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THE NEW

MONTHLY BELLE ASSEMBLÉE.

FEBRUARY, 1848.

THE PEACE-MAKER.

BY DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

In one of the strictly agricultural and richlycultivated districts of the midland counties of England was a solitary farm-house. It lay on the verge of one of those royal forests, of which now only two or three remain in England, and those few sadly shorn of their pristine glory. Years ago, this noble forest extended for miles and miles over the country, so that it was a day's journey or more to cross it from boundary to boundary. Beasts of prey made their dens in its dark recesses, and wild deer roamed about in security from the hand of man. Age after age man had encroached upon its limits, had driven the wild beasts from their dangerous covert, and cut down the ancient trees. Now stately mansions and green lawns occupied the place of the dens of the wolf and the bear. Still, however, though much diminished in extent, the forest was dangerous for a stranger to traverse without a guide; and many an old woodsman, who had been for years accustomed to its mazes, never ventured to pierce into its gloomy depths without a mariner's compass in his pocket to guide him on his way.

it had not in former times. Large barns, half empty; cow-houses, with only two or three lowing occupants; old waggons sinking idly into decay in the yard, showed that the farm was no longer what it had been. But the house, old as it was, had an appearance of substantial comfort, befitting a prosperous farmer or yeoman; one of that race which the tide of commerce and manufactures is gradually sweeping away from the face of the land. Its sole mistress now was a widow, who with her only child still kept up, in a small degree, the farm on which her husband had lived, worked, and died.

It would be difficult accurately to describe Mrs. Grainger, the widow. She was not a lady-she made no pretensions to dignity higher than that of a farmer's wife; and yet there was an air of refinement about her, which made those both above and below her in worldly station treat her with equal respect. People talk of country clowns, and country rudeness; and yet there is often more of natural politeness and good manners under the roof of an English farm-house, At the foot of a wooded hill, which formed the than in all the civilized city districts. Mrs. boundary of the forest at this side, lay the farm- Grainger's old-fashioned parlour was a curious house of which we have spoken. It was in a one, with its square piece of carpet in the centre, lovely sheltered valley; behind it, almost at the and dark polished oak floor shining outside; very door, rose up the dark woods in a sudden the fine China ornaments, and the broad mantelascent; and in front were green undulations, piece; the few old books on a shelf in one scarcely amounting to hills, but still enough to corner, and the ancient anomalous-looking form a barrier against cold winds. The house, piece of furniture called a side-board, which low, straggling, and surrounded by innumerable seemed old enough and large enough to contain smaller erections, looked, as an English farm- all the generations which had successively owned house generally does, like a little village, en- it. Like her habitation, was Mrs. Grainger herclosing within itself its own domestic resources, self-simple, upright, precise: without need of wants, and amusements. And indeed it would any disguise, she used none; and her heart was have been almost useless to the inhabitants to as free from the dust of evil as her furniture. look elsewhere for such appliances, as the house To go on with the simile, as sweet and fresh was many miles distant from any town, and in as the flowers with which the old house was winter-time almost inaccessible. There was garnished, was the widow's only daughter, now an air of desolation about the place, which | Ruth.

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We must confess to a weakness for the name of Ruth. Its Hebrew meaning-well wateredis pleasant; and then the name, after our own Saxon, has such a gentle, pitiful sound of forgiveness, ruth. Then, too, it brings thoughts of her

"Who stood in tears amid the alien corn,” and of her tale of filial love and holy piety. Fashion calls the name obsolete and quakerish, as she does many other scripture names, good and pleasant of old, to our forefathers, though now discarded; but we like Ruth all the better for being a favourite with the worthy sect who number among them William Penn and Elizabeth Fry. And surely since the days of Naomi's daughter, never was a gentler or fairer Ruth than this of ours. She had grown up like one of the primroses of her native forest, as pure and as beautiful. A hackneyed description this of a village heroine, often most opposed to nature; but still sometimes in the most unlooked-for spots, and amidst the rudest company, we meet sweet and graceful creatures springing up, like flowers by the way-side. And such a one was Ruth Grainger.

"What a pity such a handsome fellow was not born a gentleman!"

If any asked about the younger brother, the answer usually was—

"Oh, the young man is good enough; clever, too, in his way; some day he thinks of being schoolmaster, when old Brown dies, I dare say."

