jfl&fljMM*!^^^ 
 
 M^fW^ifl| 
 
THE TRUST 
 
 AND 
 
 THE REMITTANCE 
 
 2K0o 2L0fce Stories in jHetreli p 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY COWDEN CLARKE. 
 t\ 
 
 " It is silly sooth ; 
 And dallies with the innocence of Love ; 
 
 Like 'the, o'A ?ge\ J ' .' ,'"',' 
 
 ' SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS. 
 lS 74 . 
 
Cambridge : 
 
TO 
 THE LOVER-HUSBAND OF EIGHTY-FIVE, 
 
 Zfytt-t ILofae torits arc QetitcatctJ 
 
 BY 
 THE LOVER-WIFE OF SIXTY-THREE. 
 
 M93763 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THE versified form in which these two love sto- 
 ries are written was purposely chosen, in order to 
 give effect that should harmonize with the old-world 
 romance in situation and sentiment, blended with 
 more familiar every-day details the poetic feeling 
 mingled with more prosaic circumstances which 
 the stories themselves comprise. 
 
 MARY COWDEN CLARKE. 
 
THE TRUST. 
 
THE TRUST. 
 
 " Wilt thou make a trust a transgression ? " SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 AY, from my very boyhood I had seen 
 And known her : Clarice Merton of the Hall ; 
 A fine old stately mansion that had been 
 The seat of all the Mertons since the time 
 When Tudors reigned. As niece and heiress to 
 Sir Horace Merton, she was mistress there 
 Already : for the portly gentleman, 
 Her uncle, loved the tall fair slender girl 
 With all a father's fondness ; and she queened 
 It with right royal dignity and grace. 
 She looked the well-born lady that she was, 
 The representative of ancient blood 
 And birth : her every movement was instinct 
 With native self-possession, high-bred ease. 
 Her beauty was imperial, and made 
 For sway. I well remember, when a lad, 
 i* 
 
10 - *<Ttf& TRUST. 
 
 How it subdued myself :< ,!' used to see 
 
 Her pass on horseback, with her uncle, through 
 
 The lane that led from Merton Hall, and oft 
 
 J lingered by the way to watch for her. 
 
 There was a roadside stile, half hidden by 
 
 The thickly clustered hedge that shaded it; 
 
 And this was frequently my resting-place. 
 
 Time after time I saw her passing by, 
 
 Until her face and form were graven on 
 
 My mind, and they became thenceforth to me 
 
 The sole embodiment of womanhood's 
 
 Perfection : by the roadside stile again 
 
 And yet again I stood, and gazed my fill. 
 
 She ne'er saw me : or saw me as one sees 
 
 A pebble, twig, or blade of grass, that lies 
 
 Upon the path one treads ; a thing of naught ; 
 
 A thing unheeded, unremarked ; a thing 
 
 That merely makes a part of all around. 
 
 I knew full well both who and what she was : 
 
 But who and what was I ? Poor Edward Helme : 
 
 Of humble origin : an orphan left 
 
 In earliest years, and bound apprentice to 
 
 The village stonemason, who thought the lad 
 
 Gave token of intelligence and power 
 
THE TRUST. I 
 
 To learn, so took to him, and taught him skill 
 In carving, modelling, the more refined, 
 Artistic portions of his trade, for which 
 The boy showed aptitude and special taste. 
 
 I reached to early manhood thus, absorbed 
 In two main sources of pursuit and thought : 
 One, quiet, steady labor at my work, 
 Whereat I earned an honest livelihood 
 And gained my master's still-increased good-will ; 
 The other, evening rambles through the fields 
 And lanes, where I might chance to see at times 
 The object of my worshipping regard. 
 If blessed with sight of her, my heart was filled 
 For days with secret sense of deep content. 
 I question whether Clarice Merton knew 
 Of even my existence : but I knew 
 Of hers ; and that made mine a gladdened one. 
 
 It happened that Sir Horace Merton wished 
 To have some vases for the terrace steps 
 And balustrade, above the grassy slope 
 On which the mansion stood : he sent to my 
 Employer, who despatched me to the Hall 
 To take instructions. In a tremor of 
 Excitement I set forth : but none of it 
 
12 THE TRUST. 
 
 Appeared beneath my usual quiet mien 
 
 And sober aspect : I was always known 
 
 Among our village folk for gravity 
 
 And thoughtful look beyond my years : and they 
 
 Would sometimes nickname me " Young Serious." 
 
 That day my outward grave composure served 
 
 Me well to hide the inward hurry of 
 
 My spirits, as I found myself within 
 
 Her very presence. She was standing with 
 
 Her uncle on the terrace, where they both 
 
 Received me : tall and stately even in 
 
 Her girlish slenderness and grace, she leaned 
 
 Against the marble balustrade and smoothed 
 
 Caressingly the gorgeous throat of a 
 
 Tame peacock, that with coy reluctance stooped 
 
 Its neck to her familiar hand alone. 
 
 The while, Sir Horace spoke to me about 
 
 The vases ; and I listened to his words 
 
 Through all the mist of wilderment in which 
 
 My thoughts were wrapped by consciousness of her 
 
 And her proximity. Sir Horace talked 
 
 With fluent dictate, affable command, 
 
 The sort of kindly condescension used 
 
 By one who gives his orders to a man 
 
THE TRUST. 13 
 
 He finds to be proficient in his trade, 
 A clever artisan and competent. 
 
 " A well-informed, intelligent young man," 
 I heard Sir Horace say, as he dismissed 
 Me and rejoined his niece : " Indeed ? I did 
 Not mark him," she replied with negligence. 
 
 They spoke in but a half-low tone, with just 
 That carelessness of being overheard 
 Which people sometimes use when only their 
 Inferiors are by. I felt it to 
 The core : I was to her no more but simply 
 The stone-cutter, the mason's man, the clerk 
 Sent by his master to receive and note 
 The orders of Sir Horace Merton for 
 The vases on the terrace balustrade ; 
 And of no more account than was the stone, 
 The marble, or the granite that he wrought. 
 Yet, after all, what more could I expect? 
 What more was natural ? She knew no jot 
 Of me but what she saw ; and that was naught, 
 Naught of the inner self, which p'rhaps contained 
 A something worthy in its quality ; 
 A certain sturdy manfulness and strong 
 Reliability : at least, my good 
 
THE TRUST. 
 
 And constant friend, my master, used to give 
 Me credit for possessing these, and I 
 Believe I had them. 
 
 Time went on ; and there 
 
 Was coming blankness at the Hall. 'Twas said 
 Sir Horace Merton's health was far from good, 
 And that a long sea-voyage was prescribed ; 
 'Twas added that his niece was going with 
 Him ; that she would not let him go alone, 
 Although she dreaded leaving her old home ; 
 Disliked the sea, and cared not for new scenes ; 
 Was sure there was no place like Merton Hall, 
 But told her uncle playfully, 'twas true 
 She loved it more than any house or lands, 
 Yet loved him more than house or lands or aught. 
 
 All this reached village ears, as doings of 
 The great are sure to reach their neighbors' ears, 
 And form the theme of gossip comment : thus 
 I learned the day was fixed for their departure, 
 And pictured to myself the void that then 
 Would yawn around my daily life. 
 
 Meantime, 
 
 It chanced that my employer had to send 
 Abroad on confidential business ; 
 
THE TRUST. It 
 
 And he chose me to execute the charge. 
 
 I willingly obeyed ; for change of scene 
 
 And action were the things I could have wished, 
 
 To take me from the dull, dead, dreary round 
 
 Of days and nights beset with aching sense 
 
 Of loss, and absence, and soul's want, that would 
 
 Be mine, when Clarice Merton once was gone. 
 
 A distant colony my mission had 
 For goal ; I took my passage in a ship 
 Was thither bound ; when who should prove to be 
 My fellow passengers but Clarice and 
 Her uncle ! My intense surprise to learn 
 They were on board leaped up like sudden fire 
 Within my heart, and kindled into blaze 
 A thousand embers of deep-smouldering joy 
 That I had thought had been well-nigh extinct. 
 To find myself thus near her, thus in reach 
 Of seeing her and hearing her, while I 
 Remained unnoted, seemed renewal, ay, 
 And more than a renewal of the old 
 Enchanted times, when I beheld her pass 
 Through Merton lanes, a vision pure and fair. 
 My passage had been taken in the fore 
 Part of the ship j while they, of course, were aft, 
 
1 6 THE TRUST. 
 
 And had commodious cabins to themselves. 
 So that I saw them as they walked the deck, 
 Engaged in chat, and pacing to and fro. 
 Sometimes she leaned upon his arm ; sometimes 
 She gave him hers, when he seemed feeble, or 
 Less well than usual ; always she appeared 
 The gentle, graceful, and devoted child 
 Attending on a parent's steps, alive 
 To all that could alleviate and cheer. 
 No wonder that he loved her as he did, 
 Indulging her and making her his all. 
 
 One day I heard Sir Horace say to her, 
 " Who do you think I fancy that I saw 
 On board this ship an hour ago ? " "I can't 
 Imagine," answered she ; " how should I guess ? 
 Some one we know ? " " Well, not exactly know ; 
 Some one that we have seen, a Merton man ; 
 No other than that well-informed young man 
 Sent up by White, the mason, to the Hall 
 To take my orders for the vases. You 
 Remember him ? " " Why scarcely," she replied : 
 " Oh, yes I think I do ; a quiet, grave 
 Young man, that you thought well of, did you not ? " 
 " He seemed to me intelligent and skilled," 
 
THE TRUST. ij 
 
 Sir Horace said ; " moreover, struck me as 
 
 Remarkably trustworthy, and to be 
 
 Relied upon in matters that required 
 
 Attention. He impressed me favorably." 
 
 " He did," returned she, with an absent air ; 
 
 "I recollect it now; he did." " I wonder what 
 
 Has brought him here," replied her uncle ; " I 
 
 Suppose that White has sent him out on some 
 
 Commission to the colony ; I heard 
 
 He had some dealings there." " Most likely," she 
 
 Responded in a final way, as if 
 
 No farther interest attached to what 
 
 They talked of. After a short pause, she said, 
 
 With animation " Uncle, do you know 
 
 What I've been thinking of? " " Of Merton Hall, 
 
 Of course," Sir Horace smiling said ; " your thoughts 
 
 Are always hovering there, like doves around 
 
 A dove-cot." " I was thinking," she resumed, 
 
 " Of how the dear old place must now be bathed 
 
 In sunset light, and looking at its best. 
 
 And yet I know not why I say ' its best ; ' 
 
 It always looks its best the best to me." 
 
 She laughed at her own sally, and went on 
 
 To talk of their return to their loved home. 
 
8 THE TRUST. 
 
 I saw Sir Horace Merton's face assume 
 A sudden sad expression : but it cleared 
 Away again, when she looked up at him. 
 Some mornings after this I noticed him 
 Upon the deck alone. As he caught sight 
 Of me, he beckoned me to join him where 
 He stood. He spoke most courteously, nay, with 
 A kindly, almost friendly tone : he said 
 It gave him pleasure to have met with one 
 Who came from Merton village, seeming like 
 A neighbor, one long known : he asked my name, 
 And told me that he took a liking to 
 Me when I came that time to Merton Hall ; 
 That I inspired him with belief in my 
 True faithfulness and manly character. 
 I bowed my thanks, but nothing said ; I was 
 So taken by surprise at this address. 
 " Away from home," he said, " I feel the want 
 Of some one I can talk to as a friend, 
 To whom I may confide the fear that stings 
 Me now acutely, for my niece's sake. 
 I feel my health is failing fast, and should 
 I die, she will be left in foreign lands 
 Alone and unprotected. Helme, if so, 
 
THE TRUST. I, 
 
 I look to you to guard her, think for her, 
 
 Watch over her unceasingly, and see 
 
 Her safely home again to Merton Hall. 
 
 Remember, Helme, I trust her to your care 
 
 When I am gone, if go I must, while we 
 
 Are far from home. It may seem strange to place 
 
 Such confidence in one of whom I know 
 
 So little ; but there's something in your look 
 
 That tells me I may safely trust to you, 
 
 That you'll be faithful to the trust. Do you 
 
 Accept it, Helme ? " "I do," was all I said, 
 
 With earnest firmness. What was in my heart 
 
 Myself and my Creator only knew. 
 
 " And now," Sir Horace said, " we'll speak no more 
 
 Of this ; 'tis understood between us two. 
 
 I would not have my niece suspect that I 
 
 Have any present cause to fear my death ; 
 
 'Twould serve no purpose, and disquiet her." 
 
 He turned to speak of other things ; and when 
 
 His niece approached, she found him cheerfully 
 
 In talk with one of the ship's company, 
 
 A sailor, whose long yarns amused him oft 
 
 I kept aloof, thenceforward as before ; 
 Because I thought I could perceive, for all 
 
20 THE TRUST. 
 
 Sir Horace thus had spoken to me, that 
 He cared not I should join him when his niece 
 Was with him. Whether it was from dread 
 That Clarice should discover what he feared, 
 Or whether it proceeded from a sense 
 That she shared not his good opinion of 
 Myself, I do not know ; but certain 'tis 
 I felt that he was better pleased I should 
 Not speak to him when she was by. Content 
 It should be thus, I fell again into 
 My way of watching her from distance, and, 
 Unseen, unnoticed, making her the one 
 Bright jewel of my life. 
 
