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[Transcriber's note: There are two Chapter VI's in this book.
I have moved footnotes to the end of each chapter.]




SEA AND SHORE.

A

SEQUEL TO "MIRIAM'S MEMOIRS."

BY MRS. CATHARINE A. WARFIELD.

AUTHOR OF

"THE HOUSEHOLD OF BOUVERIE," "MONFORT HALL," "MIRIAM'S HOUSE" "HESTER
HOWARD'S TEMPTATION," "A DOUBLE WEDDING; OR, HOW SHE WAS WON," ETC.

"_No fears hath she! Her giant form
Majestically calm would go
O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm,
'Mid he deep darkness, white as snow!
So stately her bearing, so proud her array,
The main she will traverse forever and aye!
Many ports shall exult in the gleam of her mast--
Hush! hush! Thou vain dreamer, this hour is her last!_"

PHILADELPHIA:
T.B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.


1876


MRS. C.A. WARFIELD'S NEW WORKS.

Each Book is in One Volume, Morocco Cloth, price $1.75.

_SEA AND SHORE_.

_MIRIAM'S MEMOIRS_.

_MONFORT HALL_.

_THE HOUSEHOLD OF BOUVERIE_.

_A DOUBLE WEDDING; or, How She Was Won_.

_HESTER HOWARD'S TEMPTATION_.


_From Gail Hamilton, author of "Gala Days" etc._

"'The Household of Bouverie' is one of those books that pluck out all
your teeth, and then dare you to bite them. Your interest is awakened at
once in the first chapter, and you are whirled through in a
lightning-express train that leaves you no opportunity to look at the
little details of wood, and lawn, and river. You notice two or three
little peculiarities of style--one or two 'bits' of painting--and then
you pull on your seven-leagued boots and away you go."

_From George Ripley's Review of "The Household of Bouverie" in Harper's
Magazine_.

"'The Household of Bouverie,' by Mrs. Warfield, is a wonderful book. I
have read it twice--the second time more carefully than the first--and I
use the term 'wonderful,' because it best expresses the feeling
uppermost in my mind, both while reading and thinking it over. As a
piece of imaginative writing, I have seen nothing to equal it since the
days of Edgar A. Poe, and I doubt whether he could have sustained
himself and the readers through a book half the size of the 'Household
of Bouverie.' I have literally hurried through it by my intense
sympathy, my devouring curiosity--It was more than interest. I read
everywhere--between the courses of the hotel-table, on the boat, in the
cars--until I had swallowed the last line. This is no common occurrence
with a veteran romance reader like myself."

Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers at $1.75 each, or $10.50 for
a complete set of the six volumes, or copies of either one or more of
the above Books, or a complete set of the six volumes, will be sent at
once, to any one, to any place, post-paid, or free of freight, on
remitting their price in a letter to the publishers,

T.B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
306 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA.




"No fears hath she! Her giant form
Majestically calm would go
O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm,
'Mid the deep darkness, white as snow!
So stately her bearing, so proud her array,
The main she will traverse forever and aye!
Many ports shall exult in the gleam of her mast--
Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer, this hour is her last!"

WILSON, "_Isle of Palms_."

* * * * *

"Then hold her
Strictly confined in sombre banishment,
And Doubt not but she will ere long, full gladly,
Her freedom purchase at the price you name."

* * * * *

"No, subtle snake!
It is the baseness of thy selfish mind,
Full of all guile, and cunning, and deceit,
That severs us so far, and shall do _ever_."

* * * * *

"Despair shall give me strength--where is the door?
Mine eyes are dark! I cannot find it now.
O God! protect me in this awful pass!"

JOANNA BAILLIE, _Tragedy of "Orra_."




SEA AND SHORE.

BY MRS. C.A. WARFIELD.

AUTHOR OF "THE HOUSEHOLD OF BOUVERIE."




CHAPTER I.


It was a calm and hazy morning of Southern summer that on which I turned
my face seaward from the "keep" of Beauseincourt, never, I knew, to see
its time-stained walls again, save through the mirage of memory. There
is an awe almost as solemn to me in a consciousness like this as that
which attends the death-bed parting, and my straining eye takes in its
last look of a familiar scene as it might do the ever-to-be-averted face
of friendship.

The refrain of Poe's even then celebrated poem was ringing through my
brain on that sultry August day, I remember, like a tolling bell, as I
looked my last on the gloomy abode of the La Vignes; but I only said
aloud, in answer to the sympathizing glances of one who sat before
me--the gentle and quiet Marion--who had suddenly determined to
accompany me to Savannah, nerved with unwonted impulse:

"Madame de Staël was right when she said that 'nevermore' was the
saddest and most expressive word in the English tongue" (so harsh to her
ears, usually). "I think she called it the sweetest, too, in sound; but
to me it is simply the most sorrowful, a knell of doom, and it fills my
soul to-day to overflowing, for 'never, never more' shall I look on
Beauseincourt!"