Ruth Grainger had been all her life treated by Horace and Stephen as a younger and petted sister; and now that all were grown up, there was still but slight difference-in their outward behaviour, at least. Ruth knew too little of the world to be aware that such adopted ties could not last for ever; that they would either be weakened in their force, or deepen into a stronger and more enduring affection: she had loved both brothers equally in her childish days, had sported and laughed with Horace, and held grave and confidential talks with Stephen. Now, if there was any change, it was that her manner towards the latter was more reserved; it might be from a girlish fear of his great talents. Yet, though she always talked with Horace, she loved to listen in silence while Stephen spoke, and often sat watching the changes of his expressive but not strictly handsome face, when no one observed her. Still, if any one had asked her which of her old playfellows she liked best, Ruth could hardly have told; but fortune soon brought about the discovery.

Ruth had spent her childhood almost alone. Their nearest neighbour was an old farmer of the name of Leigh. Late in life Mr. Leigh had married a young wife, who died, leaving two infant boys. Some intermarriages between the Leighs and Graingers, years ago, had consti- A few months after his father's death, Horace tuted a sort of nominal cousinship; Mrs. Grain-Leigh rose up one sunny morning, and without ger's kind heart made her take an interest in the motherless boys, and they were Ruth's frequent and only companions. Horace Leigh, the eldest, was his father's darling. He was named after one who had been the pride of the old farmer-his master's son, the young squire, a high spirited, generous youth, who never lived to manhood, and whose deeds he loved to recount, and to point to the stately tomb of poor Master Horace in the old church. A little of this loving veneration seemed to have descended to the child who bore his name; for Horace was ever more regarded than his younger brother Stephen. This might have caused jealousy; but Stephen was of an humble and yielding nature, and sc accustomed from his birth to give way to his bolder and handsomer brother, that no more dissensions than are usual with boys rose up between them.

The boys grew to manhood, and the old father died. He was a yeoman of good estate; so that when Horace inherited the farm, with the broad acres which his father during a long and laborious life had added to it, he was considered not beneath the notice of the smaller gentry of the neighbourhood. He hunted with them, riding to cover on fine horses, that set off to advantage a really well-proportioned form, and a face of which any young man would be proud. Horace well knew these facts, and he returned the salutation, with which many of his superiors honoured him, with an air in which there was not overmuch of humility; nevertheless, the young squires only smiled, and the ladies would say

saying a word of his intention to Stephen-an unusual circumstance-rode off to the Hill Farm. He did not seek Ruth or ask for her, but went directly to Mrs. Grainger's little parlour; and when Ruth came in, she heard with surprise, and some slight vexation, that Horace had been with her mother two whole hours, and yet she herself had not been sent for. When she entered the room both started; Mrs. Grainger kissed her daughter more fervently than even was usual to her after a parting of some few hours; and Horace listened with slight confusion to Ruth's gay reproaches.

"And here you are going to run away the moment I come in," said she, seeing the young man take his hat and riding-whip.

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I must go now, Ruth; I have business." "But you will come again?"

"I hope so-nay, I will, indeed I will," said Horace earnestly, looking with strong affection at the young girl, who had laid her hand on his arm to detain him; he pressed it warmly, shook hands with Mrs. Grainger, and a minute afterwards Ruth watched him from the window dashing his horse at full speed down the lane.

That night, when Ruth and her mother were shut up together in their own room-for the widow and her child were never parted day or night-Mrs. Grainger listened to Ruth's laughing questions as to what her mother and Horace could find to talk about for two hours, and then answered gravely-"We had many things to say."

“Then why did you not send for me to help

in the discussion? I wonder Horace did not or from the Leighs. Gentle as had been Ruth's care to see me, mother."

"Horace is very fond of you, Ruth." "He told you so, did he? I am glad of it; it is so pleasant to be liked by those one likes very much in return," said Ruth frankly and cheerfully.

The mother looked surprised at her daughter's open countenance, and then said, "I see you do not quite understand me, love. Come and sit down here, I have something to say to you." Ruth drew her footstool close to the widow's chair, and sat down with her head leaning on her mother's lap, her favourite position.

Mrs. Grainger went on :-" I know that you and Horace have been like brother and sister; but it is not this kind of love which he feels now; he told me so to-day. Horace loves you much-more than ever, Ruth; he wishes to you his wife."

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Mrs. Grainger pronounced these words slowly and with visible agitation. Ruth turned very pale, and then a deep colour rose to her cheek as she said in a low tone-"I did not expect this, mother. Tell me all Horace said."