 One night there was 
 Alarm of fire aboard the ship : upon 
 The instant all was noise, confusion, and 
 Distress. I started up, threw on my clothes, 
 And hurried upon deck. Already had 
 The flames advanced, and now were licking their 
 Dread way aloft, among the shrouds and rigging. 
 Amid the burning glare I sudden saw 
 Sir Horace and his niece, a ghastly group. 
 Half dead with terror, she had sunk down at 
 His feet, and held her face within her hands. 
 
THE TRUST. 21 
 
 He called to me aloud from where he stood : 
 
 " For God's sake, help her if you can, good friend ! 
 
 Remember, Helme, the charge, the trust, I gave ! " 
 
 He reeled and fell, the moment after, crushed 
 
 By falling fragments of a blazing mast. 
 
 I snatched her from the spot and drew her towards 
 
 A spar I saw, and knew would float ; to which 
 
 I fastened her : she made attempt to free 
 
 Herself from my endeavor ; but I said : 
 
 " Your uncle charged me to take care of you ; 
 
 He trusted you to me, and bade me try 
 
 To save you." Then she yielded, and allowed 
 
 Me do whate'er I would that I thought best. 
 
 I hardly know how afterwards I found 
 Myself upon the red-reflected waves, 
 My precious spar in tow, held by one hand, 
 While with the other I struck out and swam 
 For life, for very life, my own, and one 
 Far dearer than my own. I made some way : 
 When all at once there came a noise that seemed 
 To rend the air asunder, split the sky. 
 The flames had reached the gunpowder : the ship 
 Blew up : and not a soul survived the wreck. 
 But crowning horror of the whole to me 
 
22 THE TRUST. 
 
 The roughness of the surge, the heave, the swell, 
 
 At moment when the ship blew up had wrenched 
 
 My spar away, had torn it from my grasp, 
 
 And borne it out of sight. A long loud cry 
 
 Of anguish and despair broke from me, and 
 
 I wept aloud in agony of heart. 
 
 The roaring waters dashed in mockery 
 
 Against my face, and swept my tears away 
 
 As fast as they welled forth. Instinctively 
 
 I struggled on ; but now had lost my wish s 
 
 For safety. What was life henceforth to me ? 
 
 Why should I try to save it if I could 
 
 Not save the one was life of life to me ? 
 
 The bitter misery of that lone hour, 
 
 When, toiling on through buffet of the waves, 
 
 The fierce emotions raging in my soul 
 
 Were wilder than the horrors of the night, 
 
 I shudder to recall : but after I 
 
 Had swum a weary space, and felt upon 
 
 The point of sinking, I became aware 
 
 That I was now in smoother water, where 
 
 My feet touched ground. Another stroke or two 
 
 Soon brought me to the shore. A scene it was 
 
 Of almost magic beauty and repose : 
 
THE TRUST, 
 
 A tropic moon shed broad effulgence o'er 
 
 A stretch of wooded sward that skirted round 
 
 A sheltered bay ; tall palm-trees rose against 
 
 A starry sky of deep and cloudless blue ; 
 
 Unbroken silence reigned : but all this peace 
 
 And harmony of loveliness externe 
 
 Contrasted with the war within myself. 
 
 " Why did I escape when she is lost ? " 
 
 Was still the cry of my distracted heart. 
 
 I wrung my hands, and flung myself full length ; 
 
 Then started up, and wandered madly on, 
 
 I knew not, cared not whither, in my grief. 
 
 Along the margin of the moon-lit bay 
 
 My steps conveyed me, till I saw before 
 
 Me on the ground a prostrate form : I sprang 
 
 To it : oh, joy of joy ! 'Twas hers, 'twas hers ! 
 
 Borne onward by the influx of the tide, 
 
 The spar had drifted safely towards the shore, 
 
 And landed on the bay's smooth shelving sand. 
 
 She senseless lay ; her eyes were closed ; her hair 
 
 Hung loose in tangled masses, scattered wide. 
 
 A piteous sight : but, still, she breathed, she lived ! 
 
 I gently disengaged her from the spar ; 
 
 I raised her tenderly from off the sand, 
 
24 THE TRUST. 
 
 And carried her to where the greensward made 
 
 A better resting-place. I chafed her hands ; 
 
 And soon I had the comfort of a change : 
 
 A flutter of the breath, a quiver of 
 
 The eyelids : then the eyes were opened with 
 
 A dreamy wandering look that finally 
 
 Met mine. u You know me ? " whispered I ; " you .do ? " 
 
 " Yes ; yes ; I think you are the person that 
 
 My uncle liked." She sighed and closed her eyes ; 
 
 As though 'twere too much effort yet to think. 
 
 Just near to where we were there was a knoll 
 
 Of rocky moss-grown ground, in which I saw 
 
 A deep recess, a hollow, like a cave : 
 
 To this I bore her ; placed her on a couch 
 
 Of soft dry leaves I piled up high, and left 
 
 Her to the healing balm of sleep. 
 
 I kept 
 
 Incessant watch that night around the cave, 
 But naught approached to frighten or molest. 
 The place seemed desert, perfect solitude ; 
 But whether it were continent or isle 
 I knew not. It abounded with wild fruits ; 
 Among the bluffs and cliffs beyond the bay 
 A multitude of sea-birds laid their eggs ; 
 
THE TRUST. 
 
 Innumerable shell-fish swarmed the beach, 
 And clustered on dwarf rocks beneath the cliffs : 
 So, food there lacked not in this land of fair 
 Seclusion. 
 
 After the first violence 
 
 Of grief had passed for her lovecl uncle's loss, 
 Sweet Clarice drooped into an apathy, 
 A languor of indifference to all 
 Around, the most pathetic : she took note 
 Of nothing, interest in nothing, cared 
 For nothing, ate the meals I brought, arranged 
 The flowers I culled, accepted all I did, 
 And acquiesced in all I ventured to 
 Suggest for her behoof ; but, listlessly, 
 And with a perfect quietude, she showed 
 That she did not intend to rouse herself ; 
 She meant to be her own sole guide ; she held 
 Her will alone responsible to rule 
 Her ways ; and if her ways were moody, sad, 
 Why, sad and moody they should be, if so 
 She chose. She surely was the mistress and 
 Best judge of her own acts ? and to -preserve 
 Volition independently of me ? 
 To live her life thus irrespectively of 
 
 I 
 
26 THE TRUST. 
 
 My approof ? She seemed resolved to let 
 Me see how, notwithstanding fate had thrown 
 Her on my hands, she still reserved her right 
 Of born supremacy. All this was not 
 Asserted ; nay, far from it. But it was 
 To be inferred from every look and tone, 
 The eloquence of tacit, passive will 
 In ladies of high birth to one beneath . 
 Themselves. 
 
 One evening, when I brought 
 Her supper of wild honey, bread-fruit, and 
 Some pearly eggs, I was about to leave 
 Her that I might go eat my own apart 
 As usual. With a slight and languid lift 
 Of her bent head, she murmured : " Where do you 
 Contrive to lodge ? You make this cave my house, - 
 A very roomy, comfortable one it is, 
 With tapestry of moss, and curtained well 
 By long festoons of pendent climbing plants ; 
 A perfect bower of graceful green-clad warmth, 
 Yet shade ; a mingling of dry roof, dry walls, 
 With freshness of the open air, due heat 
 And cool combined ; just what a house should be,- 
 But where do you reside ? " I told her I 
 
THE TRUST. 2/ 
 
 Had shelter found within a crevice-nook 
 
 Of rock, not far from her house-cave. "And is 
 
 It tolerably habitable ? " she 
 
 Inquired, with half a smile. " We're neighbors still, 
 
 It seems, as we were formerly, I heard. 
 
 Oh, by the bye, what is your name ? I don't 
 
 Know even that ; and it is fit I know 
 
 My neighbor's name." I told her it was Helme. 
 
 "A name most suitable, indeed," she said, 
 
 A little scornfully. " You've been the helm 
 
 To guide me into port, to steer me safe, 
 
 And to control my course e'er since you brought 
 
 Me to this haven ; but a helm's control, 
 
 You know, exists on sea and not on land ; 
 
 It ceases to have power when on shore." 
 
 "A helm exerts his agency when need 
 
 Demands, and when the helmsman's hand doth sway," 
 
 I answered quietly : " the hand doth rule, 
 
 The helm doth but obey the hand. Your hand 
 
 Shall give the signal when the helm exceeds 
 
 Its proper office." I withdrew as I 
 
 Said this ; and afterwards I noticed that 
 
 Her manner changed to less of frigidness 
 
 And distance. But it varied much ; and she 
 
28 THE TRUST. 
 
 Was sometimes querulous, perverse, just like 
 
 A petted saucy child ; at others, she 
 
 Was pensive, absent, wrapped in her own thoughts ; 
 
 But always ladylike and polished, and 
 
 Supreme in native beauty most refined. 
 
 In one of her despondent moods, I tried 
 To waken in her a desire to see 
 And know more of the place in which we lived : 
 To visit some adjacent spots that in 
 Themselves were charming, and commanded views 
 Of exquisite enchantment ; for I knew 
 That exercise and freshened interest 
 In all that Nature had so plenteously 
 Bespread around us on this fertile land 
 Of rich production, beautiful, profuse, 
 And genial in extreme, would serve to bring 
 Her back to healthfuller condition. " Will 
 You not attempt a walk to yonder point, 
 Miss Merton ? " I once asked. " You know not how 
 Transcendent is the prospect thence attained. 
 It grandly stretches far along the coast 
 Beyond this bay, and is a matchless scene. 
 The headland is within your easy reach, 
 And will not over-tax your strength to climb." 
 
THE TRUST. 29 
 
 " I am not easily fatigued," she said ; 
 
 " I thank you, but I care not for fine views, 
 
 New scenes. I told my uncle so, once on 
 
 A time," she sadly added ; " there's no place 
 
 To equal Merton Hall, in my regard." 
 
 " Alas, that you must wait ere you can hope 
 
 To see it ! " I replied. " Who knows if I 
 
 Shall ever see the dear old place again ! " 
 
 She said with falling tears, then checked herself, 
 
 And muttered : " Ah, this walk suppose I were 
 
 To take it after all ? I may as well, 
 
 Since you think it would do me good ; you are 
 
 My medical adviser, Doctor Helme, 
 
 As well as my adviser general, 
 
 You know, at present, when I must depend 
 
 On you for counsel, as for all." She spoke 
 
 With touch of bitterness in her sad tone ; 
 
 Then said abruptly : " Forgive me ; I 
 
 Am most ungracious, and ungrateful too, 
 
 I feel ; but you will pardon what must seem 
 
 Ingratitude for all that you have done 
 
 And been to me, when you remember my 
 
 Indulgent nurture, from my earliest years. 
 
 It little did to well prepare me for 
 
3 o THE TRUST. 
 
 The trials I have met with, and the strange 
 
 Sad fate that has been mine." " More strange than e'en 
 
 Your own sad fate appears to me the word 
 
 Of ' pardon ' in your mouth, as asked by you 
 
 From me, Miss Merton," I returned ; " l forgive ' 
 
 I cannot, since there's nothing to forgive." 
 
 " There is," she answered quickly ; " ah, there is ; 
 
 I know it but too well ; I'm angry with 
 
 Myself when I think over my remiss 
 
 Unthankfulness to you, kind Helme, who saved 
 
 My life at sea, and have preserved it since. 
 
 I do not think I should have been so base, 
 
 So wanting in due gratitude, while I 
 
 Was mistress of our old ancestral home. 
 
 How is it that I've altered thus, and grown 
 
 So other than my girlish self ? " She turned 
 
 Away, as she concluded, and set forth 
 
 To take the rambling walk I had proposed. 
 
 On her return she came to where I was 
 
 Engaged in fashioning a rude attempt 
 
 At garden near her cave, and stood beside 
 
 Me while I trained some climbing roses up : 
 
 She watched me silently for a brief space, 
 
 Then said abruptly, " What was it you meant, 
 
THE TRUST. 31 
 
 Aboard the burning ship, when, firm and strong, 
 You lashed me to the saving spar, by those 
 Few words you said, ' Your uncle charged me to 
 Take care of you ; ,he trusted you to me ' ? 
 What did they mean ? " " They meant what they ex- 
 pressed ; 
 
 For once Sir Horace gave you to my charge, 
 Enjoined me to watch over you, to guard 
 You if he died while in a foreign land, 
 And see you safely back to Merton Hall." 
 " He did ? " " He did ; he dreaded that his death 
 Might happen any unexpected time, 
 And leave you unprotected, far from home. 
 No less he dreaded that his fear might reach 
 Yourself, and keep you haunted with alarm 
 For him." " Dear uncle, ever thoughtful, kind, 
 And provident for welfare of your child, 
 Your Clarice ! " she exclaimed. " Then this was what 
 Your own words signified, when 'mid the flames 
 I heard you cry, - Remember, Helme, the charge, 
 The trust I gave ! ' " " It was," I said ; " you heard 
 Them, then, yourself ? " "I heard them plainly," she 
 Replied ; " and wondered, even in that wild 
 And fearful moment, at his strange accost. 
 
32 THE TRUST. 
 
 And surely 'twas most strange he should intrust 
 
 His niece to one well-nigh unknown and quite 
 
 Unproved." " There are some natures thus at once 
 
 Confiding, ready to believe in what 
 
 They think they see plain written in a face 
 
 Of honest look," I answered. " True," she said ; 
 
 " There are ; and my dear uncle had himself 
 
 This readiness to put his faith in those 
 
 He thought seemed worthy of his confidence. 
 
 And so, it now appears, he trusted you. 
 
