But when June comes With wild honey! In the dew! and hold clear my throat Rench my hair my coat! Whoop out loud! and throw my hat! WHILE THE HEART BEATS YOUNG. WHILE the heart beats young! Oh, the splendor of the Spring, With all her dewy jewels on, is not so fair a thing The fairest, rarest morning of the blossom-time of May While Youth's diviner climate folds and holds us, close caressed. While the heart beats young and our pulses leap and dance, We hear the birds with wonder, and with wonder watch their flight Standing still the more enchanted, both of hearing and of sight, While the heart beats young! While the heart beats young! thine We would be still thy children, through the shower and the shine! So pray we, lisping, whispering, in childish love and trust, With our beseeching hands and faces lifted from the dust By fervor of the poem, all unwritten and unsung, ANNE ISABELLA RITCHIE. RITCHIE, ANNE ISABELLA (THACKERAY), an English novelist; born in London, June 9, 1837. The daughter of William M. Thackeray, in early years her father dictated many of his works to her and to her sister. After receiving her education in Paris and London, she was married in 1877 to her cousin, Richmond Thackeray Ritchie. Her books include "The Story of Elizabeth" (1863); "The Village on the Cliff" (1867); "To Esther, and Other Stories" (1869); "Old Kensington " and "Toilers and Spinsters, and Other Essays" (1873); "Blue Beard's Keys, and Other Stories" (1874); "Miss Angel" (1875); "Lord Amherst" (1894); "Mme. de Sévigné," a biography (1881); "Miss Williamson's Divagations" (1881); "A Book of Sibyls," reprinted from the "Cornhill Magazine" (1883); "Mrs. Dymond" (1885); "Tennyson and His Friends" (1893); "Lord Amherst and the British Advance Eastward to Burmah" (1894; in collaboration with R. Evans); "Chapters from Some Unwritten Memoirs " (1895). THE ESCAPADE. (From "The Story of Elizabeth.") THE little carriole, as Françoise called it, was waiting, a short way down, at the corner of the hospital; and Dampier came to meet her, looking very tall and straight through the twilight. She wondered at his grave, anxious face; but, in truth, he too was exceedingly nervous, though he would not let her know it: he was beginning to be afraid for her, and had resolved that he would not take her out again; it might, after all, be unpleasant for them both; he had seen De Vaux, and found out, to his annoyance, that he had recognized them in the Louvre the day before, and had passed them by on purpose. There was no knowing what trouble he might not get poor Elly into. And, besides, his aunt Jean was on her way to Paris. She had been keeping house for Will Dampier, she wrote, and she was coming. Will was on his way to Switzerland, and she should cross with him. That very day John had received a letter from her, in answer to the one he had written about Elly. He had written it three days ago; but he was not the same man he had been three days ago. He was puzzled, and restless, and thoroughly wretched, that was the truth, and he was not used to be unhappy, and he did not like it. Elly's face haunted him day and night; he thought of her continually; he tried, in vain, to forget her, to put her out of his mind. Well, on the whole, he was glad that his aunt was coming, and very glad that his mother and Lætitia were still away, and unconscious of what he was thinking about. "So you did not lose courage?" he said, as they were driving off. "How did you escape Madame Jacob?" "I have been all alone," said Elly, "these two days. How I found courage to come I cannot tell you. I don't quite believe that it is I myself who am here. It seems impossible. I don't feel like myself. I have not for some days past. All I know is, that I am certain those horrible long days have come to an end." John Dampier was frightened - he hardly knew whywhen he heard her say this. "I hope so, most sincerely," said he. "But, after all, Elly, we men and women are rarely contented; and there are plenty of days, more or less tiresome, in store for me and for you, I hope. We must pluck up our courage and go through with them. You are such a sensitive, weak-minded little girl that you will go on breaking your heart a dozen times a day to the end of your life." Dampier looked very grave as he spoke, though it was too dark for her to see him. He was angry and provoked with himself, and an insane impulse came over him to knock his head violently against the sides of the cab. Insane, do I say? It would have been the very best thing he could have done. But they drove on all the same: Elly in rapture. She was not a bit afraid now. Her spirits were so high and so daring that they would carry her through anything; and when she was with Dampier she was content to be happy, and not to trouble herself with vague apprehensions. And she was happy now: her eyes danced with delight, her heart beat with