And the widow related the young man's confession of a sincere and long-cherished love; his frank statement of his good prospects, his hopes, and his doubts lest Ruth's affection for him should only be of that sisterly nature which had once been all he desired.

Ruth listened without a word, but the quivering of her lips revealed her strong emotion. "And now," said the mother, drawing her child closer to her, "he only waits for your answer; mine is given. What could I say against one with so much that is good in him as Horace; and who, moreover, will not part me from my child while I live? Tell me, Ruth, can you give Horace the love he asks-the love of a wife towards her husband?"

The young girl raised her head; her whole frame trembled; but there was no maidenly bashfulness, no irresolution in her colourless features, as she answered, "Mother, I cannot." Horace's hopes had beguiled him; even the mother herself was deceived. Ruth did not love him!

There was a long silence. Perhaps Mrs. Grainger felt relieved that there was no other love to come between her and her darling; but she urged Horace's suit no more; only, as they rose up to retire for the night, she said, "Well, I am glad that it was Horace, and not Stephen, who loved you; for he will bear the disappointment much better than poor Stephen would have done."

It was well that Mrs. Grainger's head was turned aside, so that she did not see the glowing crimson that suffused Ruth's face and neck at these words. Not until that moment had the young girl known the secret of her own heart.

For some weeks after Mrs. Grainger had imparted to Horace-kindly and gently as the young man deserved, and as her own motherly regard for him prompted-the intelligence of the hopelessness of his love, nothing was heard of

rejection of her lover, she knew how acutely he must feel it; and her heart was sorely pained at the inevitable breaking of what had been such a pleasant tie. She grew so sad, and evidently suffered so much, that one might have thought she had really loved Horace; sometimes she almost thought so herself, but when she asked her own heart the question, the answer was, No; not him, not him!"

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Ruth was returning one day down the hill, from one of her forest rambles, when she saw a horse tied at the gate of the house: she feared it was Horace's, and she shrank much from meeting him; so she turned back into the wood. A few minutes after, she was overtaken, not by her lover, but by Stephen. Ruth held out her hand in cordial greeting, and her old companion took it in the same spirit. The young girl was relieved to find that either Stephen knew nothing of what had passed, or else that he bore no ill-will to her for it. In a few minutes the two were walking arm-in-arm, and talking as of old.

Stephen did not mention his brother's name for some time, and when he did, it was in a passing way; but he felt Ruth's hand tremble.

"How is Horace?" she asked, her kindly nature overcoming the reserve which was natural in such a case.

"He has been ill-he is not well now," answered Stephen, looking fixedly at his companion.

The tears came into the gentle girl's eyes; be sad, dear Ruth; I know all; I would not Stephen noticed it, and said kindly, "Do not have spoken of him, but that you asked me."

"And you are not angry with me, Stephen?" "How should I be angry? You have done no wrong. You had no power over your own heart. Indeed it was natural, brought up as we have been, that you should only feel towards us as a sister," added Stephen, with a slight sigh.

Ruth made no answer, and they came in silence to an old and favourite spot, beside a little well that sprung from the hill-side, and flowed down to the valley; in old times it had been a medicinal spring of high repute; and the peculiar nature of its waters formed curious incrustations of various hues all round the sides; so that looking down into the well was like gazing on a fairy palace below the surface, which melted away at the touch. All round the well the two boys had planted primroses and wild hyacinths, which every spring grew more abundant; a sweeter spot could not be, and so Ruth and Stephen said for the hundredth time as they came and sat down by the well. Ruth dipped her slight fingers in the water, and played with the broad primrose leaves; while Stephen, after a short silence, again referred to Ilorace and his disappointment.

"He does not know of my coming here to day; but I could not bear to wait longer without seeing you and your mother. Why should this affair make any difference between us?"

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Why indeed should it?" repeated Ruth

anxiously. "Such old friends as we are She stopped.

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Stephen waited a moment, and then continued: "I do not care what Horace says. I must come here; I will not part with you too." "I should be sorry, very sorry;" and Ruth drooped her head so that he could not see her face.

Stephen's countenance was usually calm, but now every feature seemed disturbed; and his fingers were nervously tearing in pieces a handful of primroses which he had unconsciously plucked.

"We were very happy in our childish days, Ruth," he said, with an effort. "But I knew it could not be always so; it must end at last." "Do not talk thus," answered Ruth, turning towards him her beautiful eyes. "Let us forget all that has happened. Horace himself will forget it in time; and meanwhile let me be, to you at least, the same- -your sister."