 He gave me to your charge in solemn trust, 
 
 You say ; what were the special points enjoined 
 
 By this same trust ? How far does it extend ? " 
 
 " I told you," I replied ; " it bade me guard, 
 
 Watch over you, and do my utmost to 
 
 Ensure your safety while away from home ; 
 
 And then to see you safely back again 
 
 To Merton Hall." "My ' safety,' " partly to 
 
 Herself repeated she ; " and then to see 
 
 Me ' safely ' back to Merton Hall. Ay, l safe ' 
 
 And well protected, ever was his care 
 
 That I should be ; my kind good uncle ! " As 
 
 She murmured these last words she moved away, 
 
 And went into the cave to sit alone. 
 
THE TRUST. 33 
 
 But, some time after, she returned again 
 To subject of the trust. It happened thus. 
 I had been warning her against too late 
 Protracting her long walks which often now 
 She took at eventide. " It is the hour 
 Of sunset that is most especially 
 To be avoided," I had said. " In these 
 Hot climates, while the sun is going down, 
 There comes a sudden chill into the air, 
 Insidious, treacherous, and not to be 
 Encountered without really perilous 
 Effect : I hope, I beg, you will not thus 
 Run risk of being out at just that hour 
 Of danger." "What! grave Doctor Hehne again 
 Prescribing ? Is it his good pleasure that 
 I make my exercise, my air, my hours, 
 Accord with his opinion, his most sage 
 Decree ? Is this included in the trust 
 He undertook ? Does it empower him 
 To guard my health, to watch my hours, dispose 
 My time, appoint my walks ? " " The trust enjoined 
 Me to keep watch, to guard, and to ensure 
 Your safety with my utmost care ; I know 
 It is not safe to walk at sunset, and 
 
 2* C 
 
34 THE TRUST. 
 
 I frankly tell you so, in consonance 
 
 With one injunction of the trust which I 
 
 Intend to steadily fulfil throughout, 
 
 If so I be permitted," I replied. 
 
 " Permitted ? " echoed she ; " by me, you mean ? " 
 
 " By Heaven's will and blest vouchsafement," I 
 
 Returned. She paused an instant ; then resumed : 
 
 " Am I to understand that you engaged 
 
 In this same trust and now intend to use 
 
 The full authority it gives for you 
 
 To carry out its dictates, and perform 
 
 The duties it enjoins in deference 
 
 To my dear uncle's wish, or for the sake 
 
 Of benefiting me ? Was it alone 
 
 Because you thought to satisfy his mind, 
 
 Or from the thought that I require your care ? 
 
 In short, to please my uncle, or please me, 
 
 Did you accept, and now enforce this trust ? " 
 
 " There could have been no thought of pleasing you, 
 
 Miss Merton, when I pledged myself to take 
 
 The trust your uncle gave. He charged me to 
 
 Fulfil it faithfully ; and so I mean to do, 
 
 Please God ! " She said no more, but turned to look 
 
 At some white blossoms, growing close at hand. 
 
THE TRUST. 
 
 35 
 
 Another time, a captiousness, a half 
 Caprice and lady wilfulness displayed 
 Themselves in her demeanor. " I have found 
 Some little purple blossoms that remind 
 Me of sweet English violets ; I thought 
 That you would like them planted near 
 Your cave, Miss Merton, so have brought you home 
 These clumps with roots." " I thank you, Helme," she 
 
 said ; 
 
 But looked another way, with careless air. 
 The Merton lane, the roadside stile, the hedge 
 Near which I had so often lingered that 
 I might have chance of seeing Clarice pass, 
 And where I used to see the violets 
 In spring-time lurk beneath that hedge, came full 
 Upon my mind ; but memory I quenched, 
 And said sedately : " Will you tell me where 
 You best would like them placed, Miss Merton ? They 
 Require the shade, and, if you please, I'll plant 
 Them here." I pointed to the spot I meant. 
 She did not answer for a moment ; and 
 I looked at her for my directions. Then, 
 Still keeping her fair face half turned away : 
 " Pray call me Clarice," she exclaimed, in a 
 
36 THE TRUST. 
 
 Disdainful pettish way ; " I cannot bear 
 
 The name l Miss Merton ; ' it reminds me of 
 
 My old lost home and all its bygone joys." 
 
 I started ; I had used it to myself 
 
 A thousand times, her sweet, sweet Christian name ; 
 
 But use it to herself I dared not ; no, 
 
 I dared not ; for I knew how it would stir 
 
 .My manhood, and betray the love I vowed 
 
 To keep concealed within my heart. 
 
 " I cannot call you so, excuse me," I 
 
 Replied ; " I cannot do it, e'en to please 
 
 Yourself ; forgive me." " Oh," she quickly said, 
 
 " I make no point of it, since you will not 
 
 Comply. Pray please yourself, not me ; I care 
 
 Not what I'm called, not I, now happiness 
 
 Is gone." She burst into a passion of 
 
 Sad tears ; and there was nothing left for me 
 
 To do but try and soothe her grief. At times 
 
 She was thus petulant and wayward ; but 
 
 At others gentle, smiling, docile to 
 
 My slightest wish. I could not make her out. 
 
 And yet sometimes I now began to have 
 
 A fancy I could guess but only too, 
 
 Too well what wrought these changes in her mood. 
 
THE TRUST. 37 
 
 I was dismayed at my own thought, and put 
 It from me when it would recur and still 
 Recur. 
 
 Next time we were together, she 
 Was in a sportively despotic vein. 
 " As you would not consent to call me by 
 My Christian name," she said, " now tell me yours : 
 I want % to know it." "Mine is Edward," I 
 Replied. " A good old Saxon name," she said ; 
 " One borne by British kings. I like it well ; 
 And somewhere I have read its meaning is, 
 Stay ' Happy Guarder,' l Keeper/ < Warder.' Ay, 
 It is ; I recollect ; and suited to yourself 
 No less than is your surname. Let me see ; 
 I like not surnames in a woman's mouth 
 Addressed to men. I think henceforth I'll call 
 You Edward Helme ; it so exactly hits 
 Your character. Yes Edward Edward ; " she 
 Repeated in approving tone ; " it sounds 
 Appropriate and true." To hear her thus 
 Repeat my name, affected me with strange 
 Emotion ; but, according to my wont, 
 I held my feelings under strong control, 
 And naught appeared of agitation in 
 
38 THE TRUST. 
 
 My speech or look. I more and more resolved 
 
 On this, the more I grew confirmed in my 
 
 Suspicion of the source from whence arose 
 
 These variable moods. What would have made 
 
 My proudest, fondest hope, had she been where 
 
 She could have still remained free mistress of 
 
 Herself to give or to withhold, now formed 
 
 My torture. Here, in this lone wilderness, 
 
 Dependent as she was upon myself 
 
 For sustenance, for all, and where no rite 
 
 Of holy union could be ours, how dared 
 
 I risk betrayal of my love, which might 
 
 Draw forth the sweet confession of her own 
 
 For me, if such indeed existed ? Should 
 
 I break my faith and violate the trust 
 
 So solemnly confided to my charge, 
 
 So solemnly accepted by myself ? 
 
 No ; never : come what might, I would be true 
 
 And loyal to the death. None knew the cost, 
 
 The struggle, the incessant agony 
 
 Of this protracted strife between my love 
 
 And my resolve, but God : and He gave strength 
 
 To vanquish self, and to preserve my trust. 
 
 "Your good sea-jacket looks the worse for wear," 
 
THE TRUST. 
 
 39 
 
 She once said, smiling with a half shy glance 
 
 At it ; "I wish you'd let me mend this rent." 
 
 Then, recollecting, she went on : " But, ah, 
 
 Forgetful that I am ! I have no thread, 
 
 No needle, nothing that a woman should 
 
 Possess who claims to be good huswife, as 
 
 I was at home." " A huswife ? You ! " I cried. 
 
 " Why not ? A Lady of the Manor should 
 
 Be notable, remedial, practical, 
 
 Well able to perform all useful things." 
 
 " Is mending Edward Helme's apparel one ? 
 
 Strange task, methinks, for any lady ; for 
 
 A Lady of the Manor, above all." 
 
 " It may be strange, but strange has been the lot 
 
 Of this poor Lady of the Manor," said 
 
 Sweet Clarice, pensively ; " and strange tasks fall 
 
 To those who suffer strange reverse. Why should 
 
 I not perform a simple office for 
 
 A friend who has performed such onerous 
 
 And endless ones for me ? " "A friend ? " I said, 
 
 In lowest tone \ " do you call Edward Helme 
 
 A friend ? " "A more than friend," she answered with 
 
 A faltering voice ; " an earthly providence, 
 
 One sent by Providence itself to help 
 
40 THE TRUST. 
 
 Me in my utmost need. What would have been 
 
 My fate had you not saved and tended me ? 
 
 Become my good protector and my friend ? 
 
 I well may call you ' friend/ " concluded she 
 
 With earnestness. I made her no reply : 
 
 How could I, and preserve my secret still ? 
 
 We both remained in silence for a time : 
 
 And then I quietly arose, and went 
 
 To find some work : some good hard work might serve 
 
 To quell the torment I endured. For I 
 
 Had found that manual labor, bodily 
 
 Exertion, best assuaged the tumults of 
 
 My mind. And thus I made a hundred things 
 
 Were needed for the cave : odd, useful, quaint 
 
 Utensils of ornate device, and form 
 
 Antique : her moss-grown house of rock was filled 
 
 With plates and dishes, drinking-cups and jugs, 
 
 Or graceful pateras for holding flowers, 
 
 Deft moulded from the clay and baked in the 
 
 Hot furnace of a tropic sun ; with knacks 
 
 And trifles, curiously carved and wrought 
 
 In wood by my good clasp-knife, which, most true 
 
 To boyish habit, never left me, and 
 
 Was in my pocket when I 'scaped the wreck. 
 
THE TRUST. 41 
 
 While working hard for Clarice I less felt 
 The trouble at my heart : and, as I toiled, 
 I whistled softly to myself some old 
 Remembered tune or village song. 
 
 When next 
 
 We met, she had resumed her cold reserve ; 
 Which gave way once but once again before 
 It settled into steadily maintained 
 Return to freezing distance, as of old. 
 The conflicts I went through, the strict restraints 
 I put upon myself, the guard I kept 
 On every speech and word, on every look 
 And tone, began to tell severely on 
 My frame, as now I learned from what she said : 
 " You are not looking well ; you're pale, you're thin. 
 You work too hard, you toil from morn to night ; 
 You ought to have some rest. Let me prescribe, 
 I followed your prescriptions once, you know, 
 So now take mine. I used to be a kind 
 Of Lady Bountiful, among the odds 
 And ends of things I did as Lady of 
 The Manor. Let me order you some rest ; 
 You are not looking well, indeed you're not." 
 Her eyes dwelt gently on my face, her hand 
 
42 THE TRUST. 
 
 Was raised as if about to lay itself 
 
 On mine ; her tone was womanly and low, 
 
 Nay, tender, in its soft persuasiveness. 
 
 I was so moved, so passionately moved, 
 
 By her appeal, that for a moment I 
 
 Had nigh forgotten all, my pledge, my vowed 
 
 Forbearance, and my trust ; but tore myself 
 
 Away in time and left her. " Stony, hard, 
 
 Insensible, she must believe me ! " I 
 
 Exclaimed, as, writhing under my distress, 
 
 I plunged into the forest depths, that I 
 
 Might wrestle with my pangs alone. In her 
 
 Unconscious innocence, how should she know 
 
 Or understand the reason why I must 
 
 And ought to shun the growing tokens 
 
 Of her most generous affection, if 
 
 I still would keep my plighted word, rny faith, 
 
 My honor, in allegiance to my trust ? 
 
 " For her dear sake, for hers, I must and will ! " 
 
 Was ever now the secret sentence which 
 
 Sustained me through my fierce ordeal fire, 
 
 And kept my courage constant to the last. 
 
 The last was close at hand. Soon after our 
 
 Late interview, we clear descried a ship 
 
THE TRUST. 
 
 That neared our coast, put in for water to 
 Our bay, and proved to be a merchantman, 
 Far driven from its course by adverse winds. 
 The captain took us both on board, and we 
 Set sail for England. 
 
 On the voyage home 
 Fair Clarice held the level calm of her 
 Indifference and lady quietude ; 
 It served at once to re-establish the 
 Old space that set herself and me apart ; 
 It tended more than aught else could have done 
 To cast behind us the strange episode 
 Of desert life that we together spent, 
 As something done with, past, for ever gone. 
 She was all suavity and graciousness ; 
 Presented me to the sea-captain as 
 The saver and preserver of her life ; 
 She praised my courage and fidelity ; 
 Dwelt largely on the energy and zeal, 
 The spirit and the self-possession I 
 Displayed amid the horrors of the wreck j 
 Still making that, and not our desert life, 
 The theme of her repeated narrative. 
 It wrung my heart to hear her thus polite, 
 
 43 
 
44 THE TRUST. 
 
 Thus courteous, bland, conventional, and marked 
 
 In her acknowledgment of what I'd done. 
 
 But I accepted patiently her will, 
 
 Her tacitly expressed decree, that I 
 
 Should be again no more than Edward Helme, 
 
 That she should be again Miss Merton of 
 
 The Hall. I sometimes felt inclined to smite 
 
 A little bitterly at this decree, 
 
 When I remembered the relations in 
 
 Which lately we had stood together ; she 
 
 The helpless, homeless waif, tossed to and fro 
 
 By unregardful waves, then cast ashore 
 
 Like some stray piece of sea-weed, broken from 
 
 Its fellows, till up-gathered by the hand 
 
 Of one that sees its native beauty, and 
 
 Doth keep it, value it, nay, treasure it 
 
 For its inherent loveliness and grace : 
 
 While I, the finder of the waif, did play 
 
 The part of keeper, guarder, treasurer, 
 
 In tender recognition of its worth. 
 
