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Speech Processing A Dynamic and Optimization Oriented
Approach 1st Edition Li Deng (Author) Digital Instant
Download
Author(s): Li Deng (Author); Douglas O`Shaughnessy (Author)
ISBN(s): 9781482276237, 1351821903
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 18.56 MB
Year: 2003
Language: english
Speech Processing
 Signal Processing and Communications

Editorial Board
Maurice G. Bellanger, Conservatoire National
des Arts et Métiers (CNAM), Paris
Ezio Biglieri, Politecnico di Torino, Italy
Sadaoki Furui, Tokyo Institute of Technology
Yih-Fang Huang, University of Notre Dame
Nikhil Jayant, Georgia Tech University
Aggelos K. Katsaggelos, Northwestern University
Mos Kaveh, University of Minnesota
P. K. Raja Rajasekaran, Texas Instruments
John Aasted Sorenson, IT University of Copenhagen

1. Digital Signal Processing for Multimedia Systems, edited by Keshab

K. Parhi and Takao Nishitani
2. Multimedia Systems, Standards, and Networks, edited by Atul Puri
and Tsuhan Chen
3. Embedded Multiprocessors: Scheduling and Synchronization, Sun-
dararajan Sriram and Shuvra S. Bhattacharyya
4. Signal Processing for Intelligent Sensor Systems, David C. Swanson
5. Compressed Video over Networks, edited by Ming-Ting Sun and Amy
R. Reibman
6. Modulated Coding for Intersymbol Interference Channels, Xiang-Gen
Xia
7. Digital Speech Processing, Synthesis, and Recognition: Second Edi-
tion, Revised and Expanded, Sadaoki Furui
8. Modern Digital Halftoning, Daniel L. Lau and Gonzalo R. Arce
9. Blind Equalization and Identification, Zhi Ding and Ye (Geoffrey) Li
10. Video Coding for Wireless Communication Systems, King N. Ngan,
Chi W. Yap, and Keng T. Tan
11. Adaptive Digital Filters: Second Edition, Revised and Expanded,
Maurice G. Bellanger
12. Design of Digital Video Coding Systems, Jie Chen, Ut-Va Koc, and
K. J. Ray Liu
13. Programmable Digital Signal Processors: Architecture, Program-
ming, and Applications, edited by Yu Hen Hu
14. Pattern Recognition and Image Preprocessing: Second Edition, Re-
vised and Expanded, Sing-Tze Bow
15. Signal Processing for Magnetic Resonance Imaging and Spectros-
copy, edited by Hong Yan
16. Satellite Communication Engineering, Michael O. Kolawole
17. Speech Processing: A Dynamic and Optimization-Oriented Ap-
proach, Li Deng and Douglas O'Shaughnessy

Additional Volumes in Preparation

Multidimensional Discrete Unitary Transforms: Representation, Par-

titioning, and Algorithms, Artyom M. Grigoryan

Domain-Specific Embedded Multiprocessors: Systems, Architec-

tures, Modeling, and Simulation, Shuvra Bhattacharyya, Ed De-
prettere, and Jürgen Teich

High-Resolution and Robust Signal Processing, Yingbo Hua, Alex

Gershman, and Qi Cheng
Speech Processing
A Dynamic and
Optimization-Oriented Approach

LI DENG
Microsoft Research
Redmond, Washington, U.S.A.

DOUGLAS 0' SHAUGHNESSY

INRS Energy, Materials, and Telecommunications
University of Quebec
Montreal, Quebec, Canada

CRC Press
Taylor &Francis Group
Boca Raton London New York

CRC Press is an imprint of the

Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
CRC Press
Taylor & Francis Group
6000 Broken Sound Parkway NW, Suite 300
Boca Raton, FL 33487-2742
© 2003 by Taylor & Francis Group, LLC
CRC Press is an imprint of Taylor & Francis Group, an Informa business

No claim to original U.S. Government works

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 To our families,
students, and colleagues
 SERIES INTRODUCTION

Over the past 50 years, digital signal processing has evolved as a

major engineering discipline. The fields of signal processing have
grown from the origin of fast Fourier transform and digital filter
design to statistical spectral analysis and array processing, image,
audio, and multimedia processing, and shaped developments in high-
performance VLSI signal processor design. Indeed, there are few
fields that enjoy so many applications—signal processing is
everywhere in our lives.
When one uses a cellular phone, the voice is compressed, coded,
and modulated using signal processing techniques. As a cruise missile
winds along hillsides searching for the target, the signal processor is
busy processing the images taken along the way. When we are
watching a movie in HDTV, millions of audio and video data are
being sent to our homes and received with unbelievable fidelity.
When scientists compare DNA samples, fast pattern recognition
techniques are being used. On and on, one can see the impact of
signal processing in almost every engineering and scientific
discipline.
Because of the immense importance of signal processing and the
fast-growing demands of business and industry, this series on signal
processing serves to report up-to-date developments and advances in
the field. The topics of interest include but are not limited to the
following:

• Signal theory and analysis

• Statistical signal processing
• Speech and audio processing
• Image and video processing
• Multimedia signal processing and technology
• Signal processing for communications
• Signal processing architectures and VLSI design

We hope this series will provide the interested audience with

high-quality, state-of-the-art signal processing literature through
research monographs, edited books, and rigorously written textbooks
by experts in their fields.

v
 PREFACE
Aims and intended audience
This book was written to serve four main purposes, categorized according to the potential
readers of the book. First and principally, the book has been designed and organized as a
text for a graduate level (or senior undergraduate level) course for students in Electrical
and Computer Engineering, Systems Design, Computer Science, Applied Mathematics
or Physics, Cognitive Science, or Linguistics and Phonetics (computation oriented). The
materials contained in this book have grown out of our lecture notes prepared and used
since 1990, with continual updating, in teaching the courses entitled "Digital Speech
Processing" and "Speech Communication," offered formally to the graduate and senior
undergraduate students at the University of Waterloo and at McGill University, respec-
tively. Most of the students specialized in Communication, Signal Processing, and Infor-
mation Systems in the respective Departments of Electrical and Computer Engineering.
While writing this book, serious effort was made to extract and reorganize our earlier
lecture notes, with the aim of providing earnest students with a systematic textbook
tool to acquire comprehensive knowledge and to build a solid intellectual foundation in
both speech science and speech technology. In particular, the materials included in the
book have been chosen and organized to underscore the importance of analytical skills
in student training that we believe are essential for them to meet future challenges in
scientific and technological advances in the field upon graduation.
Second, this book is intended also for professionals and engineering practitioners
who are nevertheless newcomers to some specific fields of speech technology and who
desire to acquire necessary background knowledge. Research and technology in speech
processing have advanced significantly over the last decade and are continuing to make
remarkable progress. The trend is expected to continue for many years to come as
computing technology continues to advance. This trend should be particularly strong
since more and more applications, such as those in telecommunications and in multimedia
information systems, enabled by voice technology, are fast emerging from laboratories
to the real world. Because many researchers and engineers are likely to find themselves
involved in the area of speech processing for the first time, we have structured the
book to contain sufficient background information related to speech but also to provide
pointers to skipping certain mathematical materials for those who are already equipped
with mathematical backgrounds based on training in engineering disciplines other than
speech technology.
Third, this book can also serve as a reference book for seasoned researchers and engi-
neers in speech processing. In this book, we have emphasized the notions of mathematical
abstraction and of engineering optimization that are used to unify many seemingly dis-
tinct approaches to problem solving in speech processing. The generality of the many
common methods described in this book will enable readers to advance their understand-
ing of speech processing theory. Researchers with limited experience may use this book
as an introduction to the field. Those with more experience in speech processing may
find in this book useful techniques and solutions to specific problems of interest. More
advanced readers may explore further research topics based on the platform provided in
this book.
Finally, the multidisciplinary nature of speech research provides an incentive for a
book that, in an integrated view and in a balanced fashion, is capable of covering several
rather distinct disciplinary areas that jointly underpin the field of speech processing.
viii Preface

During our years of teaching and research, we have found that students or researchers
specializing in one or more of these multidisciplinary areas often have a very strong
desire to know other less familiar subareas in speech processing based on the exper-
tise of their own specialized subarea(s). For example, electrical engineers or computer
scientists who are doing advanced research on speech recognition often are interested
in the true linguistic and phonetic nature of the speech signal they are dealing with
everyday, and are interested in how humans perform speech recognition and why their
performance is so much better than that of current computers. On the other hand, pho-
neticians, phonologists, speech production and perception researchers (many of them
engineers by training), and linguistics-oriented cognitive scientists often wonder whether
their observations and abstract theories can be put to the test and can gain support by
comprehensive computer models, systems, and practical performances related to auto-
matic, large-scale speech processing. One important objective that we kept in mind while
writing this book was to contribute to bridging the gap among the various traditionally
distinct disciplines, all of which nevertheless are dealing with the identical physical entity
of human speech yet with drastically different disciplinary traditions in conjunction with
drastically different habitual approaches. Moreover, since in this book many problems of
probabilistic inference and statistical learning (two types of estimation issues) are treated
in a unified view in the context of speech modeling, researchers from statistics (e.g., time
series analysis, data analysis, and computer-intensive methods, etc.), neural networks,
pattern recognition, machine learning, and artificial intelligence can also benefit from
reading this book.