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Oh, not my sister," cried the young man impetuously, not my sister, but my wife. did not mean to tell you, Ruth, but I must. I love you more than ever Horace did. Do not say to me as you did to him!"

Ruth did not, for her sole answer was a gush of silent tears. The birds sang in the forestboughs over head; the primroses dipped their heads in the water; the sunny earth was full of gladness and melody; as if all nature rejoiced at the union of the two loving hearts, whose secret had thus suddenly and unexpectedly been discovered each to each.

Mrs. Grainger's first emotion, on hearing of the love between Ruth and Stephen, was unmitigated surprise. In such cases people often have their eyes closed to the most likely and natural events, and then wonder at their own blindness. That Ruth should have preferred the quiet Stephen-whose gentle and retiring disposition made even his acknowledged talents scarcely perceptible-to the handsome, frank, noble-spirited Horace, was the wonder of the mother; yet she herself loved Stephen best; and what marvel was it that Ruth should do so too? But, poor Horace, brooding over his disappointment in solitary bitterness! Even the hearts of the happy lovers often ached for him, and they trembled for the time when the truth should come to his knowledge. It did come at last; for in like circumstances "a bird of the air will carry the matter." Fearful to witness was the wrath and despair of the unfortunate young man; he loaded with opprobrious epithets his regretful though innocent brother, who pitying Horace, and almost reproaching himself as the unwitting cause of such misery, had not a word to say. Stephen left his brother's house for ever, and the direst enmity took the place of that fraternal regard which had hitherto subsisted between them.

"Man proposes-God disposes!"' was an old and pious rhyme of our ancestors, and oh! how true! Whether it was from the conflicting feelings which now troubled Ruth's

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gentle bosom-the sorrow which was born with her love-or whether from inherent delicacy, which only needed some trifling cause to blight her youth and beauty, none could tell; but she drooped even in the midst of her happiness, as Stephen's plighted wife: he did not see it, nor did her mother, until every one else knew that she was dying. And in little more than a year from the time when Ruth had promised to be his own, Stephen laid his bride in the cold arms of death.

It is hardly sad when the aged depart-nor even the young, when we know there is no more joy for them in this world; but when they die, as Ruth, with a future full of hope dawning before them, in the midst of love and happiness, it is bitter, very bitter! Poor human nature clings to visible things, not to the unseen joys of immortality. We cannot bear to lose the light of our eyes, to lay our beloved down from our arms, for happiness which we ourselves have not yet tasted, and only know through faith; and faith itself grows weak sometimes. No wonder then, that when Stephen closed the eyes of his beloved, and laid her form down from his bosom, where she had softly breathed her life away, to its immovable repose, he felt as if life was all darkness to him.

Of the widow's anguish, thus bereaved of her only child, we dare not speak; God only knows the grief of a mother!

It was a bleak autumn day when Ruth-no, not Ruth, but the clay which had garmented her loving and gentle spirit-was carried to its resting-place in the forest church-yard. The brown withered leaves drifted down on the white pall as the coffin was borne through the woods. Tears fell from hard eyes as the holy words were uttered, and then all the mourners departed, and Stephen Leigh was left alone with his dead. His heart was well nigh broken as he looked on the wide landscape, seen from the hilly churchyard, where many a Sunday he and Horace and Ruth had stood together; a dim autumn mist was creeping over it now, and it chilled his very soul. They were all three so happy once, and now there was nothing but sorrow, estrangement, and death. Who had done this? Not he. And Horace was as much to be pitied as himself-it might be more; yet grief had put bitterness in even Stephen's heart, and as he thought of his brother his hands clenched involuntarily; he knelt down on the grave, to drive away all thought save of her who was gone.

He remained many minutes without moving, and when he looked up Horace was standing opposite to him. Months had passed since the brothers had met; both were changed; Horace fearfully so; he stood there immovable, his features white and still as marble, and marked all over with deep lines of anguish.

Stephen rose up, shocked at the expression of his brother's face; and both stood gazing at each other in silence. At last the elder said, in a tone that made Stephen shudder, “Go away! You have no right to her now."

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"I will not go,” answered his brother. "My place is here. Why do you come to trouble me?"

"Go away!" Horace repeated more violently. "You stole her from me; you deceived me; and now you would keep me away from her grave."

"I never did you wrong, Horace," said Stephen, trying to command himself and speak calmly. "I did not even know you loved her till afterwards. I never stole her away from you.