 She said the name of Edward meant as much, 
 
 And I was happy in the privilege 
 
 Of being to her these. Well, if she chose 
 
 To re-exchange the characters we played, 
 
THE TRUST. 45 
 
 And be to me protectress and benign 
 
 Approver, I would let her so esteem 
 
 Herself : but, once arrived on English land, 
 
 I, too, would back return to my old first 
 
 Condition, quiet watcher from afar. 
 
 On one occasion, while on board, it chanced 
 
 That she and I were left together, as 
 
 She leaned against the side and watched the stars, 
 
 That one by one came peering forth, while in 
 
 The east the sky was deepening into blue 
 
 Of darker tint, when crimson sunlight failed. 
 
 She held her head averted, fixed in gaze 
 
 Upon the firmament, the while she said : 
 
 " You soon will be relieved of your strange charge, 
 
 Your troublesome and duty-burdened trust, 
 
 Of which you have most faithfully discharged 
 
 So many of the points imposed by my 
 
 Lost uncle. I, obedient to his will, 
 
 Have all along submitted to his terms 
 
 Without complaint, and so I still intend 
 
 To do, until you see me safely home again ; 
 
 As bidden by the trust. When once we're there 
 
 The limits of this vaguely worded trust 
 
 Can be defined, adjusted ; for, you know,. 
 
46 THE TRUST. 
 
 We never could agree exactly what 
 It was that it enjoined. But this can wait 
 Till we arrive." She stayed for no reply, 
 But left me standing 'neath the starry sky. 
 To that mute comforter I inwardly appealed 
 Against the stabs her words had been to me. 
 
 We reached beloved England ; and when there 
 I thought we should have parted company 
 At once ; but on my showing this to be 
 My expectation, she declared the trust 
 Would not be validly performed until 
 I saw her " safely home." That " home " did not 
 Mean English land alone, but, in her case, 
 Meant Merton, her belov'd ancestral home ; 
 " The words, you told me, of my uncle's charge 
 Were, ' See her safely back to Merton Hall/ 
 You know ; so there you still will have to go." 
 I acquiesced, and I escorted her 
 Unto the very gates, where she was met 
 By friends and tenantry with welcome loud 
 And joyfullest amaze, as one thought dead, 
 But now returned to be once more the prized 
 Young mistress of the mansion and domain. 
 I made escape from all of this as soon 
 
THE TRUST. 
 
 47 
 
 As I discreetly could, and took my leave. 
 
 She gave a smile of gracious, affable 
 
 Farewell, while saying, " Pray remember, I 
 
 Expect that you will come some day, when we 
 
 Can settle any farther claims the trust 
 
 May justify." I merely bowed, and straight 
 
 Withdrew, reflecting on the words she used : 
 
 " She spoke of l claims.' What claims ? I have no claims 
 
 To make : no claim upon her gratitude, 
 
 If that were what she meant." And I resolved 
 
 That I would go no more to Merton Hall. 
 
 Rejoicings grand and festive took place there, 
 
 To grace her first arrival, and 'twas thought 
 
 A round of gay assemblages would then 
 
 Have followed these : but Clarice Merton lived 
 
 A life retired, sequestered, when she had 
 
 Performed the hostess-duty that she owed 
 
 To greeters in her circle of kind friends. 
 
 Deep mourning worn for her lost uncle was 
 
 The cause assigned for this complete and close 
 
 Seclusion from society ; and she 
 
 Was left to follow her own chosen course. 
 
 Meanwhile I also had returned to Merton ; sought 
 My old employer ; found him friendly as 
 
48 THE TRUST. 
 
 He ever had been towards me, and he gave 
 
 Me cordial welcome ; told me how the news 
 
 Had reached him of the Wreck : how he believed 
 
 I perished in the burning ship ; and how 
 
 He felt assured that only accident 
 
 Akin to this would e'er have hindered me 
 
 From executing his commission ; for 
 
 He knew my faithfulness of old, he said 
 
 With his approving smile of fatherly 
 
 Regard. He made me take up quarters in 
 
 His house, as I had always done : but now 
 
 He treated me more like a son than clerk. 
 
 " I'm growing an old man," he said, " and feel 
 
 The want of help and younger energy 
 
 In our good trade : from you, Ned, I can count 
 
 On both, I know ; so stay with me, and give 
 
 Me what I need." And thus it was arranged. 
 
 I heard from time to time, through village talk, 
 Of Clarice. It was said she lived alone, 
 Was seldom seen beyond the Merton grounds, 
 Except on some kind quiet errand of 
 Benevolence and gentle charity ; 
 Some visit to a cottage, where distress 
 Or illness called for aid and sympathy : 
 
THE TRUST. 
 
 Unostentatiously and privately 
 
 She went about, engaged in doing good. 
 
 A thirst, a yearning, irrepressible, 
 To see her once again, took feverish 
 Possession of me : I grew restless and 
 Unable to resist the strong desire 
 To wander forth in hope of one last chance 
 That I might look upon her face, myself 
 Unseen, unknown, ere I took leave of it 
 For ever. In the throb, the rack of my 
 Fierce longing, I believed that if I could 
 Behold her but once more, I would persuade 
 My master to employ me where I might 
 Promote his interests away from our 
 Small country village ; then resolve to go 
 And never to return, till snow of age 
 Had settled on my head and on my heart. 
 
 Urged by my burning wish, I took my way 
 One evening to Merton Lane, and leaned 
 Upon the stile, deep musing on the strange 
 And varied scenes I had beheld since last 
 I lingered in this tranquil place. My thoughts 
 Were soothed to something like serenity 
 By all its peaceful sweetness and repose : 
 
 3 D 
 
 49 
 
50 THE TRUST. 
 
 The trees were coming into leaf, the birds 
 
 Were chirping their last hymn before the sun 
 
 Went down a green delicious twilight shed 
 
 Its softened shade upon the fading gold 
 
 Of western glow. Ere quite 'twas passed, I spied 
 
 Beneath the hedge some modest violets 
 
 Just peering 'mid the grass. With eagerness, 
 
 I stooped to gather the sweet blossoms, fraught 
 
 With thousand memories as fragrant as 
 
 Themselves : I fondled them, I pressed them to 
 
 My lips, inhaled their odorous breath, and 
 
 Unconsciously I murmured low-toned words 
 
 Of soft address to them ; when something near, 
 
 A shadow, a dark form, attracted my 
 
 Attention, and I saw a lady, tall, 
 
 And clothed in black, was standing but a pace 
 
 Or two from where I was. So noiseless 
 
 Had been her approach, and now so motionless, 
 
 So silently, so phantom-like she stood, 
 
 That well I might have thought she was her own 
 
 Departed spirit, conjured to my side 
 
 By my intense remembrance of herself : 
 
 But, at a glance, I knew 'twas Clarice, and 
 
 With hasty impulse thrust the violets 
 
THE TRUST. 5 r 
 
 Quick in my breast, and hid them there. She smiled, 
 I thought disdainfully, and turned away 
 Without a word. I walked as in a dream, 
 Returning home like one who had beheld 
 The spectre of his own dead happiness. 
 
 That night there came a note from Merton Hall : 
 It ran : " May I ask you to come to me 
 To-morrow ? " Signed " C. M. : " No more. Its curt 
 Expression, cold politeness, all seemed meant 
 To show me distantly and freezingly 
 That I was naught to her ; that I was but 
 The young man, Edward Helme \ she, well-born, rich, 
 The Lady of the Hall : and yet, to me, 
 As I stood gazing on those two well-formed 
 And clear-cut letters of her name, she rose 
 Before me as herself alone, the one 
 Sole woman I had worshipped when a boy ; 
 The woman I had faithfully preserved 
 From e'en myself and her own guilelessness 
 When chance intrusted her to me and my 
 Protecting care in manhood : peerless, fair, 
 Devoid of any grace conferred by birth 
 Or wealth, her own sweet self presented still 
 To my adoring thought the image of pure, 
 
52 THE TRUST. 
 
 Of womanly perfection. 
 
 Sleep for me 
 Was none that night. 
 
 Next morning I went up 
 To Merton Hall ; and on the way I schooled 
 My beating heart to quietude might vie 
 With hers, that calm and frigid quietude 
 I knew too well in all its lady force 
 Of well-bred distance and cold courtesy. 
 I found her on the terrace, as before : 
 No peacock now was on the balustrade ; 
 But on her shoulder perched a little dove, 
 That from her palm took grain. She bowed her head 
 To me as I approached ; but still went on 
 Attending to her bird, that fed at ease. 
 Her color varied ; but she strove to keep 
 Both look and voice composed, as she, with eyes 
 Still bent upon the dove, said : 
 
 " You would not 
 
 Oblige me by remembering my request 
 To come, that we might settle any claims 
 Remaining unfulfilled of the old trust ; 
 I had to summon you by letter, and 
 Subdue whatever lady's pride forbade 
 
THE TRUST. 53 
 
 My writing to remind you of my wish : 
 
 But I may well afford to sacrifice 
 
 A little of punctilio, sure, for you ; 
 
 Since in our desert life were levelled all 
 
 The usual forms of civilized regard 
 
 To set observances, distinctions, and 
 
 Conventional appointed rules." "You speak 
 
 Of l claims,' " I answered ; " I am not aware 
 
 That any claims exist. I tried, with all 
 
 My best endeavor, to perform the points 
 
 The trust enjoined ; and I believe they all 
 
 Had been fulfilled, when I had brought you here, 
 
 And seen you safely home to Merton Hall." 
 
 " Ah, yes, we never could agree in what 
 
 Those points consist ; and therefore 'twas I asked 
 
 You to come hither, that we might decide 
 
 How far they reach, and how much they include. 
 
 You think them ended by your escort home : 
 
 You think protection, guard, and watchfulness 
 
 No longer needed for me, now I am 
 
 Returned to safety and to Merton Hall ? 
 
 You think your care for me may cease now I 
 
 Have once resumed my station and my rank 
 
 As Lady of the Manor mistress of this place ? " 
 
54 THE TRUST. 
 
 There was a break in her sweet voice as she 
 Pronounced the words " your care for me," and that 
 Old playful title used between us in 
 Our desert life ; but with recovered tone 
 Of steadiness, she hurried on : " You think 
 Your task concluded, and my uncle's charge 
 Completed now ? Perchance it is, as you 
 Regard the trust and all the claims it gives 
 Me on your guardianship. But may not I 
 Perceive some claims yet unfulfilled ? May I 
 Not feel I may advance my claim to show 
 The grateful sense I have, and ever shall 
 Retain, of your devoted, manly care : 
 Heroic bravery in saving me, 
 Unceasing labor, forethought, fortitude 
 For me, unfailing firmness, tolerance 
 Throughout, when whims of woman mood must oft 
 Have sorely tried your patience ? Do you think 
 That I possess no claims ? My uncle's charge 
 And trust, I know, must sure include the claim 
 His Clarice has to show her gratitude." 
 " Your gratitude is not what I would have ; 
 If any guerdon be my due, there is 
 
THE TRUST. 
 
 55 
 
 One, higher far, I dare not, may not ask." 
 My heart gave a wild bound when I perceived 
 She shrank not at my words : I took her hand, 
 And held it in my own with firm close grasp :. 
 "I never will ask this, if you forbid." 
 The dove had flown away ; but the soft eyes 
 Of Clarice still were downward bent, as she, 
 In gentle whispered tone, said : 
 
 "Will you tell 
 
 Me what it was that made you treat those flowers 
 So strangely in the lane last night ? " " You ask 
 The truth ? " " I ask the truth." " In one word lies 
 The truth ; but will you bear to hear it ? Will 
 You not resent the truth ? " "I ask it," she 
 Repeated, quietly. " Then know 'twas love, 
 Love long ago conceived, love ever since 
 Concealed with careful painfullest attempt 
 To bury it within the depths of my 
 Own heart. 'Twas love that took me to the lane 
 In boyhood, that I might have chance to see 
 Fair Clarice riding by ; 'twas love that made 
 My rapture when I saved her from the sea ; 
 'Twas love that made my torture when I dared 
 
S 6 THE TRUST. 
 
 Not let her see my passion in our home 
 
 Of desert life, lest she might grow to care 
 
 For me, and even learn (oh, mingled bliss 
 
 And anguish ! ) to return my faithful love, 
 
 When no all-hallowed rite of sacred tie 
 
 Could there be ours : 'twas love and burning wish 
 
 To see her, if but once again, that brought 
 
 Me to the lane last night, and made me press 
 
 The violets with fervor passionate, 
 
 In thought of her and our sweet desert life." 
 
 " How could I guess 'twas love ? " she softly said ; 
 
 "Your manner was so strange, so grave, reserved, 
 
 Constrained, so almost as it seemed to me 
 
 Averse." " For your sake it was so ; for yours. 
 
 All guardless, innocent, protectionless, 
 
 As you were then, how could I be but thus, 
 
 If I would not betray my charge, my trust ? " 
 
 " And now ? " she asked, with frank, bewitching smile ; 
 
 " Well, now, you are Miss Merton of the Hall, 
 
 While I am only " " Noblest, purest, best, 
 
 And truest-hearted man ! " she warmly said, 
 
 With eyes that sparkled through bright jewel tears ; 
 
 " The sea-bruised girl cast at your very feet 
 
THE TRUST. 
 