Scope of the book

The main body of this book contains four parts, which have been organized into a total
of 14 chapters. A summary of the book's subjects is provided below:
• PART I
Chapters 1-6 cover mathematical background and signal processing techniques that
are necessary for speech analysis at the sampled-waveform level and for the remain-
ing materials in the book focusing on statistical modeling at higher levels of the
speech process. Throughout this book, we deal almost exclusively with discrete-
time, as opposed to continuous-time, speech signals. This decision was made based
on the computation-oriented nature of the book (and on the belief that speech
technology advancement would lose ground without close ties to digital-computing
technology). Conversion from continuous-time signals to the discrete-time coun-
terpart is covered in the very beginning of the book, where rigorous treatment is
made on the popular sampling theorem. Other essential concepts and techniques
in digital signal processing (DSP), including signal transformations, digital filter
characterization and analysis, frequency responses of digital filters, and stationary
and nonstationary frequency-domain signal analysis, are covered in the remain-
der of Chapter 1. The material in Chapter 2 encompasses major topics in speech
analysis, a conventional subarea of speech processing that exemplifies much of the
natural applications of the DSP techniques covered in Chapter 1.
While the first two chapters deal with analysis and processing of deterministic
signals, the remaining chapters in Part I cover statistical aspects of mathematical
background. Basics of probability theory are covered in Chapter 3, which are
used subsequently in Chapter 4 to describe the canonical forms of two very widely
used signal models in statistical signal processing: the static linear model and the
Preface ix

dynamic system model. This is followed by Chapter 5, which covers major results
in estimation theory and associated optimization methods. Estimation theory is
one core topic in this book since the techniques reviewed here permeate through
most areas of speech technology presented in Part IV. In particular, the training
and decoding problems in speech recognition have been cast as two aspects of the
estimation problem, parameter estimation and state estimation. The last chapter
of Part I introduces concepts, main results, and techniques in statistical pattern
recognition. Results described in this chapter are used in formulating decision rules
for speech recognition.
• PART II
The two chapters contained in this part provide fundamentals of speech science, fo-
cusing on scientific/linguistic findings and principles governing the nature of human
speech communication and processing. Chapters 7 and 8 are devoted, respectively,
to two rather distinct disciplines in speech science by tradition — those pertinent
to the phonetic and phonological processes of human speech. The phonetic pro-
cess pertains to the low-level, physical aspects of speech with continuous, numeric
attributes. Three main subfields of phonetics are covered in Chapter 7: articula-
tory, acoustic, and auditory phonetics, together with major theories and models in
phonetics. (In Part II, we have used the word "model" in a rather narrow sense to
mean a mental or computational abstraction of the speech process for the purpose
of scientific understanding of human speech; this contrasts against the "computa-
tional model" used in most places in Parts I, III and IV.) The phonological process
pertains to high-level, structural aspects and sound patterns of speech and lan-
guage. It is symbolic in nature and is often referred to as the organizational units
of speech. A range of such units, from the atomic units such as features to the
large, external organizational units such as syllable and other prosodic units, are
discussed in Chapter 8.
Both the phonetic and the phonological processes, as well as their interface, em-
body speech production and perception as an integrated, closed-loop system. The
dynamic nature of such a system receives special attention descriptively in the
chapters constituting Part II.
• PART III
The three chapters in this part represent a significant transition from speech sci-
ence (Part II) to speech technology (Part IV); that is, a transition from human
processing of speech to computer processing of speech. A key step for a successful
transition of such a kind is to firmly establish computational models of the speech
process. By computational model, we mean mathematical abstraction of the
true physical process, with necessary simplification for mathematical tractability,
so as to make such abstraction amenable to computer implementation for useful
purposes. We have tried to use this definition as consistently as possible through-
out the entire book. More specifically, computational models of the speech process
are the mathematical abstraction of the phonological (symbolic) and phonetic (nu-
meric) aspects of human speech, which can be subject to discrete-time computation
for purposes of computer speech recognition and understanding, synthesis, analysis,
enhancement, coding, speaker recognition, and so on.
Chapter 9 is devoted to computational models for the symbolic, phonological pro-
cess, while Chapters 10 and 11 treat two major aspects of computational phonetics.
x Preface

Special treatment is made of a hierarchy of statistical models of speech dynamics,

including the hidden Markov model, explicitly defined trajectory model, and re-
cursively defined trajectory model (state-space model). These models are placed
under the heading of computational models for speech production, because all of
them can be classified into one of the three levels of human speech production
for which the dynamic properties of the speech process are directly represented
in the models. The three levels include the "task" level where the goal of speech
production is defined, the articulatory level which constitutes the implementation
system for speech production, and the acoustic level which gives the final outcome
of speech production. The statistical formulation of these computational models al-
lows them to be easily subject to computational optimization (such as training and
decoding guided by Estimation Theory). As a result, these computational models
have found useful applications in various areas of speech technology. In presenting
these models in Chapter 10, which forms another core topic of this book, emphasis
is placed on the tradeoff between model complexity and the degree to which the
model is accurately (or inaccurately) approximating realistic dynamic properties
of the speech process (its phonetic aspects in particular).

• PART IV
The final three chapters constitute selected areas in speech technology, which bear
fruits from the materials of all previous chapters building up the mathematical,
scientific, and computational foundations. The emphasis is on technology manifes-
tation of speech science and of the associated computational frameworks. Several
case studies are included in the chapters of Part IV to detail the speech technology
applications.
Chapter 12 is dedicated to speech recognition, the most important area of speech
technology and the final core topic of this book. This chapter is focused on model
optimization and system design aspects of speech recognition, while placing the
signal processing or preprocessing portion more appropriately, in our judgment,
in Chapter 2 on speech analysis. The roles of phonetics and phonology in speech
recognition are elaborated on carefully, and are put into as balanced a perspective
as possible. The specific topics covered in this chapter include the mathematical
formulation and general statistical paradigm of speech recognition, various kinds of
statistical models for acoustic modeling of speech, Bayesian-oriented robust tech-
niques for acoustic modeling and recognizer design, and statistical language mod-
eling, which provides prior constraints for speech recognition.
Chapter 13 covers speech enhancement, or noise reduction, another important
area in speech technology. Basic principles are described, with an emphasis on
the key roles that dynamic modeling and optimization play in the design of the
enhancement algorithms and systems. Major approaches in speech enhancement
are presented, including spectral subtraction, Wiener filtering, and use of statistical
models as prior information for speech enhancement. Important applications of
speech enhancement for robust speech recognition are also discussed in this chapter.
The techniques presented have been characterized by active use of speech dynamic
information and by use of various kinds of optimization criteria. At the heart
of these techniques is statistical optimization, which is made possible because of
the statistical formulation of the speech enhancement problem, based on various
statistical models established to describe speech dynamics.
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 FRANK AND HER SINGULAR VISITOR.