What sin was it if Ruth loved me?

"Liar! How dare you mention her name?" cried Horace in violent rage. "You have sinned, and you are requited; you have lost her for ever; she is mine now as much as yours. Once more I say, go away from hence! You have no right to haunt me even at her grave. But for her, I would strike you where you

stand."

"I will save you that wickedness," said Stephen, whose gentler and not easily roused spirit grew calm in proportion as he saw his brother's anger increase. "It shall not be said that we two contended even over Ruth's grave. I will strive with you no more for her sake." And he turned and went away from the spot. As he reached the little gate of the church-yard he looked round; Horace had flung himself beside the little mound of earth, with his arms round it, and the strong man's frame quivered like that of a weeping child.

Stephen Leigh went home to his adopted mother, for he had promised Ruth to be to Mrs. Grainger as a son. Henceforth he took up his abode at the Hill Farm, and fulfilled towards the widow all the duties of a child of her own. This had been Ruth's dying wish, and it was a comfort to both the bereaved ones.

allusion never failed to excite. And courted as Horace Leigh had once been, most people shrank from him now; for he had grown to be a hard master, a suspicious friend, easily roused to passion; and many people said, by turns a miser and a prodigal. He lived alone in his large gloomy house, and never appeared at church; only at times he was seen to visit stealthily poor and it was now grown up into a tree, and the Ruth's grave. A willow had been planted there, could not extinguish the fire that burned in the birds sang in its branches; yet all these years less than Horace's, for his nature was softer two brothers' hearts. Stephen's animosity was fear for the results of Horace's anger had and more forgiving; yet he often thought, that weighed down Ruth's meek spirit, and so without a shudder, look upon his brother when brought her to her grave; and he could not, he remembered this.

And how felt the mother of her whose love had brought with it such dire effects? Day and night this fatal estrangement weighed upon Mrs. Grainger's heart. When the grass was green over Ruth's bed of rest, and her memory no longer brought with it such bitter pangs, the whole aim of the mother's life was to make peace between the two brothers. Had Horace indeed been Ruth's chosen, and her own son, she could not have felt a deeper pity for him than now. How could she think harshly of the bright handsome boy whom she had taken from his mother's dying bed, and watched from boyhood to youth, and from youth to manhood, until that fatal love? Every new tale that she heard of Horace's advance in error but increased her compassion for him. She felt as if she must live until the brothers were reconciled; as if she could not meet her Ruth face to face in heaven, until she could tell that she had left peace behind her on earth.

Years passed, and no change took place, save that the widow's frame became feebler; and she Mrs. Grainger knew how hard was the work talked with a more solemn yet joyful earnest- she had to do, yet she did not fear. She began ness of meeting Ruth again. Stephen Leigh by silently striving to take away all that was advanced towards middle age, becoming more bitter in Stephen's memory, not suffering him immersed than ever in study; but he never to think that Ruth's death was in any way to be thought of marriage. He had loved Ruth too attributed to Horace's wrath; and then she imwell ever to love another; still, his heart was as perceptibly brought to his remembrance hig full of goodness and tenderness as in his youth-brother's generous temper in their childish days ful days; and no son or daughter, not even the lost one herself, could have soothed and cherished with more affectionate care the widow's declining years.

and all that was good in his character. And' then she pleaded the misery of his unrequited love; how much happier was Stephen to know that Ruth had died loving him, than poor Upon Horace the blighting of his hopes had Horace, who had not one drop of honey in his a different effect. Happy love might have con- cup of gall. All this Mrs. Grainger accomquered the errors of his nature, and made his plished so unconsciously to the object of her brighter qualities shine forth; but misfortune care, that Stephen Leigh had forgiven his broworked otherwise on his character. Passionatether in his heart long before even he was aware in all his feelings, his intense love changed into violent hatred, and the object of it was, as might be expected, his brother Stephen. Though living within a few miles of each other, the brothers seldom met; or, if they did, each would turn aside as if the other were a snake in his path. No friend or acquaintance of Horace's dared mention Stephen's name in his presence, so violent was the burst of wrath that such an

of the fact.

But the good work of the peace-maker was as yet only begun. With Horace there was little hope-he seemed to be as immovable as a rock. The two brothers passed one another with stony and averted eyes, and quickened steps. stranger would never have dreamed that they had once loved one another; had slept in the same cradle; had played round one mother's

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