 57 
 
 By tossing waves you took up tenderly, 
 
 You treated with all delicate respect 
 
 For womanhood, you cherished, treasured her, 
 
 What should she be but yours ? " I clasped her to 
 
 My heart : she was my own by her free gift : 
 
 My TRUST was trusted to me evermore. 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 " A good woman is worth gold." 
 
 YOUNG Bernard Thorpe and Richard Middleton 
 
 Were friends, fast friends, from time when they were 
 
 chums 
 
 At school. A lively, sanguine, clever youth 
 Was Richard ; while his friend was earnest and 
 Industrious, content to win by slow 
 Degrees. Dick Middleton was rather for 
 An enterprise of dash and sudden gain ; 
 While Bernard Thorpe preferred a steady rise, 
 By diligence and perseverance earned. 
 Before they were of age they both were launched 
 In life, pursuing each the course was best 
 Adapted to his character ; and ere 
 Some years were passed, they both were on the way 
 To make large fortunes. Richard Middleton 
 Went early out to India : Bernard had 
 
62 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 His office-desk in London, where he worked 
 
 With assiduity and energy. 
 
 They both were merchants : but the ventures of 
 
 The one were made in the flush Orient ; 
 
 The traffic of the other chiefly lay 
 
 In the West Indies, where plantations large, 
 
 With luscious rums and sugars brought in cash. 
 
 Both were employed in making money ; one, 
 
 Abroad, at times acquiring sudden sums 
 
 Of large amount ; the other, slow and sure, 
 
 Amassing solid wealth. Dick Middleton 
 
 Had married at eighteen, and taken his 
 
 Young wife to India with him when he went : 
 
 But -Bernard Thorpe remained a bachelor. 
 
 His residence was good, substantial ; one 
 
 Of those old roomy gloomy mansions in 
 
 The neighborhood of Bedford Square, which once 
 
 Found favor with rich city men ; warm, like 
 
 Themselves, 'tis true, but wholly ugly and 
 
 Unstylish, unattractive, void of grace 
 
 Or cheerfulness. In this dull dwelling he 
 
 Contented lived, his thoughts absorbed in gain, 
 
 Not sordid gain, but gain that should exalt 
 
 Him to the style of merchant-prince, the rank 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 63 
 
 Sir Thomas Gresham held with such renown. 
 Respectable in all, he had a most 
 Respectable old housekeeper, who once 
 Had been his mother's, and who knew him from 
 A boy. She almost stood him in the place 
 Of mother now, so motherly and good 
 Was Mistress Wilson in her care of her 
 Young master. 
 
 By the Indian mail one year 
 A letter came to Bernard Thorpe that gave 
 Him much delight. It told him that he might 
 Expect his old school friend, Dick Middleton, 
 In England shortly ; said the writer knew 
 That Bernard Thorpe would gladly hear of his 
 Return, and welcome him to English ground 
 Again ; " although (so ran the letter) " I 
 Am only coming on a visit, and 
 Shall soon go back to India, where a man 
 May make a heap of guineas in a day. 
 There, there's the place for minting money, my 
 Dear friend : I almost wish the East and not 
 The West had been your chosen mart, old boy. 
 But I have something now in view that will, 
 Or I am very much mistaken, prove 
 
64 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 A field between them that's neither here 
 
 Nor there (I don't intend a pun) which must 
 
 Bring in enormous profits, and turn out 
 
 A perfect El Dorado, truer far 
 
 Than that Sir Walter Raleigh went to find. 
 
 But more of this, friend, when we meet ; which will 
 
 Be soon I hope. Yours, ever faithfully, 
 
 DlCK MiDDLETON." 
 
 When he arrived, his friend 
 Insisted he should come to him at once : 
 " You must, Dick," Bernard said ; " you must indulge 
 My wish, and make my house your home while you 
 Remain in England." " But my stay will be 
 But short," said Richard, " and it's scarce worth while 
 To put you out for such a little time." 
 " The less time you can give, the more I need 
 To make the most of it. Come, Dick, you must 
 Consent." " Oh, if I must, I must," said Dick ; 
 " But mistress What's-her-name, your housekeeper, 
 Will wish me farther, with my truant ways 
 Of darting in and out, at all odd hours ; 
 Of keeping dinner waiting ; being out 
 When I should be at home, and being in 
 When she'd be glad to have my room instead 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 65 
 
 Of company, as the saying goes. 
 I know I am unpunctual, terribly 
 Irregular, and unmethodical : 
 My wife has often told me so j though she 
 Is gentlest of the gentle, and will bear 
 From me, ay, almost any thing. But how 
 Can I expect your housekeeper to bear " 
 " My housekeeper will bear whatever I 
 Think fit and pleasant/' answered Bernard with 
 A smile j " and your consenting to my wish 
 Is fit and pleasant both : so it's agreed." 
 The friends enjoyed their time together much. 
 While Richard Middleton was staying there 
 He entered headlong into the grand scheme 
 That he had mentioned in his letter to 
 His friend ; though Bernard Thorpe did all he could 
 To try dissuade the eager Richard from 
 A too rash entrance into this vast field 
 Of speculation, that presented such 
 Alluring prospect and large promise of 
 Returns. " An interest of cent-per-cent 
 Dimensions always serves to startle me 
 From joining in a project," Bernard said ; 
 " Lest it should prove a bubble some fine day, 
 E 
 
66 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 And burst, with empty nothingness for the 
 
 Investors, shareholders, and all concerned. 
 
 No, no ; I always rather trust to small, 
 
 Sure gains, than to a dazzling possible 
 
 Result of magnitude immense ; for large 
 
 Percentage certainly implies large risk." 
 
 "Ay, Bernard," smiled his friend ; "you always were, 
 
 You know, a something of a plodder ; liked 
 
 To take the cautious, prudent course : while I 
 
 Loved rapid pace, excitement ; all the rush, 
 
 The speed, the impetus, the triumph of 
 
 A swift arrival at my goal, to find 
 
 Myself the prize-crowned conqueror." "Beware 
 
 Lest you the racer's fate experience, 
 
 Of check, impediment, or being thrown," 
 
 Returned the other in a graver tone ; 
 
 " Consider, Dick, ere yet it be too late." 
 
 " It is too late already, if you call 
 
 ( Too late ' my being early to secure 
 
 A thumping slice of this good thing, a lot, 
 
 A lion's share of shares, for next to naught, 
 
 For a mere song, in fact ; they let me have 
 
 This first advantage, since 'twas I that first 
 
 Originated and promoted the 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 6/ 
 
 Affair. It really, is a splendid thing. 
 
 Moreover they have made me treasurer, 
 
 And one of the directors. I assure 
 
 You, Bernard, it is sure to do ; it must, 
 
 It shall, it will ; I'm certain that it will. 
 
 I'll give you as a toast to-day and drink 
 
 It you will not refuse, I know ' Success 
 
 To Richard Middleton's new scheme, and may 
 
 It bring him all the luck and cash that he 
 
 Expects ! ' And that is not a little, I 
 
 Can tell you, Master Bernard, dear old boy ! " 
 
 In higher spirits went on Dick, until 
 
 One day he came home late to dinner, and 
 
 Went up at once to his own room to dress. 
 
 A quarter of an hour elapsed and then 
 
 Another and again a third ; but still 
 
 No Dick appeared. Then Bernard rang the bell, 
 
 And asked if Mr. Middleton had yet 
 
 Come in. " Dear, yes, sir, to be sure, 
 
 A good half -hour ago," was the reply ; 
 
 " But p'rhaps he don't feel quite the thing," said Price, 
 
 The old gray-headed butler, in a tone 
 
 Of half mysterious, half fatherly 
 
 Concern ; for Dick's good-natured lively ways 
 
68 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 And lavish pay for service done had gained 
 
 Him favor in the household. Price's tone 
 
 Drew notice from his master. " What is it 
 
 You mean ? " said he ; " is Mr. Middleton 
 
 Not well ? " " I don't exactly know, sir ; but 
 
 He seemed to me to look quite queer, so white, 
 
 So drawn, so strange, somehow." "I'll go and" see 
 
 To it myself," said Bernard ; and he ran 
 
 Upstairs to see his friend. On opening 
 
 The door he saw Dick sitting with his face 
 
 Deep buried in his hands ; complete despair 
 
 Marked sunken head, distracted attitude ; 
 
 While on the table lay an open case 
 
 Of travelling pistols, close within his reach. 
 
 His friend advanced with noiseless step and laid 
 
 A gentle hand upon the shoulder of 
 
 The stricken man : " Dick, what is this ? " he said 
 
 With voice as tender as a woman's ; " tell 
 
 Me what has chanced. " "A blow, a heavy blow ; 
 
 It struck me on the head, I fancy ; it 
 
 Affects my head, I think ; but it will 
 
 Pass away ; 'tis nothing, I dare say ; leave 
 
 Me, Bernard ; I will try to get some sleep ; 
 
 I only feel a little stunned : the blow 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 69 
 
 Was hard." He tried to turn it off, and make 
 
 It seem he'd met with some street accident. 
 
 " Dick, tell me truly what has happened," said 
 
 His friend. Then Dick burst forth in torrent wild 
 
 Of words : " Impending ruin, utter loss, 
 
 Destruction ! Worse than money loss, the loss 
 
 Of honor, credit, reputation ; worse, 
 
 Far worse ! I ne'er can raise my head again ! 
 
 Best die at once, and end it all ! " His eyes 
 
 An instant turned to where the pistols lay 
 
 Upon the table. Bernard closed the case, 
 
 And put it in his pocket. " Dick," he said, 
 
 " Be calm, be rational ; come, be yourself, 
 
 Your bright and hopeful self ; you always were 
 
 A hopeful chap, you know too sanguine, p'rhaps 
 
 But now 'tis best encourage hope. Come, let's 
 
 Consider how all this may be repaired, 
 
 Averted ; think of ways and means ; devise 
 
 Some mode of putting off the evil day. 
 
 This scheme, of course, has failed ; I feared it would ; 
 
 It is so, is it not ? " " It is," said Dick ; 
 
 " Dolt, blockhead that I was, to be so rash, 
 
 So credulous ! " " Is there no help ? No chance 
 
 Of staving off the crash ? " asked Bernard. " None, 
 
70 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 t None, none ! " said Dick. " Unless I find the means 
 To raise before to-morrow noon a sum 
 Of fabulous amount, I'm beggared, and 
 Still deeper misery dishonored, lost, 
 Undone ; for never after can I hope 
 To rise, recover ground, make one more strong 
 Attempt to try my fate with fortune, and 
 Retrieve the past by ardent, strenuous 
 Endeavor. Bankrupt, creditless,"no chance 
 Remains for me in life ; and life I care 
 Not for, I will not have." " Dick, promise me 
 That you will be a man, commit no act 
 Of folly, worse than folly, wickedness, 
 Do nothing desperate, and I in turn 
 Will promise to think over .this, and see 
 What can be done before to-morrow noon. 
 And now cheer up, my dear old boy, and come 
 With me downstairs : we'll have a glass of good 
 Old Burgundy shall warm our hearts, and may 
 Who knows ? inspire me with the ef test way 
 To get you out of difficulty, and 
 To set you on your legs of mercantile 
 Stability again. Some food and wine 
 Will do you good. The dinner no, I will 
 
THE REMITTANCE. ji 
 
 Not call it so the supper has been kept 
 
 By us so long uneaten, that poor Price, 
 
 And mistress cook, and mistresa housekeeper, 
 
 Are out of patience, sure, by this time." Thus 
 
 Did Bernard rattle on, that Dick might not 
 
 Relapse into his moody thought and black 
 
 Despair : the two men seemed, as they sat there 
 
 At table, to have changed respectively 
 
 Their characters : Dick, downcast, sad, and mute, 
 
 While Bernard was all brightness, passed the wine, 
 
 And strove to keep his friend in spirits, cheer, and hope. 
 
 When finished was the meal, and servants were 
 
 Withdrawn, the two fell into graver talk, 
 
 And Bernard made himself acquainted with 
 
 The full particulars of Richard's case, 
 
 The master of its every detailed fact. 
 
 Then bidding Dick good night, and charging him 
 
 To keep good heart, his friend retired to bed. 
 