It will soon fall to our task to depict certain scenes, which took place
in the Empire City on the 23d of December, between nightfall and
midnight. The greater portion of these scenes will find their
legitimate development in "the Temple," from midnight until morning;
while others will lift the "Golden Shroud" and uncover to our gaze
threads and arteries of that great social heart of New York, which
throbs with every pang of unutterable misery, or dilates and burns
with every pulse of voluptuous luxury.
Ere we commence our task, let us look in upon a scene which took
place in the house of Frank, about nightfall and (of course) before
Nameless had sought refuge in her room.
Frank was sitting alone, in a quiet room near a desk upon which pen
and ink and papers were spread. It was the room devoted to the
management of her household affairs. She sat in an arm-chair, with
her feet on a stool and her back to the window, while she lifted the
golden cross and regarded it with an absent gaze. The white
curtains of the windows were turned to crimson by the reflection of
the setting sun, and the warm glow shining through the intervals of
her black hair, which fell loosely on her shoulders, rested warmly
upon her cheek. Her whole attitude was that of revery or dreamy
thought.
While thus occupied, a male servant, dressed in rich livery, entered,
and addressed his mistress in these words:
"Madam, he wishes to see you."
"He! Whom do you mean?" said Frank, raising her eyes but without
changing her position.
"That queer stranger, who never gives his name,—who has been
here so often within the last three weeks,—I mean the one who
wears the blue cloak with ever-so-many capes."
Frank started up in her chair.
"Show him in," she said,—"Yet stay a moment, Walker. Are all the
arrangements made for to-night?"
"Everything has been done, precisely as Madam ordered it to be
done," said the servant obsequiously.
He then retired and presently the visitor entered. The room is
wrapped in twilight and we cannot trace the details of his
appearance clearly, for he seats himself in the shadow, opposite
Frank. We can discern, however, that his tall form, bent with age, is
clad in a blue cloak with numerous capes, and he wears a black fur
hat with ample brim. He takes his seat quietly, and rests his hand
upon the head of his cane.
Not a word was spoken for several minutes. Each seemed to be
waiting for the other to commence the conversation. Frank at last
broke the embarrassing stillness.
"Soh! you are here again."
"Yes, madam," replied the stranger in a harsh but not unmusical
voice, "according to appointment."
"It is now three weeks since we first met," said Frank. "You
purchased this house of the person from whom I leased it, some
three weeks ago. But I have a lease upon it which has yet one year
to run. You desire, I believe, to purchase my lease, and enter at
once upon possession? Well, sir, I am resolved not to sell."
Without directly replying to her question, the man in the cloak with
many capes replied—
"We did not meet three weeks ago for the first time," he said. "Our
first meeting was long before that period."
"What mean you?" said Frank raising her eyes and endeavoring,
although vainly, to pierce the gloom which enshrouded the stranger.
"O, it is getting dark. I will ring for lights."
"Before you ring for lights, a word,—" the stranger's voice sank but
Frank heard every word,—"we met for the first time at a funeral—"
"At a funeral!"
"At a funeral; and after the funeral I had the body taken up privately
and ordered a post mortem examination to be made. Upon that
body, madam,—" he paused.
"Well, sir?" Frank's voice was tremulous.
"Upon that body I discovered traces of a fatal although subtle
poison."
Again he paused. Frank made no reply. Even in the dim light it might
be seen that her head sank slowly on her breast. Did the words of
the stranger produce a strong impression? We cannot see her face,
for the room is vailed in twilight.
"This darkness grows embarrassing," he said, "will you ring for
lights?"
She replied with a monosyllable, uttered in a faint voice,—"No!" she
said, then a dead stillness once more ensued, which continued until
the stranger again spoke.
"In regard to the lease, madam. Do you agree to sell, and upon the
terms which I proposed when I was here last?"
Again Frank replied with a monosyllable. "Yes!" she faintly said.
"And the other proposition: to-night you hold some sort of festival in
this place. I desire to know the names of all your guests; to
introduce such guests as I choose within these walls; to have, for
one night only, a certain control over the internal economy of this
place. In case you consent to this proposition, I will pay you for the
lease double the amount which I have already offered, and promise,
on my honor, to do nothing within these walls to-night, which can in
the slightest degree harm or compromise you."
He stated his proposition slowly and deliberately. Frank took full time
to ponder upon every word. Simple as the proposition looked, well
she knew, that it might embrace results of the most important
nature.
"Must I consent?" she said, and her voice faltered. "It is hard—"
"'Must' is no word in the case, madam," answered that stern even
voice. "Use your own will and pleasure."
"But the request is so strange," said Frank, "and suppose I grant it?
Who can tell the consequences?"
"It is singular," said the stranger as though thinking aloud, "to what
an extent the art of poisoning was carried in the middle ages! The
art has long been lost,—people poison each other bunglingly now-a-
days,—although it is said, that the secret of a certain poison, which
puts its victims quietly to sleep, leaving not the slighted tell-tale
trace or mark, has survived even to the present day."
Certainly the stranger had a most remarkable manner of thinking
aloud.
Frank spoke in a voice scarcely audible: "I consent to your
proposition."
She rose, and although it was rapidly getting quite dark, she
unlocked a secret drawer of her desk, and drew from thence two
packages.
"This way, sir," she spoke in a low voice, and the stranger rose and
approached her. "Here you will find the names of all my guests, and
especially of those who will come here to-night. You will find such
other information as may be useful to you and aid your purposes."
She placed the package in his hand. "I will place Walker and the
other servants under your command." She paused, and resumed
after an instant, in a firmer voice: "If I have yielded to your request,
it has not been altogether from fear,—"
"Fear! Who spoke of fear?"
"Don't mock me. I have yielded from fear, but not altogether from
fear. I have nursed a hope that you can aid me to quit this thrice
accursed life which I now lead. For though your polite manner only
thinly vails insinuations the most deadly, yet I believe you have a
heart. I feel that when you know all of my past life, all, you will
think, I do not say better of me, but differently, from what you do
now. Here, take this package,—it contains my history written by my
own hand, and only intended to be read after my death—but you
may read it now or at your leisure."
The man in the cloak took the package; his voice trembled when he
spoke—
"Girl, you shall not regret this confidence. I will aid you to quit this
accursed life."
"Leave me for a few moments. I wish to sit alone and think for a
little while. After that we will arrange matters in regard to the
festival to-night."
The stranger in the cloak left the room, bearing with him the two
packages, one of which embraced the mysteries of the house of
Frank, and the other contained the story of her life.
And in the darkness, Frank walked up and down the room, pressing
one clenched hand against her heaving bosom, and the other
against her burning brow.
Soon afterward, Frank and the stranger in the old-fashioned cloak,
were closeted for half an hour in earnest conversation.
We will not record the details of the conversation, but its results will
perchance be seen in the future pages of our history.
Here, at this point of our story, let us break the seals of the second
package which Frank gave to the stranger, and linger for a little
while upon the pages of her history, written by her own hand. A
strange history in every line! It is called The History of the Midnight
Queen!

CHAPTER III.
 THE CHILDHOOD OF THE MIDNIGHT QUEEN.