"You cannot tell, Miss Harz, what _time_ may do; you may still return to
visit us in our retirement, you and Captain Wentworth," urged Marion,
gently, leaning forward, as she spoke, to take my hand in hers.

"'Time the tomb-builder'" fell from my lips ere they were aware. "That
is a grand thought--one that I saw lately in a Western poem, the
New-Year's address of a young editor of Kentucky called Prentice. Is it
not splendid, Marion?"

"Very awful, rather," she responded, with a faint shudder. "Time the
'comforter,' let us say, instead, Miss Miriam--Time the
'veil-spreader.'"

"Why, Marion, you are quite poetic to-day, quite Greek! That is a sweet
and tender saying of yours, and I shall garner it. I stand reproved, my
child. All honor to Time, the _merciful_, whether he builds palaces or
tombs! but none the less do I reverence my young poet for that
stupendous utterance of his soul. I shall watch the flight of that
eaglet of the West with interest from this hour! May he aspire!"

"Not if he is a Jackson Democrat?" broke in the usually gentle Alice
Durand, fired with a ready defiance of all heterodox policy, common, if
not peculiar, to that region.

"Oh, but he is not; he is a good Whig instead--a Clay man, as we call
such."

"Not a Calhoun man, though, I suppose, so I would not give a snap of my
fingers for him or his poetry! It is very natural, for you, Miss Harz,"
in a somewhat deprecating tone, "to praise your partisans. I would not
have you neutral if I could, it is so contemptible."

A little of the good doctor's spirit there, under all that exterior of
meekness and modesty, I saw at a glance, and liked her none the less for
it, if truth were told. And now we were nearing the gate, with its
gray-stone pillars, on one of which, that from which the marble ball had
rolled, to hide in the grass beneath, perchance, until the end of all, I
had seen the joyous figure of Walter La Vigne so lightly poised on the
occasion of my last exodus from Beauseincourt. A moment's pause, and the
difficult, disused bolts that had once exasperated the patience of
Colonel La Vigne were drawn asunder, and the clanking gates clashed
behind us as we emerged from the shadowed domain into the glare and dust
of the high-road.

Here Major Favraud, accompanied by Duganne, awaited us, seated in state
in his lofty, stylish swung gig (with his tiny tiger behind), drawn
tandem-wise by his high-stepping and peerless blooded bays, Castor and
Pollux. Brothers, like the twins of Leda, they had been bred in the
blue-grass region of Kentucky and the vicinity of Ashland, and were
worthy of their ancient pedigree, their perfect training and classic
names, the last bestowed when he first became their owner, by Major
Favraud, who, with a touch of the whip or a turn of the hand, controlled
them to subjection, fiery coursers although they were!

Dr. Durand, too, with his spacious and flame-lined gig, accompanied by
his son, a lad of sixteen, awaited our arrival, and served to swell the
cavalcade that wound slowly down the dusty road, with its sandy surface
and red-clay substratum. A few young gentlemen on horseback completed
our _cortége_.

Major Favraud sat holding his ribbons gracefully in one gauntleted
hand, while he uncovered his head with the other, bowing suavely in his
knightly fashion, as he said:

"Come drive with me, Miss Harz, for a while, and let the young folks
take it together."

"Oh, no, Major Favraud; you must excuse me, indeed! I feel a little
languid this morning, and I should be poor company. Besides, I cannot
surrender my position as one of the young folks yet."

"Nay, I have something to say to you--something very earnest. You shall
be at no trouble to entertain me; but you must not refuse a poor, sad
fellow a word of counsel and cheer. I shall think hard of you if you
decline to let me drive you a little way. Besides, the freshness of the
morning is all lost on you there. Now, set Marion a good example, and
she will, in turn, enliven me later."

So adjured, I consented to drive to the Fifteen-mile House with Major
Favraud, and Duganne glided into the coach in my stead, to take my place
and play _vis-à-vis_ to Sylphy, who, as usual, was selected as
traveling-companion on this occasion, "to take kear of de young ladies."

"I am so glad I have you all to myself once more, Miss Harz! I feel now
that we are fast friends again. And I wanted to tell you, while I could
speak of her, how much my poor wife liked you. (The time will come when
I must not, _dare_ not, you know.) But for circumstances, she would have
urged you to become our guest, or even in-dweller; but you know how it
all was! I need not feign any longer, nor apologize either."

"It must have been that she saw how lovely and _spirituelle_ I found
_her_," I said, "and could not bear to be outdone in consideration, nor
to owe a debt of social gratitude.



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