 But not to sleep : he lay awake in thought 
 
 And earnest question with himself, how he 
 
 Might rescue Richard, yet escape without 
 
 The total wreck of his own fortunes ; for 
 
 The sum required was one that almost would 
 
 Demand his all, and leave him nearly stripped, 
 
72 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 Comparatively penniless, reduced, 
 Restricted to the scantiest of means 
 For keeping still his honored calling as 
 A merchant. But at length he firm made up 
 His mind : " I cannot let old Dick be lost 
 For want of my assistance, come what may ! 
 He saved my life at school once, in his own - 
 Impetuous and headlong way, without 
 Regard to consequence or danger to 
 Himself : just as he now is, he was then ; 
 A thoughtless, generous chap, resolved to win 
 Whate'er he sought at one bold dash, be it 
 The life of his school chum, or be it wealth 
 And eminence. Old Dick must not be lost, 
 If any sacrifice of mine can save 
 Him now. It is but going back to where 
 I was, beginning life anew. I'll start 
 Afresh with vigor and good wil-1. I am 
 Not thirty yet : there's time enough to make 
 My fortune still." Next day he told his friend 
 Of what he had resolved upon. Dick made 
 Remonstrance ; said he could not think of such 
 A noble sacrifice on Bernard's part ; 
 That he could not accept a loan so large, 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 So ruinously large ; but when he found 
 That Bernard still persisted and remained 
 Unmoved, Dick wavered, then began to yield, 
 And lent an ear to Bernard's arguments : 
 " Remember I, a bachelor," said Thorpe, 
 " Can better far afford to be a poor 
 And struggling man than you, a husband and 
 A father, can afford to be without 
 A shilling. Think a moment of your wife 
 And child, and then I know you'll see the force 
 Of what I say." " Besides," said Dick, " although 
 This heavy loan will leave you straitened for 
 A period, 'twill be but for a time ; 
 Since once I am again in India, my 
 Resources there will soon enable me 
 To send you a remittance ; such a sum 
 As amply will suffice to set you well 
 Afloat again, till I can forward more 
 And more, until the whole be gratefully 
 Repaid." And thus it was agreed. By noon 
 Next day the fate of Richard Middleton 
 Was saved, the fate of Bernard Thorpe was sealed : 
 The one was free, the other bound, bound hand 
 foot to recommencement of his first 
 4 
 
 73 
 
74 
 
 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 Dull drudgery in early days, when he, 
 
 As office-clerk, began the mercantile 
 
 Career, day-dreaming of Dick Whittington, 
 
 His humble origin and glorious end. 
 
 The time arrived for parting, and the two 
 
 Took leave. " God bless you, dear old boy ! good-by ! 
 
 When once I'm over there, I'll forward the 
 
 Remittance, never fear ! Expect it soon, 
 
 Dear Bernard, generous friend ! " And Dick set sail. 
 
 Thus bare, thus cramped and maimed, 
 A crippled man in capital and funds, 
 Stout-hearted Bernard set to work to lay 
 Again the first stone of his edifice, 
 His building up a fortune regal in 
 Its vastness. He began by practising 
 The strictest prudence and economy, 
 Retrenched his personal expenses to 
 The merest need ; wore plainest garments ; took 
 No recreation save his books and walks ; 
 Reduced his household ; lived on simplest fare ; 
 But dwelt in the same roomy gloomy house, 
 For three good reasons ; one, because he there 
 Lived free of rent, since he had bought it for 
 His own when he was rich ; the second was, 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 75 
 
 Because it looked substantial, solid, like 
 
 The dwelling of a well-established man ; 
 
 The third, because to change it for a less 
 
 Expensive one would challenge notice and 
 
 Bespeak reverse and smaller means : for he 
 
 Endeavored always to preserve the look 
 
 Of being still as able as before 
 
 To meet all exigencies and sustain 
 
 The business in previous magnitude. 
 
 Its old repute, its long-established name, 
 
 Its steady, firmly grounded credit, and 
 
 Repute for punctuality and prompt 
 
 Fulfilment of trade orders, constant in 
 
 Its industry, activity for years, 
 
 While Bernard's father was alive, and when 
 
 The son succeeded him to be its head, 
 
 Gave Bernard power to stem the tide 
 
 Of difficulty threatening to whelm 
 
 Him in its flood : and still he toiled and toiled, 
 
 And waited, waited, ever patiently, 
 
 In expectation of the promised large 
 
 Remittance coming from abroad, that might 
 
 Redeem Dick's solemn pledge, as well as shield 
 
 Himself from pressing calls, and urgent need 
 
76 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 To be prepared against ensuing chance 
 Or imminent demand. 
 
 But time went on ; 
 
 And still no news from India, none from Dick. 
 The lines increased on Bernard's knitted brow ; 
 The crows of care began to set their feet 
 With deep indent about his wistful eyes ; 
 His cheek grew haggard, wan, with that sad look 
 Is seen in faces early aged and worn 
 By carking, pondering anxiety ; 
 By absent-minded longing for some one 
 Intensely wished occurrence ; by a dull 
 Persistent dwelling on a single strong 
 Desire, to the exclusion of all else 
 That's healthful, cheerful, hopeful for a man 
 To think upon. Yet Bernard was still young, 
 And hardly yet had reached the prime of life ; 
 The more, then, was it sorrowful to mark 
 The signs of that impending oldness in 
 His face and its expression, with the bend 
 Of his brown head ere it was gray, and stoop 
 Of limbs that had not shrunk, but still possessed 
 The firmness, suppleness, alertness of 
 Their youth. He was a personable man, 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 Of figure fine and tall, with countenance 
 Refined, a forehead bland and thoughtful, eyes 
 That glowed with generous fire, or softened with 
 Benignity, and smile of sweetness most 
 Ineffable : but all these comely points 
 Were clouded by his growing care, and gnaw 
 Of ever biting keen solicitude. 
 
 At last an Indian mail came in that brought 
 The long expected letter, which ran thus : 
 " Dear Friend, Alas for the remittance that 
 I promised and I fully thought to send ! 
 I've staked my last and lost : I thought to make 
 One final stroke of fortune would repay 
 You all, and more than all : but no, I'm ruined ; 
 Ruined past redemption, past recall. 
 I send you now, in lieu of the once hoped 
 Remittance, all that now is left to me, 
 My beggared orphan child ; for orphan soon 
 I feel she'll be : her mother is no more ; 
 Myself am struck to earth, am dying fast : 
 This blow has killed me with the bitter thought 
 Of my poor girl thus left, and you unpaid ; 
 I send her to you, Bernard, in my last 
 Extremity : a charge instead of payment : 
 
 77 
 
78 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 And yet I know you will take care of her ; 
 For have you not been always good to me ? 
 Forbearing ? Generous ? A more than friend ? 
 Be kind to her, be kind to my poor Grace, 
 If only for the sake of bygone times, 
 When I was your old school-fellow and chum, 
 
 DlCK MlDDLETON." 
 
 The girl arrived : a slim 
 
 Slight girl, scarce entered on her teens ; a shy 
 And timid creature, with large eyes that shrank 
 From gaze, yet seemed to fill her face, so out 
 They stood above her pale, wan, wasted cheeks : 
 A girl forlorn and unattractive she 
 Appeared to Bernard Thorpe, as he at once 
 Delivered her to Wilson's care, and gave 
 His housekeeper the order to attend 
 To all was needful for Miss Middleton. 
 " An unformed girl, an awkward unformed girl ; " 
 Was Bernard's muttered thought, as she withdrew ; 
 " ' A charge instead of payment,' were the words 
 Her father used, and true enough they are : 
 A charge indeed ! an onerous charge ! a charge 
 The more for me to bear "beyond what I 
 Have had to bear : a charge entailing more 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 Expense and outlay in the place of the 
 Remittance promised, my own sum returned, 
 Repaid : that sum so long expected, long 
 Relied on, long and ardently desired ! 
 That sum which would have helped to make me all 
 I thought to be, a wealthy man, a man 
 Respected as a reigning potentate 
 Among his fellow-merchants, one who might 
 Have raised high merchanthood'e'en higher yet. 
 What now is left me ? To remain for years 
 A struggling man, an ever-struggling man ! 
 But, patience, Bernard Thorpe, be patient still ! 
 With patience, courage, persevering work, 
 You yet may win the goal youVe set your heart 
 Upon. Till now you have relied on one 
 Whose word you took : henceforth rely on none 
 But God and your own self ; be brave, be calm, 
 Be firm and constant to your promised end ! " 
 That end he more than ever held in view, 
 Pursued, and still unflinchingly resolved 
 To gain : he labored at his desk by night 
 As well as day ; he spared nor toil, nor thought, 
 Nor hand, nor brain : all day he spent in the 
 Small pent-up city office, hard at work ; 
 
 79 
 
80 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 The evening he gave himself for brief 
 
 Enjoyment of his dinner and his glass 
 
 Of wine ; but long into the night he wrote, 
 
 And looked into his ledgers, cash-accounts, 
 
 His long ruled pages bound in calf, and all 
 
 The rest of those important " books that are 
 
 No books," according to the author-clerk 
 
 Of London's venerable India-house, 
 
 Dear Elia, ever-honored writer-friend, 
 
 Sweet-hearted, witty, good and great Charles Lamb. 
 
 The time allowed by Bernard Thorpe for rest, 
 
 Repose of mind as well as hand, was when 
 
 Just once in the whole four-and-twenty hours, 
 
 He saw the young girl, Grace, who had been sent 
 
 So solemnly to his own guardianship 
 
 And care. Her diffidence, her shyness, her 
 
 Timidity, would fain have kept her from 
 
 What she imagined might be taken as 
 
 Intrusion ; but good Mistress Wilson would 
 
 Not hear of Grace's dining anywhere 
 
 But with the master of the house ; and at 
 
 The proper dinner-hour of set and state 
 
 Repast for the chief meal of every day, 
 
 She had her ready dressed and ready to 
 
THE REMITTANCE. Si 
 
 Go down into the dining-room, against 
 
 The well-known knock was heard, that she might there 
 
 Be seated to receive the merchant, when, 
 
 Returning home, he ought to find and to 
 
 Be met with welcome, was the sage and kind 
 
 Assertion of the formal thoughtful dame : 
 
 " For you must know, my dear," she said, " that my 
 
 Young master has lived much too much alone, 
 
 In my opinion ; and he would be all 
 
 The better for a little company ; 
 
 Ay, even company of one so mere 
 
 A girl as you are, dear, is cheerfuller 
 
 Than dining by himself : so you must go." 
 
 Grace always went ; was punctual to the time ; 
 
 And sat beside the fire, its bright red blaze 
 
 Reflected' dancingly, and lighting up 
 
 With starry sparkles the small locket and 
 
 The jet upon. her mourning frock ; and so 
 
 Brought into fuller, stronger contrast the 
 
 Pale face and large dark eyes that spoke in dumb 
 
 But plainly written characters the tale 
 
 Of early saddened girlhood. There she sat 
 
 In deepest thought, -her loosely folded hands 
 
 Across her lap, her eyes fixed dreamily 
 
82 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 Upon the coals, in which she seemed to see 
 Strange pictures of the past old Indian life, 
 Until came Bernard's knock, to wake her with 
 A start from out her musing trance, and bring 
 Her back to present life with all its yet 
 More strange surroundings, as it seemed to her. 
 When he came in, she used to quick look up 
 And see if in his face were aught amiss, 
 Of coming change or fresh anxiety ; 
 Then rose, and silently as was her wont 
 Drew forward his arm-chair a little, as 
 Presenting it, reminding him 'twas there 
 Beside the fire ; and pointed to the rug 
 Where lay his slippers, warming, ready to 
 Put on at once, ere he went up to dress 
 More leisurely before they dined. All these 
 Attentions, paid with utmost quietness, 
 As quietly were taken by the man 
 To whom they were so mutely offered ; for 
 At most times Bernard was so absent, so 
 Immersed in calculations and accounts, 
 He rarely noticed what was passing. His 
 Abstraction lessened somewhat as the meal 
 Went on ; and by the time dessert was placed 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 83 
 
 Upon the table, he became more free 
 
 Of speech, more genial, more inclined to chat 
 
 With Grace. She had been in the house some weeks, 
 
 When once he said, while eating walnuts peeled 
 
 By her, and put upon his plate with salt, 
 
 In silence : " I've remembered, child, that I 
 
 Ought long ere this to have bethought me of 
 
 A school ; for I suppose you should be s?nt 
 
 To school." He gave a sort of little sigh, 
 
 As he said this, in thinking of the time 
 
 That he must give to choosing some good school ; 
 
 Some school well recommended, and well known 
 
 To be a good one. " If you please," said Grace, 
 
 With her large eyes raised suddenly to his, 
 
 " I would much rather not be sent to school ; 
 
 My mother used to tell me that she did 
 
 Not like the thought of school for me. But if 
 
 I'm troublesome or wrong in saying I 
 
 Object, or telling you my mother's strong 
 
 Objection, I will go to school." " No need, 
 
 No need," said Bernard ; " we can think of some 
 
 Still better mode of education ; for 
 
 Of course you must be educated, child, 
 
 Now, mustn't you ? " " My mother taught me much," 
 
84 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 Said Grace ; " from quite a little, little girl 
 She used to teach me all she knew, and take 
 Great pains with me ; but I don't know ; perhaps 
 I ought to learn some more. Do you think so ? " 
 " I hardly know, indeed, myself," said he, 
 With puzzled look ; " I know so little what 
 Is reckoned right for a young lady's due 
 And proper training ; but, if not a school, 
 A governess might be engaged for you, 
 Or teachers, masters, could come here at hours 
 Appointed, certain days." " A governess 
 Would want a salary, and cost a great, 
 Great deal ; while Mistress Wilson takes good care 
 Of me, and teaches me to sew and stitch, 
 And lets me watch her make preserves and jams, 
 With many other things it's well to learn ; 
 And then there are the books upon the shelves 
 In your small study, that she said I might 
 Go into while you are away you do 
 Not mind it, do you ? and from these I pick 
 Out several I like to look at and 
 
 To read." " You do ? " asked Bernard, much amused 
 At Grace's quaintly stated plan for her 
 Home schooling ; " but I should have thought those 
 books 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 8$ 
 
 You speak of much too dry to please the taste 
 Of a young girl." " In one of them," said Grace, 
 " I found a number of most curious prints, 
 That entertain me always ; queer monkeys, 
 Odd birds, strange places, heads of ancient men 
 And women, monstrous fish and insects, all 
 Of which I want to know about, and so 
 I read the pages near, and like that book 
 Beyond the rest." " The Cyclopedia, eh ? " 
 Said Bernard, with a smile that lighted up 
 His face, and long had been a stranger there ; 
 
 " Well, well, your choice is rather different 
 From what the usual run of damsels of 
 Your age prefer ; but you are not among 
 * The usual run ' of girls ; and you know best, 
 Of course, what interests and pleases you." 
 " Not only pleases me, but teaches me," 
 Said Grace, a little timidly, afraid 
 That Bernard's -manner might imply he thought 
 She cared for nothing more than pastime in 
 Her looking through his books ; " I learn while I 
 Am turning over all those leaves, and if 
 I do not learn enough, you can engage 
 But later on some masters for me, if 
 
86 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 You please." " Ay, very well," said Bernard, much 
 
 Relieved to find the matter settled for 
 
 The present, turning as he spoke to where 
 
 A writing-table always stood, that he 
 
 Might go at once to work when food and rest 
 
 Were taken. Grace was also glad to have 
 
 Reprieve : her haunting dread of adding to 
 
 The merchant's outlay, when she knew his means 
 
 Had been so straitened by that heavy loan, 
 
 Of being one more burden among those 
 
 Her father's act had laid on him to bear, 
 
 Inspired her with a constant wish to save 
 
 Him all expense, to spare in all she could, 
 
 To try and aid him by economy, 
 
 By active, helpful, frugal ways at home, 
 
 And by avoiding for herself whate'er 
 
 Cost money. Grace was thoughtful much beyond 
 
 Her years : her mother delicate, she had 
 
 Been nurse, sick-cook, and comforter to her ; 
 
 Her father, thoughtless, lavish, careless, but 
 
 Most fond of wife and child, had been of both 
 
 The idle and the thought-for : thus it came 
 
 That, from her earliest childhood, Grace had been 
 
 Accustomed by her parents to be made 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 87 
 
 Their little confidant in all their joys 
 
 And griefs, their pleasures and their pains, their brief 
 
 Good fortune, and their frequent intervals 
 
 Of narrowed income ; causing her to have 
 
 Reflection, patience, prudence, foresight, quick 
 
 Perception, judgment, seldom seen in girls 
 
 Of age so tender. 
 