My childhood's home! O, is there in all the world a phrase so sweet

as this, "My childhood's home!" Others may look back to childhood,
and be stung by bitter memories, but my childhood was the heaven
of my life. As from the hopeless present, I gaze back upon it, I seem
like a traveler, half way up the Alps, surrounded by snow and clouds
and mist, and looking back upon the happy valley, which, dotted
with homes and rich in vines and flowers, smiles in the sunshine far
below.
My childhood's home was very beautiful. It was a two-story cottage,
situated upon an eminence, its white front and rustic porch, half
hidden by the horse-chesnut trees, which in the early summer had
snowy blossoms among their deep green leaves. Behind the cottage
arose a broad and swelling hill, which, fringed with gardens at its
base, and crowned on its summit by a few grand old trees standing
alone against the sky, was in summer-time clad along its entire
extent with a garment of golden wheat. Beneath the cottage flowed
the Neprehaun, a gentle rivulet, which wound among abrupt hills,—
every hill rich in foliage and dotted with homes—until it lost itself in
the waves of the Hudson. Yes, the Hudson was there, grand and
beautiful and visible always from the cottage porch; the Palisades
rising from its opposite shore into heaven, and the broad bay of
Tapaan Zee glistening in sunlight to the north.
O, that scene is before me now—the cottage with its white front,
half hidden by broad green leaves intermingled with white blossoms,
—the hill, which rose behind it, golden with wheat,—the Neprehaun
below, winding among the hills, now in sunshine, now in shadow,—
the Hudson, with its vast bay and the somber wall which rose into
the sky from its western shore,—it is before me now, with the spring
blossoms, the voices, the sky, the very air of my childhood's days.
In this home I found myself at the age of thirteen. I was the pupil
and the charge of the occupant of the cottage, a retired clergyman,
the Rev. Thomas Walworth, who having grown gray in the active
service of his Master, had come there to pass his last days in the
enjoyment of competence and peace. Even now, as on the day when
I left him forever, I can see his tall form, bent with age and clad in
black, his mild, pale face, with hair as white as snow,—I can hear
that voice, whose very music was made up of the goodness of a
heart at peace with God and man. When I was thirteen, myself, the
good clergyman, and an aged woman—the housekeeper—were the
only occupants of the cottage. His only son was away at college. And
when I was thirteen, my mother, who had placed me in the care of
the clergyman years before, came to see me. I shall never forget
that visit. I was sitting on the cottage porch—it was a June day—the
air was rich with fragrance and blossoms—my book was on my knee
—when I heard her step in the garden-walk. She was tall and very
beautiful, and richly clad in black, and her dark attire shone with
diamonds. Very beautiful, I say, although there were threads of silver
in her brown hair, and an incessant contraction of her dark brows,
which gave a look of anxiety or pain to her face.
As she came up the garden-walk, pushing aside her vail of dark lace,
I knew her, although I had not seen her for three years. Her
presence was strange to me, yet still my heart bounded as I saw her
come.
"Well, Frank," she said, as though it was but yesterday since I had
seen her, "I have come to see you,"—she kissed me warmly on the
lips and cheeks.—"Your father is dead, my child."
A tear stood in her dark eye, a slight tremor moved her lip—that was
all. My father dead! I can scarcely describe the emotions which
these words caused. I had not seen my father for years. There was
still a memory of his face present with me, coupled with an indistinct
memory of my early childhood, passed in a city of a foreign land,
and a dim vision of a voyage upon the ocean. And at my mother's
words there came up the laughing face and sunny hair of my brother
Gulian, who had suddenly disappeared about the time my parents
returned from Paris, and just before I had been placed in the charge
of the good clergyman. These mingling memories arose at my
mother's words, and although the good clergyman stood more to me
in the relation of a father than my own father, still I wept bitterly as I
heard the words, "Your father is dead, my child."
My mother, who seemed to me like one of those grand, rich ladies of
whom I had read in story-books, seated herself beside me on the
cottage porch.
"You are getting quite beautiful, Frank," she said, and lifted my sun-
bonnet and put her hand through the curls of my hair, which was
black as jet. "You will be a woman soon." She kissed me, and then
as she turned away, I heard her mutter these words which struck me
painfully although then I could not understand them: "A woman!
with your mother's beauty for your dowry and your mother's fate for
your future!"
The slight wrinkle between her brows grew deeper as she said these
words.
"You will be a woman, and must have an education suitable to the
station you will occupy," continued my mother, drawing me quietly to
her, and surveying me earnestly. "Now what do they teach you
here?"
She laughed as I gravely related the part which good old Alice—the
housekeeper—took in my education. Old Alice taught me all the
details of housekeeping; to sow, to knit, the fabrication of good pies,
good butter, and good bread; the mystery of the preparation of
various kinds of preserves; in fact, all the details of housekeeping as
she understood it. And the good old dame, with her high cap, clear,
bright little eyes, sharp nose, and white apron strung with a bundle
of keys, always concluded her lesson with a mysterious intimation
that, saving the good Mr. Walworth only, all the men in the world
were monsters, more dangerous than the bears which ate up the
bad children who mocked at Elijah.
Laughing heartily as she heard me gravely enter into all these
details, which I concluded with, "You see, mother, I'm quite a
housekeeper already!" she continued:
"And what does he teach you, my dear?"
The laughter which animated her face, was succeeded by a look of
vague curiosity as I began my answer. But as I went on, her face
became sad and there were tears in her eyes.
My father (as I had learned to call the good clergyman) taught me
to read, to write, and to cipher. He gradually disclosed to me (more
by his conversation than through the medium of books) the history
of past ages, the wonders of the heavens above me, the properties
of the plants and flowers that grew in my path. And oftentimes by
the bright wood-fire in winter, or upon the porch under the boughs,
in the rich twilight of the summer scenery—while the stars twinkled
through the leaves, or the Hudson glistened in the light of the rising
moon—he had talked to me of God. Of his love for all of us, his
providence watching the sparrow's fall, his mercy reaching forth its
almighty arms to the lowest of earth's stricken children. Of the other
world, which stretches beyond the shores of the present, not dim
and cloud-shadowed, but rich in the sunlight of eternal love, and
living with the realities of a state of being in which there shall be no
more sickness nor pain, and tears shall be wiped from every eye,
and all things be made new.
Of the holy mother watching over her holy child, while the stars
shone in upon his humble bed in the manger,—of that child, in early
boyhood, sitting in the temple confounding grave men, learned in
the logic of the world, by the simple intuitions of a heart felled with
the presence of God,—of the way of life led by that mother's child,
when thirty years had set the seal of the divine manhood on his
brow. How after the day's hard travel, he stopped to rest at the
cottage home of Martha and Mary,—how he took up little children
and blessed them,—how the blind began to see, the deaf to hear,
the dead to live, at sound of his voice,—how on the calm of evening,
in a modest room, he took his last supper with the Twelve, John
resting on his bosom, Judas scowling in the background,—how, amid
the olives of Gethsemane, at dead of night, while his disciples slept,
he went through the unutterable agony alone until an angel's hand
wiped the sweat of blood from his brow,—how he died upon the
felon's tree, the heavens black above him, the earth beneath him
dark with the vast multitude,—and how, on the clear Sabbath morn
he rose again, and called the faithful woman, who had followed him
to the sepulcher, by the name which his mother bore, spoken in the
old familiar tone—"Mary!" How he walked the earth in bodily form
eighteen hundred years ago, shedding the presence of God around
him, and even now he walked it still in spiritual body, shedding still
upon sin-stricken and sorrowing hearts the presence and the love of
God the Father. Lessons such as these, the good clergyman, my
father (as I called him) taught me, instructing me always to do good
and lead a life free from sin, not from fear of damnation or hell, but
because goodness is growth, a good life is happiness. A flower shut
out from the light is damned: it cannot grow. An evil life here or
hereafter is in itself damnation; for it is want of growth, paralysis or
decay of all the nobler faculties.
As in my own way, and with such words as I could command, I
recounted the manner in which the good clergyman educated me,
my mother's face grew sad and tearful. She did not speak for some
minutes; her gaze was downcast, and through her long dark
eyelashes the tears began to steal.
"A dream," she muttered, "only a dream! Did he know mankind and
know but a portion of their unfathomable baseness, he would see
the impossibility of making them better, would feel the necessity of
an actual hell, black as the darkest that a poet ever fancied."
As she was thus occupied in her own thoughts, a step—a well-
known step—resounded on the garden-walk, and the good
clergyman advanced from the wicket-gate to the porch. Even now I
see that pale face, with the white hair and large clear eyes!
He advanced and took my mother cordially by the hand, and was
much affected when he heard of my father's death. My mother
thanked him warmly for the care which he had taken of her child.
"This child will be a woman soon, and she must be prepared to enter
upon life with all the accomplishments suitable to the position which
she will occupy," continued my mother; "I wish her to remain with
you until she is ready to enter the great world. But she must have
proper instruction in music and dancing. She must not be altogether
a wild country girl, when she goes into society. But, however, my
dear Mr. Walworth, we will talk of this alone."
Young as I was I could perceive that there was a mystery about my
mother, her previous life, or present position, which the good
clergyman did not feel himself called upon to penetrate.
She took his arm and led him into the cottage, and they conversed
for a long time alone, while I remained upon the porch, buried in a
sort of dreamy revery, and watching the white clouds as they sailed
along the summer sky.
"I shall be absent two years," I heard my mother's voice, as leaning
on the good clergyman's arm she again came forth upon the porch;
"see that when I return, in place of this pretty child you will present
to me a beautiful and accomplished lady."
She took me in her arms and kissed me, while Mr. Walworth
exclaimed:
"Indeed, my dear madam, I can never allow myself to think of
Frances' leaving this home while I am living. She has been with me
so long—is so dear to me—that the very thought of parting with her,
is like tearing my heart-strings!"
He spoke with undisguised emotion; my mother took him warmly by
the hand, and again thanked him for the care and love which he had
lavished on her child.
At length she said "Farewell!" and I watched her as she went down
the garden-walk to the wicket gate, and then across the road, until
she entered a by-path which wound among the hills of the
Neprehaun into the valley below. She was lost to my sight in the
shadows of the foliage. She emerged to view again far down the
valley, and I saw her enter her grand carriage, and saw her kerchief
waving from the carriage window, as it rolled away.
I watched, O! how earnestly I watched, until the carriage rose to
sight on the summit of a distant hill, beyond the spire of the village
church. Then, as it disappeared and bore my mother from my sight,
I sat down and wept bitterly.
Would I had never seen her face again!
A year passed away.