expectation, she seemed to have become a child again, she was not like a woman any more. "Have you not a veil?" said Dampier, as they stopped before the theatre. There was a great light, a crowd of people passing and repassing; other carriages driving up. "No," said Elly. me?" "What does it matter? Who will know "Well, make haste. Here, take my arm," said Sir John, hurriedly; and he hastily sprang down and helped her out. "Look at the new moon," said Elly, looking up, smiling. "Never mind the new moon. Come, Elly," said Dampier. And so they passed on into the theatre. Dampier was dreading recognition. He had a feeling that they would be sure to come against some one. Elly feared no one. When the play began she sat entranced, thrilling with interest, carried away. "Faust" was the piece which they were representing; and as each scene was played before her, as one change after another came over the piece, she was lost more and more in wonder. If she looked up for an instant it was to see John Dampier's familiar face opposite; and then outside the box, with its little curtain, great glittering theatre-lights, crystals reflecting the glitter, gilding, and silken drapery; everywhere hundreds of people, silent, and breathless too, with interest, with excitement. The music plays, the scene shifts and changes, melting into fresh combinations. Here is Faust. Listen to him as he laments his wasted life. Of what use is wisdom? What does he care for knowledge? A lonely man without one heart to love, one creature to cherish him. Has he not wilfully wasted the best years of his life? he cries, in a passion of rage and indignation, -wasted them in the pursuit of arid science, of fruitless learning? Will these tend him in his old age, soothe his last hours, be to him wife, and children, and household, and holy home ties? Will these stand by his bedside, and close his weary, aching eyes, and follow him to his grave in the churchyard? Faust's sad complaint went straight to the heart of his hearers. The church bell was ringing up the street. Fathers, mothers, and children were wending their way obedient to its call. And the poor desolate old man burst into passionate and hopeless lamentation. It was all so real to Elly that she almost began to cry herself. She was so carried away by the play, by this history of Faust and of Margaret, that it was in vain Dampier begged her to be careful, to sit back in the shade of the curtain, and not to lean forward too eagerly. She would draw back for a minute or two, and then by degrees advance her pretty, breathless head, turning to him every now and then. It was like a dream to her. Like a face in a dream, too, did she presently recognize the face of De Vaux, her former admirer, opposite, in one of the boxes. But Margaret was coming into the chapel with her young companions, and Elly was too much interested to think of what he would think of her. Just at that moment it was Margaret who seemed to her to be the important person in the world. De Vaux was of a different opinion: he looked towards them once or twice, and at the end of the second act Dampier saw him get up and leave his seat. Sir John was provoked and annoyed beyond measure. He did not want him, De Vaux least of all people in the world. Every moment he felt as he had never felt before, how wrong it was to have brought Elly, whom he was so fond of, into such a situation. For a moment he was undecided, and then he rose, biting his lips, and opened the door of the box, hoping to intercept him; but there was his Mephistopheles, as ill-luck would have it, standing at the door ready to come in. "I thought I could not be mistaken," De Vaux began, with a smirk, bowing, and looking significantly from one to the other. "Did you see me in the gallery of the Louvre the other day?" Elly blushed up very red, and Dampier muttered an oath as he caught sight of the other man's face. He was smiling very disagreeably. John glanced a second time, hesitated, and then said, suddenly and abruptly: "No, you are not mistaken. This is Miss Gilmour, my fiancée, M. de Vaux. I dare say you are surprised that I should have brought her to the play. It is the custom in our country." He did not dare look at Elly as he spoke. Had he known what else to say he would have. said it. De Vaux was quite satisfied, and instantly assumed a serious and important manner. The English miss was to him the most extraordinary being in creation, and he would believe anything you liked to tell him of her. He was prepared to sit down in the vacant chair by Elizabeth, and make himself agreeable to her. The English miss was scarcely aware of his existence. Faust, Margaret, had been the whole world to her a minute. ago. Where was she now? . . . where were they? . . . Was she the actress? and were they the spectators looking on?. Was that the Truth which he had spoken? Did he mean it? VOL XVII. — 27 |