 One among the few 
 
 Small luxuries that Bernard still allowed 
 Himself at table, after his resolve 
 To banish superfluities, was choice 
 Though spare dessert, and strong black coffee formed, 
 To him, its chief enjoyment. This he liked 
 Made carefully, prepared with duest eye 
 To preservation of its exquisite 
 Aroma. On a certain evening 
 He raised his coffee-cup, and sipped, and sipped, 
 With extra relish of its grateful scent 
 And flavor, till at length he asked : " Who made 
 This coffee ? Mistress Wilson, I suppose, 
 As usual ? Yet it seems to me she has 
 Surpassed herself. But was it she ? I ought 
 To be a judge of coffee, and I think 
 I could be sure that this was made by some 
 
88 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 New hand. Who was it, Susan ? " " It was made 
 
 To-day, sir, by Miss Middleton," said the 
 
 Neat waiting-maid who served at table now 
 
 In place of Price, the butler, sent away 
 
 When Bernard had reduced his household. " I 
 
 Was sure I could not be mistaken ; it's 
 
 Delicious ; quite a different, and still 
 
 More delicate essential taste." He looked 
 
 At Grace. Her usual paleness now had changed 
 
 To scarlet. " Mistress Wilson let me try," 
 
 She said, in answer to his look ; " I had 
 
 So often begged her leave to make it once, 
 
 Because I wished to see if you would like 
 
 The way I used to make it when I was 
 
 In India, for my mother, who was fond 
 
 Of coffee ; and she always liked it made 
 
 By me." " I do not wonder ; so should I," 
 
 Said Bernard, smilingly. " Would you ? " answered Grace, 
 
 Delightedly. " Then might I make it for 
 
 You every day, at breakfast time as well 
 
 As dinner ? " " Certainly ; but breakfast time 
 
 Is early, and requires you to be up 
 
 At a still earlier time, if you would make 
 
 The coffee ready for my breakfasting, 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 89 
 
 Before I leave this house for office hours 
 
 And city business." " I'm always up 
 
 A good long while before your breakfast, and 
 
 I will be sure to have the coffee made 
 
 In time," she said. And so it was ; and Grace 
 
 Was there to pour it out for him. Till then 
 
 She had not liked to join him at that meal, 
 
 Lest he, in hurry to be off, should find 
 
 Her in the way ; but ever after, she 
 
 Took courage, and both breakfasted and dined 
 
 With him. 
 
 Not only from the picture-book, 
 That drew a smile from Bernard, did she strive 
 To gather knowledge, but with diligent 
 Attention she read through most carefully 
 The books he had thought " dry " for her, which in 
 The study she had found ; they were a small 
 But well chosen collection, mostly works 
 Of science, travel, and biography. 
 They aided her to form her mind and fill 
 It with a store of information, good, 
 Available, and solid ; useful, fit 
 To make her practical and sensible. 
 She was already so, by nature and 
 
O THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 By circumstance ; her course of reading now 
 
 But tending to confirm her previous bent 
 
 Another source of intellectual aid 
 
 She had. There came sometimes at after hours 
 
 To Bernard's dwelling-house, on messages 
 
 Of urgency, .a young clerk from the house 
 
 Of business in the City, who was sent 
 
 Because he was a favorite of his, 
 
 A steady worker and intelligent. 
 
 This Henry Frankland worshipped Bernard ; but 
 
 With certain awe and reverence inspired 
 
 By former patronage bestowed upon 
 
 Himself and family, and by the grave 
 
 Reserve, with aspect dignified, that were 
 
 The merchant's, even from his very youth. 
 
 When Henry Frankland brought these messages 
 
 It generally was when Bernard sat 
 
 Enjoying his dessert ; but even that 
 
 Gave way at once to business ; and he 
 
 Went straight to where his writing-table stood, 
 
 And wrote whatever letter, answer, or 
 
 Directions wanted sending back for next 
 
 Day's early morning post, first pointing to 
 
 The dining-table, saying, hurriedly 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 9I 
 
 But kindly : " Frankland, help yourself to wine 
 
 And fruit, or coffee, while I write this line." 
 
 The "line " would often take an hour or two 
 
 To write, as detail after detail would 
 
 Suggest itself to Bernard's mind for each 
 
 Minute and accurate instruction : thus 
 
 It came that Frankland stayed, while Grace performed 
 
 The hospitable duties, offering 
 
 The cates to him, instead of letting him 
 
 Attend upon himself ; and often tea 
 
 Was served ere Bernard had completed all 
 
 He had to write. The first time Grace poured out 
 
 A cup and offered it to Frankland, he, 
 
 In tone subdued that might not interrupt 
 
 The merchant as he wrote, said : " Shall I not 
 
 Take some to Mr. Thorpe ? Will he not take 
 
 Some tea ? " " No," was Grace's low reply ; " he 
 
 But seldom drinks it till it's cold, and does 
 
 Not like to be disturbed when writing ; he 
 
 Will come himself for some, if later on 
 
 He care to have any ; 'tis understood 
 
 Between us ; so I never offer tea 
 
 To him, but let it wait his pleasure." And 
 
 Much low talk like this was held by Grace 
 
92 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 And Frankland, then and afterwards while he 
 
 Awaited Bernard's written orders, and 
 
 She brought her needlework, to give her hands 
 
 Employment as she listened. For 'twas he 
 
 That chiefly talked : habitually staid 
 
 And sparing of her speech, Grace much preferred 
 
 Remaining silent, when the clerk would tell 
 
 Her what he thought might serve to entertain 
 
 The lonely quiet girl .thus living set 
 
 Apart from all society, from all 
 
 Communion and companionship with those 
 
 Of her own age. Till, by degrees, Grace learned 
 
 To look for evenings when most probably 
 
 Young Frankland might arrive with City-sent 
 
 Despatches for the merchant ; since she then 
 
 Heard something of the outer world, and, what 
 
 More interested her, some touches of 
 
 That inner world wherein she dwelt and close 
 
 Concentred all her thoughts. She heard from him 
 
 Of Bernard's goodness to himself and all 
 
 He dearly loved, when they in penury 
 
 Were steeped, and, but for what the merchant did 
 
 On their behalf, would probably have sunk 
 
 O'erwhelmed : she heard from Frankland of the large 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 93 
 
 Benevolence, the charity, the bland 
 
 Mild kindliness that marked the merchant's mode 
 
 Of giving ear to sufferers ; e'en when 
 
 He could not give them aid in money, from 
 
 His own less ample means, he furnished them 
 
 With letters to his wealthier friends, and took 
 
 Best pains to help them on their way to earn 
 
 An independence for themselves. Besides 
 
 These narratives, Grace gleaned from the young clerk 
 
 Some knowledge that she wanted, for the clear 
 
 And better comprehension of a branch 
 
 Of information she had made her more 
 
 Especial care to cull from those " dry " books 
 
 She studied ; it was commerce, traffic, trade 
 
 In mercantile and international 
 
 Regard, she strove to understand ; and to 
 
 Become acquainted with their various 
 
 Requirements, skill in book-keeping, and in 
 
 Arithmetic, in calculations of 
 
 Percentage, annual and compound rates 
 
 Of interest, in home and foreign goods, 
 
 In exports, imports, markets, prices, and 
 
 The rest of those essential points for one 
 
 Who wished to be proficient, and might be 
 
94 
 
 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 Efficient, as a merchant's helping hand. 
 
 She once heard Bernard say that his young clerk 
 
 Was versed in business particulars, 
 
 And first-rate as accountant ; so she asked 
 
 Of Frankland help in certain points that still 
 
 Perplexed her, and of which she could not quite 
 
 Yet solve the mystery from what she read. 
 
 Sometimes, when Grace's difficulties of 
 
 Commercial study were adjusted, the 
 
 Young clerk would turn to other subjects ; and, 
 
 As gradually more and more at ease 
 
 Became this murmured talk, he would confide 
 
 To Grace some items of his personal 
 
 Affairs ; as where his parents lived, and how 
 
 He had an only sister, who with them 
 
 Made home a paradise of peace and joy 
 
 And comfort to him ; ne'ertheless, how he 
 
 Looked forward, some fine day, to make his home 
 
 A still more happy one, by bringing there 
 
 As wife a certain Lucy Mildmay, whom 
 
 He loved and hoped to wed, when he should earn 
 
 Sufficient income to support them all. 
 
 Grace took great interest in this the first 
 
 Love-story that her girlish life had known ; 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 She felt a pride in being told so young 
 
 Its secret, and she wished it all success 
 
 With earnestness and warmth. It made a theme 
 
 Of kindly social thought for her amid 
 
 The solitary course her youth maintained. 
 
 And yet, though solitary, it was far 
 
 From dull to her. She took delight in all 
 
 She did ; and worked with zest at each pursuit 
 
 With which she filled her time, in hope to make 
 
 Her education what it should be, while 
 
 Still keeping Bernard free from the expense 
 
 Of schooling, governess, or masters. One 
 
 Expense there was she could not spare him from ; 
 
 For he himself insisted that she should 
 
 Have an allowance quarterly, to spend 
 
 As best she chose, for clothes, for trifles, such 
 
 As all young ladies need, he had affirmed, 
 
 And would not hear of any other plan. 
 
 He told his housekeeper that Grace had showed 
 
 Such great discretion, for so young a girl, 
 
 In all she said about her learning from 
 
 The books already in the house, he felt 
 
 Assured she might be trusted to control 
 
 Her own expenditure, and thought it best 
 
 95 
 
96 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 Young people should be early used to lay 
 
 Out money for themselves, and learn betimes 
 
 To regulate their income with a true 
 
 And just economy. " I think so too," 
 
 The dame had answered : " and of all 
 
 Young ladies that I ever saw, Miss Grace 
 
 Is, sure, the cleverest at making and 
 
 Arranging dresses, keeping them so neat and nice, 
 
 So spick and span, they look bran new, 
 
 Though now they're getting rather worn, it must 
 
 Be owned ; but then they're still those same black frocks 
 
 She brought with her from India, poor dear thing ! 
 
 " Then let her get some others," answered he, 
 
 And so the subject of allowance ceased ; 
 
 For Grace deferred to Bernard's wish in this 
 
 As in all else. Her stipend once begun, 
 
 Among the first large purchases she made 
 
 Was no less than a cottage-piano, that 
 
 She might keep up her music, taught her by 
 
 Her mother, which she thought she could make means 
 
 Of earning, if need were, some day ; and so 
 
 She practised hard in her own room ; 
 
 She also worked at drawing, sketching, as 
 
 She had much aptitude for these, 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 97 
 
 And fancied they, too, might be useful, if 
 She had to earn ; for Grace was constant to 
 Her character, prudent, provident, and wise. 
 