CHAPTER IV.
MAIDENHOOD.

It was June again. One summer evening I took the path which led
from the garden to the summit of the hill which rose behind the
cottage. As I pursued my way upward the sun was setting, and at
every step I obtained a broader glimpse of the river, the dark
Palisades, and the bay white with sails. When I reached the summit,
the sun was on the verge of the horizon, and the sky in the west all
purple and gold. Seating myself on the huge rock, which rose on the
summit, surrounded by a circle of grand old trees, I surrendered
myself to the quiet and serenity of the evening hour. The view was
altogether beautiful. Beneath me sloped the broad hills, clad in
wheat which already was changing from emerald to gold. Farther
down, my cottage home half hidden among trees. Then beneath the
cottage, the homes of the village dotting the hills, among which
wound the Neprehaun. The broad river and the wide bay heaving
gently in the fading light, and the dark Palisades rising blackly
against the gold and purple sky. A lovelier view cannot be imagined.
And the air was full of summer—scented with breath of vines and
blossoms and new-mown hay. As I surrendered myself to thoughts
which arose unbidden, the first star came tremulously into view, and
the twilight began to deepen into night. I was thinking of my life—of
the past—of the future. A strange vision of the great world,
struggled into dim shape before the eye of my mind.
"A year more, and I will enter the great world!" I ejaculated. A hand
was laid lightly on my shoulder. I started to my feet with a shriek.
"What, Frank, don't you know me?" said a half laughing voice, and I
beheld beside me a youth of some nineteen or twenty years, whose
face, shaded by dark hair, was touched by the last flush of the
declining day. It was Ernest, the only son of the good clergyman. I
had not seen him for three years. In that time, he had grown from
boyhood into young manhood. He sat beside me on the rock, and
we talked together as freely as when we were but little children.
Ernest was full of life and hope; his voice grew deep, his dark eyes
large and lustrous, as he spoke of the prospects of his future.
"In one year, Frank, I will graduate and then,—then,—the great
world lies before me!" His gaze was turned dreamily to the west,
and his fine features drawn in distinct profile against the evening
sky.
"And what part, Ernest, will you play in the great world?"
"Father wishes me to enter into the ministry, but,—" and he uttered
a joyous, confident laugh,—"whatever part I play, I know that I will
win!"
He uttered these words in the tone of youth and hope, that has
never been darkened by a shadow, and then turning to me,—
"And you, Frank, what part will you play in the great world?" he said.
"I know not. My career is in the hands of my only parent, who will
come next year to take me hence. My childhood has been wrapped
in mystery; and my future, O, who can foretell the future?"
He gazed at me, for the first time, with an earnest and searching
gaze. His eyes, large and gray, and capable of the most varied
expression, became absent and dreamy.
"You are very beautiful!" he said, as though thinking aloud,—"O,
very beautiful! You will marry rich,—yes,—wealth and position will be
yours at once."
And as the moon, rising over the brow of the hill, poured her light
upon his thoughtful face, he took my hand and said:
"Frank, why is it that certain natures live only in the future or the
past—never in the present? Look at ourselves, for instance. Yonder
among the trees, bathed in the light of the rising moon, lies the
cottage home in which we have passed the happiest, holiest hours
of life. Of that home we are not thinking now—we are only looking
forward to the future—and yet the time will come, when immersed
in the conflict of the world, we will look back to that home, with the
same yearning that one, stretched upon the couch of hopeless
disease, looks forward to his grave!"
His voice was low and solemn—I never forgot his words. We sat for
many minutes in silence. At length without a word, he took my
hand, and we went down the hill together, by the light of the rising
moon. We climbed the stile, passed under the garden boughs, and
entered the cottage, and found the good old man seated in his
library among his books. He raised his eyes as we came in, hand
joined in hand, and a look of undisguised pleasure stole over his
face.
"See here, father," said Ernest laughingly, "when I went to college, I
left my little sister in your care. I now return, and discover that my
little sister has disappeared, and left in her place this wild girl, whom
I found wandering to-night among the hills. Don't you think there is
something like a witch in her eyes?"
The old man smiled and laid his hand on my dark hair.
"Would to heaven!" he said, "that she might never leave this quiet
home." And the prayer came from his heart.
Ernest remained with us until fall. Those were happy days. We read,
we talked, we walked, we lived with each other. More like sister and
sister than brother and sister, we wandered arm-in-arm to the brow
of the hill as the rich summer evening came on,—or crossed the
river in early morning, and climbed the winding road that led to the
brow of the Palisades,—or sat, at night, under the trees by the
river's bank, watching the stars as they looked down into the calm
water. Sometimes at night, we sat in the library, and I read while the
old man's hand rested gently on my head and Ernest sat by my side.
And often upon the porch, as the summer night wore on, Ernest and
myself sang together some old familiar hymn, while "Father" listened
in quiet delight. Thus three months passed away, and Ernest left for
college.
"Next year, Frank, I graduate," he cried, his thoughtful face flushed
with hope, and his gray eyes full of joyous light—"and then for the
battle with the world!"
He left, and the cottage seemed blank and desolate. The good
clergyman felt his absence most keenly.
"Well, well," he would mutter, "a year is soon round and then Ernest
will be with us again!"
As for myself, I tried my books, my harp, took long walks alone,
busied myself in household cares, but I could not reconcile myself to
the absence of Ernest.
Winter came, and one night a letter arrived from Ernest to his father,
and in that letter one for—Frank! How eagerly I took it from
"father's" hand and hurried to my room,—that room which I
remember yet so vividly, with its window opening on the garden,
and the picture of the Virgin Mary on the snow-white wall. Unmindful
of the cold, I sat down alone and perused the letter, O, how eagerly!
It was a letter from a brother to a sister, and yet beneath the calm
current of a brother's love, there flowed a deeper and a warmer
love. How joyously he spoke of his future, and how strangely he
seemed to mingle my name with every image of that future! I read
his letter over and over, and slept with it upon my bosom; and I
dreamed, O! such air-castle dreams, in which a whole lifetime
seemed to pass away, while Ernest and Frank, always young, always
happy, went wandering, hand-in-hand, under skies without a cloud.
But I awoke in fright and terror. It seemed to me that a cold hand—
like the hand of a corpse—was laid upon my bosom, and somehow I
thought that my mother was dead and that it was her hand. I
started up in fright and tears, and lay shuddering until the rising sun
shone gayly through the frosted window-pane.
Another year had nearly passed away.
It was June again, and it was toward evening that I stood upon the
cottage porch watching—not the cloudless sky and glorious river
bathed in the setting sun—but watching earnestly for the sound of a
footstep. Ernest was expected home. He had graduated with all the
honors—he was coming home! How I watched and waited for that
welcome step! At last the wicket-gate was opened, and Ernest's step
resounded on the garden-walk. Concealing myself among the vines
which covered one of the pillars of the porch, I watched him as he
approached, determining to burst upon him in a glad surprise as
soon as he reached the steps. His head was downcast, he walked
with slow and thoughtful steps; his long black hair fell wild and
tangled on his shoulders. The joyous hue of youth on his cheek had
been replaced by the pallor of long and painful thought. The hopeful
boy of the last year had been changed into the moody and
ambitious man! As he came on, although my heart swelled to
bursting at sight of him, I felt awed and troubled, and forgot my
original intention of bursting upon him in a merry surprise. He
reached the porch—he ascended the step—and I glided silently from
behind the pillar and confronted him. O, how his face lighted up as
he saw me! His eyes, no longer glassy and abstracted, were radiant
with a delight too deep for words!
"Frank!" he said, and silently pressed my hand.
"Ernest," was all I could reply, and we stood in silence—both
trembling, agitated—and gazing into each other's eyes.
The good Clergyman was happy that evening, as he sat at the
supper table, with Frank on one hand and Ernest on the other. And
old Alice peering at us through her spectacles could not help
remarking, "Well, well, only yesterday children, and now such a
handsome couple!"

CHAPTER V.

ON THE ROCK.

