home to England with Sir Harold possessed a countenance of the best military type; aquiline in form, and with every feature in pleasing proportion. Everyone was especially attracted by the sagacious and kindly grey eyes peeping from under thick and rugged brows. The hair on his face consisted merely of a short patch of crisp whisker on either cheek. Sir Harold had again chuckled, again slapped his thigh, and once more exclaimed, "Gad! is it possible?" when the door was opened, and a venerable female domestic presented herself before him. "You may come, Sir Harold," she said, touching him on the loose sleeve of his lost arm. "It's all right, and her ladyship is doing beautiful." "Ha!" cried Sir Harold, cutting a caper in his glee. "You don't mean to say it's all over? But what is it, Mrs. Plumtree -what is it?" "What is it, Sir Harold? Why, a boy, to be sure. What else did you think it could be?" "I thought, perhaps, it might be a girl," said the baronet humbly. "It sometimes is, is it not?" "Never was "Never!" said the housekeeper with emphasis. such a thing known in the Winn family as a girl for the first; any way since I've been connected with the house, and that's as you know, Sir Harold, since your grandfather's time. The first-born always ran in the male line." "And the longer they keep that course the better," said Sir Harold, nearly capering over an arm-chair. "Ha, ha! So it's a boy? Is it possible?" "It's the finest one I ever beheld in the whole course of my life, and that's saying a good deal, considering the mañy I've had in my arms," said Mrs. Plumtree. "He beats you out-and-out in point of bulk, Sir Harold. You were a mite of a thing when you came into the world. You may remember I was the first that had you in my arms.' "No, I don't, Plumtree. I can't say that my recollection extends so far back," said Sir Harold, laughing; "but I believe every word you say, and I hope since that time I have grown on your acquaintance. Now, let us go and see the little chap." "You must be very quiet, Sir Harold," said Mrs. Plumtree, as she preceded him along the corridor. "Step as still as a mouse; my lady or the infant may have fallen asleep; p'raps both." Sir Harold followed in ecstasies of delight, muttering to himself, "Can it be possible? I'm the luckiest devil alive." They entered a large bedroom, in the handsomely-curtained bed of which lay a lady of delicate loveliness, who looked about twentyeight years of age. Her eyes were wide open, and the sweetest smile imaginable broke on her mouth as she saw her husband ap proach. That gentleman crept up to the bedside on tip-toe, and pressed his lips to those of his wife as he whispered, "My precious Evelyn, how are you? and-and-oh! where is he?" "Look," whispered his wife, turning her eyes on a pink-looking ball which lay cuddled up in her bosom," Isn't he lovely?" "Is that him?" said Sir Harold, gazing intently on the little roll of humanity. "Dear me! I could never have believed it. Isn't he very small?" "Small, Sir Harold!" cried Mrs. Plumtree. "Excuse me, sir, but I don't think you know what you are talking about. He's the finest babe of his age I ever set eyes on-in the Winn family, or any other either." "But, Mrs. Plumtree, he isn't aged yet, you may say." Begging your pardon, Sir Harold, not a minute under a full hour. You should have seen yourself, Sir Harold. He's twice the size you were under a like predicament." "I'm delighted to hear it," said the baronet; "and, of course, you know best about these things, Mrs. Plumtree. He certainly is a very fine-looking fellow," he continued, putting his glasses to heye for a more minute inspection. "A brave-looking little fellow wit is possible to see. So admirably formed, too-eh, Evelyn ?" "Darling, he's simply perfect," whispered his wife, throwing a beautiful white arm round her husband's neck as he bent down to speak to her. "And you, dearest; how do you feel?" "My darling, I couldn't feel happier. Of course I am a little weak just now, but that is to be expected.' "How do you consider Lady Winn is progressing, doctor," whispered Sir Harold to that gentleman, who was in the room. "Admirably, Sir Harold; but you musn't talk to her too much. She is doing famously. "And the little fellow ?" "Equally well. Never brought a more creditable infant into the world in my life. He's got a biceps already." "And a pair of lungs, too, it seems," added Sir Harold, as at this moment the hope of the Winns awoke from his primal slumber with a vigorous squall. "Dear me, what's the matter?" said his father. "A capital sign," said the doctor. "Shows he's got plenty of lung play.' "He isn't ill?" asked Sir Harold, anxiously. "No, Sir Harold, only desperately hungry; as well he may be," said Mrs. Plumtree shortly. Hungry!" exclaimed the baronet. "What! already ?” |