After supper, Ernest and I went to the rock on the summit of the hill,
where we had met the year before. The scene was the same,—the
river, the bay, the dark Palisades, and the vast sky illumined by the
rising moon,—but somehow we seemed changed. We sat apart from
each other on the rock, and sat for a long time in silence. Ernest,
with downcast eyes, picked in an absent way at some flowers which
grew in the crevices of the rock. And I,—well I believe I tied the
strings of my sun-bonnet into all sorts of knots. I felt half disposed
to laugh and half disposed to cry.
At last I broke the silence:—
"You have fulfilled your words, Ernest," I said, "You have graduated
with all the honors—as last year you said you would,—and now a
bright career stretches before you. You will go forth into the great
world, you will battle, you will win!"
"Frank," said he, stretching forth his hand,—"Do you see yonder
river as it flows broad and rapid, in the light of the rising moon? You
speak of a bright career before me—now I almost wish that I was
quietly asleep beneath those waves."
The sadness of his tone and look went to my heart.
"You surprise me, Frank. Now,"—and I attempted a laugh—"You
have not fallen in love, since last year, have you?"
He looked up and surveyed me from head to foot. I was dressed in
white—my hair fell in loose curls to my shoulders. In a year I had
passed from the girl into the woman. I was taller, my form more
roundly developed. And as he gazed upon me, I was conscious that
he was remarking the change which had taken place in my
appearance, and that his look was one of ardent admiration.
"Do you think that I have fallen in love since last year?" he said
slowly and with a meaning look.
I turned away from his gaze, and exclaimed—
"But you are moody, Ernest. Last year you were so hopeful—now so
melancholy. You can, you will succeed in life."
"That I can meet with what the world calls success, I do not doubt,"
he replied: "There is the career of the popular preacher, armed with
a white handkerchief and a velvet Gospel,—of the lawyer, growing
rich with the rent paid to him by crime, and devoting all the powers
of his immortal soul to prove that black is white and white is black—
of the merchant, who sees only these words painted upon the face
of God's universe, 'Buy cheap and sell dear,'—careers such as these,
Frank, are before me, and I am free to choose, and doubt not but
that I could succeed in any of them. But to achieve such success I
would not spend, I do not say the labor of years—No,—I would not
spend the thought of a single hour."
"But the life of a good Minister of the Gospel, Ernest, living in some
quiet country town, dividing his time between his parishioners and
his books, and dwelling in a home like the cottage yonder—what say
you to such a life, Ernest?"
He raised his eyes, and again surveyed me earnestly—"Ambitious as
I am, I would sacrifice every thought of ambition for a life such as
you picture—but upon one condition,"—he paused—
"And that condition?" I said in a low voice.
"Ask your own heart," was his reply, uttered in a tremulous voice.
I felt my bosom heave,—was agitated, trembling I knew not why,—
but I made no answer.
There was a long and painful pause.
"The night is getting chill," I said at length, for want of something
better to say: "Father is waiting for us. Let us go home."
I led the way down the path, and he followed moodily, without a
word. As he helped me over the stile I saw that his face was pale,
his lips tightly compressed. And when we came into the presence of
his Father, he replied to the old man's kind questions, in a vacant
and abstracted manner. I bade him "good night!" at last; he
answered me, but added in a lower tone, inaudible to the old man,
"Young and rich and beautiful, you are beyond the reach of—a
country clergyman."
The next morning while we were at breakfast, a letter came. It was
from my mother. To-morrow she would come and take me from the
cottage!
The letter dropped from the old man's hand, and Ernest rising
abruptly from the table, rushed from the room.
And I was to leave the home of my happiest hours, and go forth into
the great world! The thought fell like a thunderbolt upon every heart
in the cottage.

CHAPTER VI.

AMONG THE PALISADES.

After an hour Ernest met me on the porch; he was very pale.

"Frank," said he, kindly, "To-morrow you will leave us forever. Would
you not like to see once more the place yonder,"—he pointed across
the river to the Palisades—"where we spent so many happy hours
last summer?"
He spoke of that dear nook, high up among the rocks, encircled by
trees, and canopied by vines, where, we had indeed spent many a
happy hour.
I made no reply, but put on my sun-bonnet and took his arm, and in
a little while we were crossing the river, he rowing, while I sat in the
stern. It was a beautiful day. We arrived at the opposite shore, at a
point where the perpendicular wall of the Palisades, is for a mile or
more, broken by a huge and sloping hill, covered with giant forest
trees. Together we took the serpentine path, which, winding toward
all points of the compass, led to the top of the Palisades. The birds
were singing, the broad forest leaves and hanging vines quivered in
the sun, the air was balmy, and the day the very embodiment of the
freshness and fragrance of June. As we wound up the road (whose
brown graveled surface contrasted with the foliage), we saw the
sunlight streaming in upon the deep shadows of the wood, and
heard from afar the lulling music of a waterfall. Departing from the
beaten road, we wandered among the forest trees, and talked
together as gladly and as familiarly as in other days. There we
wandered for hours, now in sunlight, now in shadow, now resting
upon the brow of some moss-covered rock, and now stopping beside
a spring of clear cold water, half hidden by thick green leaves. As
noon drew near, we ascended to the top of the forest hill, and
passing through a wilderness of tangled vines, came suddenly upon
a rude farmhouse, one story high, built of logs, whose dark surface
contrasted with the verdure of the garden and the foliage of the
overshadowing tree. It was the same as in the year before. There
was the well-pole rising above its roof and the well-bucket moist
with clear cold water, and in the doorway stood the farmer's dame,
who had often welcomed us to her quiet home.
"Bless me! how handsome my children have grown!" she cried, "and
how's the good Domine? Come in, come in; the folks are all away in
the fields; come in and rest you, and have some pie and milk,
and"—she paused for breath—"and some dinner."
The good dame would take no denial, and we sat down to dinner
with her—I can see the scene before me now—the carefully sanded
floor, the old clock in the corner, the cupboard glistering with the
burnished pewter, the neatly spread table, the broad hearth, covered
with green boughs, and the open windows, with the sunbeams
playing through the encircling vines. And then the good dame with
her high cap, round, good-humored face, and spectacles resting on
the bridge of her hooked nose. As we broke the home-made bread
with her, we were as gay as larks.
"Well, I do like to see young folks enjoy themselves," said the dame.
—"You don't know how often I've thought of you since you were
here last summer. I have said, and I will say it, that a handsomer
brother and sister I never yet did see."
"But you mistake," said Ernest, "We're not brother and sister."
"Only cousins," responded the dame, surveying us attentively, "Well,
I'm glad of it, for there's no law ag'in cousins marryin', and you'd
make such a handsome couple." And she laughed until her sides
shook.

CHAPTER VII.
IN THE FOREST NOOK.

Leaving the farmhouse, we bent our way to the Palisades again. We

had been gay and happy all the morning, now we became
thoughtful. We entered a narrow path, and presently came upon the
dear nook where we had spent so many happy hours. It was a quiet
space of green-sward and velvet moss, encircled on all sides, save
one, by the trunks of giant forest trees—the oak, the tulip poplar
and the sycamore—which arose like rugged columns, their branches
forming a roof far overhead. Half-way between the sward and the
branches, hung a drapery of vines, swinging in the sunlight, and
showering blossoms and fragrance on the summer air. Light
shrubbery grew between the massive trunks of the trees, and in one
part of the glade a huge rock arose, its summit projecting over the
sward, and forming a sort of canopy or shelter for a rustic seat
fashioned of oaken boughs. Looking upward through the drapery of
vines and the roof of boughs, only one glimpse of blue sky was
visible. Toward the east the glade was open, and over the tops of
the forest trees (which rose from the glen beneath), you saw the
river, the distant village and my cottage home shining in the sun. At
the foot of the oak which formed one of the portals of the glade,
was a clear cold spring, resting in a basin of rock, and framed in
leaves and flowers. Altogether the dear nook of the forest was
worthy of June.
For a moment we surveyed this quiet scene—thought of the many
happy hours we had spent there in the previous summer—and then
turning our faces to the east, we stood, hand link'd in hand, gazing
over forest trees and river upon our far-off cottage home.
"Does it not look beautiful, as it shines there in the sun?"—I said.
Ernest at first did not reply, but turned his gaze full upon me. His
face was flushed and there was a strange fire in his eyes.
"To-morrow you leave that home forever," he exclaimed, and I
trembled, I knew not why at the sound of his voice—"I will never
see you again—I—" he dropped my hand and turned his face away. I
saw his head fall on his breast, and saw that breast heave with
agitation; urged by an impulse I could not control, I glided to his
side, put my hand upon his arm, and looked up into his face.
"Ernest," I whispered.
He turned to me, for a moment regarded me with a look of intense
passion and then caught me to his heart. His arms were around me,
my bosom heaved against his breast, his kiss was on my lips—the
first kiss since childhood, and O, how different from the kiss which a
brother presses on a sister's lips!
"Frank I love you! Many beautiful women have I seen, but there is
that in your gaze, your voice, your very presence, which is Heaven
itself to me. I cannot live without you! and cannot, cannot think of
losing you without madness. Frank, be mine, be my wife! Be mine,
and the home which shines yonder in the sunlight shall be ours!
Frank, for God's sake say you love me!"
He sank at my feet and clasped my knees with his trembling hands.
O the joy, the rapture of that moment! As I saw his face upraised to
mine, I felt that I loved him with all my soul, that I could die for him.
Reaching forth my hands I drew him gently to his feet, and fell upon
his breast and called him, "Husband!" Would I had died there, on his
bosom, even as his lips met mine, and the words "my wife!"
trembled on my ear! Would I had at that moment fallen dead upon
his breast!
Even as he gathered me to his bosom the air all at once grew dark;
looking overhead, we saw a vast cloud rolling up the heavens, dark
as midnight, yet fringed with sunlight. On and on it rolled, the air
grew darker, darker, an ominous thunder-peal broke over our heads,
and rolled away among the gorges of the hills. Then the clouds grew
dark as night. We could not see each other's faces. For a moment
our distant home shone in sunlight, and then the eastern sky was
wrapt in clouds, the river hidden by driving rain. Trembling with
fright I clung to Ernest's neck—he bore me to the beech in the
shadow of the rock—another thunder peal and a flash of lightning
that blinded me. I buried my face in his bosom, to hide my eyes
from that awful glare. The tempest which had arisen so suddenly—
even as we exchanged our first vows—was now upon us and in
power. The trees rocked to the blast. The distant river was now dark
and now one mass of sheeted flame. Peal on peal the thunder burst
over our heads, and as one peal died away in distant echoes,
another more awful seemed hurled upon us, from the very zenith.
And amid the darkness and glare of that awful storm, I clung to
Ernest's neck, my bosom beating against his heart, and we repeated
our vows, and talked of our marriage, and laid plans for our future.
"Frank, my heart is filled with an awful foreboding," he said, and his
voice was so changed and husky, that I raised my head from his
bosom, and even in the darkness sought to gaze upon his face. A
lightning flash came and was gone, but by that momentary glare, I
saw his countenance agitated in every lineament.
"What mean you Ernest?"
"You will leave our home to-morrow and never return, never! The
sunshine which was upon us, as we exchanged our vows, was in a
moment succeeded by the blackness of the awful tempest. A bad
omen, Frank, a dark prophecy of our future. There is only one way
to turn the omen of evil, into a prophecy of good."
He drew me close in his arms, and bent his lips to my ear—"Be
mine, and now! be mine! Let the thunder-peal be our marriage
music, this forest glade our marriage couch!"
I was faint, trembling, but I sprang from his arms, and stood erect in
the center of the glade. My dark hair fell to my shoulders; a flash of
lightning lit up my form, clad in snow-white. As wildly, as completely
as I loved him, I felt my eyes flash with indignation.
"Words like these to a girl who has been reared under your father's
roof!"
He fell at my feet, besought my forgiveness in frantic tones, and
bathed my hands with his tears.
I fainted in his arms.
When I unclosed my eyes again, I found myself pure and virgin in
the arms of my plighted husband. The clouds were parting, the
tempest was over, and the sun shone out once more. Every leaf
glittered with diamond drops. The last blast of the storm was
passing over the distant river, and through the driving clouds, I saw
the sunlight shining once more upon our cottage home.
"Forgive me, Frank, forgive me," he cried, bending passionately over
me. "See! Your bad omen has been turned into good!" I cried
joyfully—"First the sunshine, then the storm, but now the sun shines
clear again;" and I pointed to the diamond drops glittering in the
sun.
"And you will be true to me, Frank?"
"Before heaven I promise it, in life, in death, forever!"

CHAPTER VIII.

HOME, ADIEU!

It was toward the close of the afternoon that we took our way from
the glade through the forest to the river shore. We crossed the river,
and passed through the village. Together we ascended the road that
led to our home, and at the wicket-gate, found a splendid carriage
with liveried servants.
The good clergyman stood at the gate, his bared forehead and white
hairs bathed in the sunshine; beside him, darkly dressed, diamonds
upon her rich attire, my mother. Old Alice stood weeping in the
background.
"Come, Frank, your things are packed and we must be away," she
said, abruptly, as though we had seen each other only the day
before; "I wish to reach our home in New York, before night. Go in
the house dear," she kissed me, "and get your bonnet and shawl.
Quick my love!"
Not daring to trust myself to speak—for my heart was full to bursting
—I hurried through the gate, and along the garden walk.
"How beautiful she has grown!" I heard my mother exclaim. One
look into the old familiar library room, one moment in prayer by the
bed, in which I had slept since childhood!
Placing the bonnet on my curls, and dropping my shawl around me,
I hurried from my cottage home. There were a few moments of
agony, of blessings, of partings and tears. Old Alice pressed me in
her arms, and bid me good-by. The good old clergyman laid his
hands upon my head, and lifting his beaming eyes to heaven,
invoked the blessing of God upon my head.
"I give your child to you again!" he said, placing me in my mother's
arms—"May she be a blessing to you, as for years past she has been
the blessing and peace of my home!"
I looked around for Ernest; he had disappeared.
I entered the carriage, and sank sobbing on the seat.
"But I am not taking the dear child away from you forever," said my
mother, bending from the carriage window. "She will come and see
you often, my dear Mr. Walworth, and you will come and see her.
You have the number of our town residence on that card. And bring
your son, and good Alice with you, and,——"
The carriage rolled away.
So strange and unexpected had been the circumstances of this
departure from my home, that I could scarce believe myself awake.
I did not raise my head, until we had descended the hill, passed the
village and gained a mile or more on our way.
We were ascending a long slope, which led to the summit of a hill,
from which, I knew, I might take a last view of my childhood's
home.
As we reached the summit of the hill, my mother was looking out of
one window toward the river, and I looked out of the other, and saw,
beyond the church spire and over the hills, the white walls of my
home.
"Frank!" whispered a low voice.
Ernest was by the carriage. There was a look exchanged, a word,
and he was gone. Gone into the trees by the? roadside.
He left a flower in my hand. I placed it silently in my bosom.
"Frank! How beautiful you have grown!" said my mother, turning
from the window, and fixing upon me an ardent and admiring gaze.
And the next moment she was wrapt in thought and the wrinkle
grew deeper between her brows.

CHAPTER IX.

ERNEST AND HIS SINGULAR ADVENTURE.

Before I resume my own history, I must relate an instance in the life

of Ernest, which had an important bearing on his fate. (This incident
I derive from MSS. written by Ernest himself.) Soon after my
departure from the cottage home, he came to New York with his
father, and they directed their steps to my mother's residence; as
indicated on the card which she had left with the clergyman; but to
their great disappointment, they discovered that my mother and
myself had just left town for Niagara Falls. Six months afterward,
Ernest received a long letter from me, concluding with these words:
"To-morrow, myself and mother take passage for Europe, in the
steamer. We will be absent for a year or more."
Determined to see me at all hazards, he hurried to town, but, too
late! The steamer had sailed; her flag fluttered in the air, far down
the bay, as standing on the battery, Ernest followed her course, with
an almost maddened gaze. Sorrowfully he returned to the country
and informed his father of my sudden departure for Europe.
"Can she have forgotten us?" said the old man.
"O, father, this letter," replied Ernest, showing the long letter which I
had written, "this will show you that she has not forgotten us, but
that her heart beats warmly as ever—that she is the same."
And he read the letter to the good old man, who frequently
interrupted him, with "God bless her! God bless my child!"
Soon afterward Ernest came to New York and entered his name in
the office of an eminent lawyer. Determining to make the law his
profession, he hoped to complete his studies before my return from
Paris. He lived in New York, and began to move in the circles of its
varied society. Among the acquaintances which he made were
certain authors and artists who, once a month, in company with a
few select friends, gave a social supper at a prominent hotel.
At one of these suppers Ernest was a guest. The wine passed round,
wit sparkled, and the enjoyment of the festival did not begin to flag
even when midnight drew near.
While one of the guests was singing, a portly gentleman (once well
known as a man of fashion, the very Brummel of the sidewalk)
began to converse with Ernest in a low voice.
He described a lady—a young widow with a large fortune—who at
that time occupied a large portion of the interest of certain circles in
New York. She was exceedingly beautiful. She was witty,
accomplished, eloquent. She rivaled in fascination Ninon and
Aspasia. Nightly, to a select circle, she presided over festivals whose
voluptuousness was masked in flowers. Her previous history was
unknown, but she had suddenly entered the orbit of New York social
life—of a peculiar kind of social life—as a star of the first magnitude.
His blood heated by wine, his imagination warmed by the description
of his fashionable friend, Ernest manifested great curiosity to behold
this singular lady.
"You shall see her to-night—at once," whispered the fashionable
gentleman. "She gives a select party to-night. Let us glide off from
the company unobserved."
They passed from the company, took their hats and cloaks—it was a
clear, cold winter night—and entered a carriage.
"I will introduce you by the name of Johnson—Fred. Johnson, a rich
southern planter," said the fashionable gentleman. "You need not call
me by my real name. Call me Lawson."
"But why this concealment?" asked Ernest, as the carriage rolled on.
"O, well, never mind," added Lawson (as he desired to be called),
and then continued: "We'll soon be near her mansion, or palace is
the more appropriate word. We will find some of the first gentlemen
and finest ladies of New York under her roof. I tell you, she'll set you
half wild, this 'Midnight Queen!'"
"Midnight Queen!" echoed Ernest.
"That's what we call her. A 'Midnight Queen' indeed, as mysterious
and voluptuous as the midnight moon shining in an Italian sky."
They arrived in front of a lofty mansion, situated in one of the most
aristocratic parts of New York. Its exterior was dark and silent as the
winter midnight itself.
"A light hid under a bushel—outside dark enough, but inside bright
as a new dollar," whispered Lawson, ascending the marble steps and
ringing the bell.
The door was opened for the space of six inches or more,—
"Who's there?" said a voice from within.
Lawson bent his face near to the aperture and whispered a few
words inaudible to Ernest. The door was opened wide, and carefully
closed and bolted behind them, as soon as they crossed the
threshold. They stood in a vast hall lighted by a hanging lamp.
"Leave hats and cloaks here—and come." Lawson took Ernest by the
hand and pushed open a door.
They entered a range of parlors, brilliantly lighted by two
chandeliers, as brilliantly furnished with chairs and sofas and
mirrors, and adorned with glowing pictures and statues of white
marble. A piano stood in a recess, and in the last parlor of the three
a supper-table was spread. These parlors were crowded by some
thirty guests, men and women, some of whom, seated on chairs and
sofas, were occupied in low whispered conversation, while others
took wine at the supper-table, and others again were grouped round
the piano, listening to the voice of an exceedingly beautiful woman.
Ernest uttered an ejaculation. Never had he seen a spectacle like
this, never seen before, grouped under one roof, so many beautiful
women. Beautiful women, richly dressed, their arms and shoulders
bare, or vailed only by mist-like lace, which gave new fascination to
their charms. It did not by any means decrease the surprise of
Ernest when he discovered that some of the ladies—those whose
necks and shoulders glowed most white and beautiful in the light—
wore masks.
"What is this place?" he whispered to Lawson, as apparently
unheeded by the guests, they passed through the parlors.
"Hush! not so loud," whispered his companion. "Take a glass of
wine, my boy, and your eyesight will be clearer. This place is a quiet
little retreat in which certain gentlemen and ladies of New York, by
no means lacking in wealth or position, endeavor to carry the Koran
into practice, and create, even in our cold climate, a paradise worthy
of Mahomet. In a word, it is the residence of a widowed lady, who,
blest with fortune and all the good things which fortune brings,
delights in surrounding herself with beautiful women and intellectual
men. How do you like that wine? There are at least a hundred
gentlemen in New York, who would give a cool five hundred to stand
where you stand now, or even cross the threshold of this mansion.
I'm an old stager, and have brought you here in order to enjoy the
effect which a scene like this produces on one so inexperienced as
you. But you must remember one law which governs this place and
all who enter it—"
"That condition?"
"All that is said or done here remains a secret forever within the
compass of these walls; and you must never recognize, in any other
place, any person whom you have first encountered here. This is a
matter of honor, Walworth."
"And where is the 'Midnight Queen?'"
"She is not with her guests, I see—but I will give you an answer in a
moment," and Lawson left the room.
Drinking glass after glass of champagne, Ernest stood by the supper-
table, a silent spectator of that scene, whose voluptuous
enchantment gradually inflamed his imagination and fired his blood.
He seemed to have been suddenly transported from dull matter-of-
fact, every-day life, to a scene in some far oriental city, in the days
of Haroun Alraschid. And he surrendered himself to the enchantment
of the place, like one for the first time enjoying the intoxication of
opium.
Lawson returned, and came quietly to his side—
"Would you like to see the 'Midnight Queen,'—alone—in her parlor?"
he whispered.
"Of all things in the world. You have roused my curiosity. I am like a
man in a delicious dream."
"Understand me—she is chary of her smiles to an old stager like me
—but I think, that there is something in you that will interest her.
She awaits you in her apartments. You are a young English lord on
your travels (better than a planter), Lord Stanley Fitz Herbert. With
that black dress and somber face of yours you will take her
wonderfully."
"But can I indeed see her?"
"Leave the room—ascend the stairs—at the head of the stairs a light
shines from a door which is slightly open; take a bold heart and
enter."
Inflamed by curiosity, by the wine which he had drunk, and the
scene around him, Ernest did not take time for a second thought,
but left the room, ascended the stairs, and stood before the door
from whose aperture a belt of light streamed out upon the dark
passage. There, for a moment, he hesitated, but that was all. He
opened the door and entered. He stood spell-bound by the scene. If
the parlors below were magnificently furnished, this apartment was
worthy of an empress. There were lofty walls hung with silk
hangings and adorned with pictures; a couch with a silken canopy;
mirrors that glittered gently in the rich voluptuous light; in a word,
every detail of luxury and extravagance.
In the center of all stood the "Midnight Queen"—in one hand she
held an open letter. Her back was toward Ernest as he lingered near
the threshold. Her neck and shoulders were bare, and he could
remark at a glance their snowy whiteness and voluptuous outline,
although her dark hair was gathered in glossy masses upon the
shoulders, half hiding them from view. A dark dress, rich in its very
simplicity, left her arms bare and did justice to the rounded
proportions of her form.
She turned and confronted Ernest, even as he, the blood bounding
in his veins, advanced a single step.
At once they spoke:
"My Lord Stanley, I believe,—"
"The 'Midnight Queen,'—"
The words died on their lips. They stood as if suddenly frozen to the
floor. The beautiful face of the "Midnight Queen" was pale as death,
and as for Ernest, the glow of the wine had left his cheek—his face
was livid and distorted.
Moments passed and neither had power to speak.
"O, my God, it is Frank!" the words at last burst from the lips of
Ernest, and he fell like a dead man at her feet.
Yes, the "Midnight Queen" was Frances Van Huyden, his betrothed
wife—six months ago resting on his bosom and whispering
"husband" in his ear,—and now—the wife of another? A widow? Or
one utterly fallen from all virtue and all hope?

CHAPTER X.

THE PALACE-HOME.

Having thus given the incident from the life of Ernest, as far as
possible, in the very words of his MSS., let me continue my history
from the hour when, in company with my mother, I left the cottage
home of the good clergyman. After the incident just related, nothing
in my life can appear strange.
I was riding in the carriage with my mother toward New York.
"You are, indeed, very beautiful, Frank," said she, once more
regarding me attentively. "Your form is that of a mature woman, and
your carriage (I remarked it as you passed up the garden-walk)
excellent. But this country dress will not do. We will do better than
all that when we get to town."
It was night when the carriage left the avenue and rolled into
Broadway. The noise, the glare, the people hurrying by, all
frightened me. At the same time Broadway brought back a dim
memory of my early childhood in Paris. Turning from Broadway, the
carriage at length stopped before a lofty mansion, the windows of
which were closed from the sidewalk to the roof.
"This is your home," said my mother, as she led me from the
carriage up the marble steps into the hall where, in the light of a
globular lamp, a group of servants in livery awaited us.
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