 Two years slipped by, with almost unperceived 
 Transition, since she had been dwelling in 
 The merchant's house ; when, after dinner, once, 
 As Bernard sat engrossed with papers at 
 His writing-table, Grace heard drop some words 
 Of muttered worry from his lips : " How's this ? 
 How's this ? To-night it seems as if I could 
 Not reckon. Pshaw ! a simple sum like this ! 
 Let's see, let's see ; the interest upon 
 Eleven hundred pounds, at six per cent, 
 For twenty-seven years, would bring, how much ? " 
 He looked up for an instant, as in doubt, 
 When Grace said softly, scarce above her breath : 
 " One thousand, seven hundred, eighty-two, 
 I think, sir, is it not ? " A cannon-shot 
 Could hardly more have startled Bernard than 
 This answer from a girl of Grace's age. 
 He looked at her and laughed outright, a good 
 Loud hearty laugh, a laugh that had not come 
 From him for years. "Why, child ! " he said, 
 " How long have you been mistress of accounts ? 
 5 G 
 
98 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 How long is it that you can tell about 
 
 A capital with interest, and such 
 
 Hard-sounding mercantile up-reckonings ? " 
 
 Grace blushed bright crimson, partly shame to be 
 
 Found out in what she secretly had learned, 
 
 And partly with delight at Bernard's laugh ; 
 
 For never had she heard him laugh, not once, 
 
 Since she had known him : and the consciousness 
 
 Of how his gravity was caused had oft 
 
 Depressed her heart, which now leapt up at sound 
 
 So new, so welcome. Through her blushes bright 
 
 Her eyes were dancing ; and as Bernard looked 
 
 At that young face, so usually pale, 
 
 But now one glow of color, vividness, 
 
 And animation, wondered how he could 
 
 Have ever thought her " unattractive." 
 
 " You do not answer me," still laughing, he 
 
 Continued : " tell me how it is that you 
 
 Have come to be a good accountant ? Why 
 
 I might engage you as a clerk, if your 
 
 Accomplishment be what it seems." " I ask 
 
 No better," Grace replied ; " I'll be your clerk 
 
 At home, if you will have me. You can try 
 
 My services ; and if they please, they're at 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 99 
 
 Your service, sir." She spoke with playfulness, 
 
 Inspired by pleasure at his laugh. " But yet 
 
 You have not told me how it is you gained 
 
 Your clerkly knowledge ? " Bernard said. " I learned 
 
 Much from your books ; and what I could not quite 
 
 Make out from them, I asked your clerk to tell 
 
 Me, to explain more clearly, fully. He 
 
 Had patience, and his explanations I 
 
 Could always understand." " My clerk ? What do 
 
 You mean ? What clerk ? " " The clerk that sometimes 
 
 comes 
 
 With messages to you. I heard you call . 
 Him Frankland, did I not ? " " Oh, ay, of course, 
 Young Frankland j yes, he is an excellent 
 Accountant ; one well able to instruct 
 You in the rudiments and science of 
 Our noble mercantile pursuit : but still " 
 Here Bernard stopped, and said no more ; he turned 
 To look again into his papers, while 
 Grace plied her needle, happy in the thought 
 Of Bernard's pleasant look and hearty laugh. 
 And, after that, he often gladly used 
 The clerkly knowledge and the clerkly hand 
 Of Grace, in helping him to calculate 
 
100 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 And write : he found her thoroughly well versed, 
 Most competent, and ever happiest 
 When she was busy helping him. 
 
 Thus, two years more passed by unmarked, until 
 One day an illness came to Grace : 'twas slight 
 At first ; but soon became much worse, and then 
 Proved fever ; fever that for long kept her 
 A prisoner upstairs, nursed carefully 
 And tenderly by good kind motherly 
 Old Mistress Wilson, who from earliest v 
 Had taken Grace to her affection, loved 
 Her like a daughter ; calling her " My dear " 
 When speaking to herself, though always spoke 
 
 Of her to Bernard as " Miss Grace," and to 
 
 \ 
 All others as " Miss Middleton," with true 
 
 Old-fashioned properness of due and right 
 Distinction. Grace's illness was a time 
 Of grief to all, for all had learned to love 
 The gentle girl, so quaintly self-possessed, 
 Yet modest, quiet, mild, in all her ways : 
 But most the merchant felt the time 
 While Grace was ill a period of grief 
 And misery ; a want, a vacancy, 
 A blank, a loss, seemed fallen on his life ; 
 
THE REMITTANCE. IO i 
 
 At breakfast how he missed th'e" liglit qlfi'ck .step, 
 
 So noiseless yet alert, that came to bring 
 
 The coffee freshly made ; the sweet young face, 
 
 So cheerful, placid, bright, that bade him a 
 
 " Good-morning," e'en before she spoke, and gave 
 
 Him blithe " Good-by " when he departed for 
 
 The city ; but when most he missed her was 
 
 Returning home for dinner ; missed the rest, 
 
 The peacefulness, the soft repose yet cheer 
 
 Of Grace's presence ; all the sympathy, 
 
 The welcome, that her look, her tone, expressed 
 
 Without the need of words to say how much 
 
 His home-return delighted her. Instead, 
 
 The news of, "Not much better, sir, to-day,' 7 
 
 From Susan, with her former briskness now 
 
 Subdued to stillness ; then the silence of 
 
 The solitary meal, the sighs that oft 
 
 Broke from him as he ate, in lieu of that 
 
 Gay interchange of chat, which, since he had 
 
 Become less absent-minded, she less shy 
 
 And timid, passed between tKem while they dined. 
 
 At length, however, came an evening 
 When Susan met him with a brisker face 
 And voice : " Oh, please, sir, Mistress Wilson bade 
 
102 ', THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 Me give fier 'du'cy atid to' say 'that if 
 
 You'd like to come upstairs, sir, after you've 
 
 Had dinner, she believes it wouldn't hurt 
 
 Miss Middleton to see you, and to have 
 
 A little chat for half an hour, as she's 
 
 A good deal better, sir, to-day." He made 
 
 An end of dinner very quickly, and 
 
 He ran upstairs with lighter step than had 
 
 Been his for days and days. He found Grace in 
 
 A large arm-chair, propped up by pillows ; but 
 
 With beaming eyes, that shone like stars above 
 
 Her hectic-flushed thin cheek, as he approached. 
 
 The wavy chestnut hair hung loosely down 
 
 Upon the muslin wrapper that took place 
 
 Of those plain sober grays she wore when well ; 
 
 Her arms fell languidly on either side, 
 
 And wasted hand when once it had been held 
 
 Out greetingly to him dropped feebly too. 
 
 The shock of seeing her so changed, so weak, 
 
 Held Bernard silent, motionless ; while she 
 
 Said little, in the joy of seeing him. 
 
 " We're getting nicely on, sir, now," remarked 
 
 Dame Wilson, cheerfully ; " we have been ill, 
 
 Ay, very ill ; but we are coming round, 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 103 
 
 I'm glad to say, and hope soon to be well, 
 
 Quite well, and looking bonnily again." 
 
 " We're looking ' bonnily ' already, as 
 
 It seems to me," said Bernard, trying to 
 
 Speak cheerily in turn. " These rosy cheeks 
 
 Tell hopefully of coming health, I trust ; 
 
 And, Grace, you've grown quite tall in this short time." 
 
 " Ay, always during fever we grow fast," 
 
 Said Wilson, with sententious primness ; " tall 
 
 And slender, just a shade too slender, sir, 
 
 Mayhaps, at present ; but with feeding up 
 
 And care we shall grow plump, and strong, and stout, 
 
 All in good time." "Nay, ' stout' we'll leave to you, 
 
 Good Wilson," Bernard smiling said. " I meant, 
 
 When I said 'stout,' " said Wilson, laughing at 
 
 Her own full cheeks and double chin, " I meant, 
 
 Of course, robust and hearty ; and I hope 
 
 It won't be long before Miss Grace is that ; 
 
 For though she always was a slip, a mite, 
 
 Yet wonderfully healthy, active in 
 
 The house, she always was, that must be said. 
 
 See what a pretty place she's made of her 
 
 Own sitting-room ; it's all her doing, all 
 
 Her planning and contriving ; and it cost 
 
IO4 
 
 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 So little too, ay, there's the beauty, cost 
 
 A merest nothing ; for she worked at it 
 
 Herself, and made the curtains, carpet, with 
 
 Her clever little fingers, bless her ; sewed 
 
 Away as if she got her living by 
 
 Her needle ; stitched the seams, the hems, as though 
 
 She liked tough work ; and then, by way of rest, 
 
 Embroidered all these cushions, soft low chairs 
 
 And footstools ; drew these pictures that are hung 
 
 Around the walls, and" " Stay, you must not thus 
 
 Tell tales, nurse, out of school," said laughing Grace ; 
 
 " How you are running on." " My dear, I do 
 
 So just o' purpose, making talk for you 
 
 And master, that my patient mayn't be made 
 
 To talk too much herself, the first time she 
 
 Receives a visit." " ' Patient,' nursey ? It 
 
 Is he that is the i patient ' now, I think, 
 
 If you run on at such a rate." " No one 
 
 Can say that I am given much to talk," 
 
 Said Wilson ; " goodness knows, I only talk 
 
 To keep you lively and amused, my dear, 
 
 When you seem willing to enjoy a chat 
 
 Sometimes while you are sewing at your work." 
 
 " Suppose I say ' Good-night,' " said Bernard ; " if 
 
THE REMITTANCE. lo $ 
 
 Allowed to come, I must not make my stay 
 Too long, lest nurse should scold, and tell me that 
 Our invalid exerts herself too much. 
 If I behave with due discretion now, 
 I may, I hope, be promised I shall come 
 To-morrow. Good-night, Grace ! God bless you, Grace! " 
 As Bernard went downstairs he thought of his 
 Last word. He had repeated " Grace " instead 
 Of saying to her " child," as formerly : 
 But now he felt he could not call her " child ; " 
 He felt, while he was with her, that she had 
 Become no longer like a child, a girl, 
 A little creature sent to him for home, 
 Protection, care, and guidance ; but a young 
 And beautiful and sentient being, with 
 A nature righteous, spirit wise and good, 
 Well able to conduct itself by pure 
 Instinctive innocence of impulse and 
 Perception : no, no child ; but a young girl 
 Irradiated, hallowed, by the bloom 
 Of early womanhood that touched her with 
 A saint-like glory, as she lay back there, 
 So smiling, and so gentle, and so faint, 
 More helpless than before, and yet more clad 
 5* 
 
106 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 In spiritual strength, exalted, strong 
 To help herself and others throughout life, 
 If life were granted her. As Bernard's thought 
 Arrived at this last clause, he inwardly 
 Ejaculated : " God of mercy ! had 
 She died, had she been taken from me, what 
 Would life have now become to me ? A void, 
 A weary, worthless void." He shuddered, turned 
 From e'en the shadow of that possible, 
 And drew his chair beside the fire that he 
 k Might dwell with thankfulness upon the blest 
 Relief of knowing she was spared to him ; 
 And then in mental fond review he passed 
 Successively through all that Grace had been 
 To him ; her quiet, unobtrusive help, 
 Her pretty thoughtful, active, silent ways, 
 Her never-failing punctuality, 
 Her constant care, devotion, watchfulness 
 For all his likings, comforts, and pursuits : 
 No mother that he lost, no sister that 
 He might have had, no chosen woman whom 
 He might have made his wife, could better have 
 Divined his every wish, or studied to 
 Fulfil them pleasantly and welcomely. 
 
THE REMITTANCE. JQ/ 
 
 A something in this " might have been " there was 
 That made the merchant start, as stung by what 
 Had crept about his heart while musing thus. 
 He rose abruptly, crushed the creeping thing, 
 And turned to write till long past midnight, when 
 All else but he had gone to rest. 
 
 Next day, 
 
 No sooner dinner done, than Bernard sent 
 Upstairs to know if he might come and pay 
 The invalid another visit, with 
 Much sportive ceremony and parade 
 Of deference to nurse's orders. She 
 Sent down to say that " Master may, as soon 
 As he thinks 'fit, and welcome, for we've made 
 A great improvement since last evening." 
 And Bernard found 'twas true ; Grace looked much more 
 Her former self, in quiet strength beneath 
 A slender frame. The nurse permitted her 
 To chat herself, and let her answer when 
 The merchant spoke ; so he availed himself 
 Of Wilson's gracious sanction, and addressed 
 His questions freely to the invalid. 
 He went about the room, examined its 
 Adornments, praised their grace, simplicity, 
 
IOS THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 And taste ; then paused significantly, just 
 
 Before the cottage piano, looking straight 
 
 At Grace. " Ah, yes," she said, " that was my one 
 
 Extravagance ; but thought it well to make, 
 
 Lest I should lose the little music that 
 
 My mother taught me ; and I might have need, 
 
 Some day, I fancied, for accomplishments, 
 
 In case I had to teach." " To teach ? " " Yes, teach ; 
 
 Give lessons ; go as governess myself, 
 
 If you became unable still to keep 
 
 Me here. Such things have been, I know ; and if 
 
 You had grown poorer, and could not have kept 
 
 Me here, I should have liked to earn myself 
 
 A living independently, and, who 
 
 Can tell ? helped you, besides, if you would let 
 
 Me help." She spoke so gravely, with her own 
 
 Old quaint and simple self-possession, blent 
 
 With modest gentleness, that Bernard heard 
 
 Her gravely in return. " You paid a large 
 
 Amount for it, now, I suppose ? " he asked. 
 
 " A large amount for me to spend," she said ; 
 
 " But not too much, considering what I 
 
 Should surely lose had I not had the means 
 
 Of practising." " Quite true," he answered, with 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 A smile he could not now repress ; " you made 
 
 A prudent calculation, how much gained 
 
 By a judicious outlay, set against 
 
 The price you pay, the best economy. 
 
 And pray, now, may I ask what is it that 
 
 You practise ? Playing, singing, what ? " "I play 
 
 Four hours a day ; and sing, at intervals, 
 
 A couple more." " And might I farther ask, 
 
 If I'm not indiscreet, to hear you play 
 
 And sing ? " said Bernard, laughingly. " I'm not 
 
 Accustomed to do either, as you well 
 
 Can understand, to any ears but mine 
 
 And nurse's ; but if you will promise to 
 
 Be audience lenient as ourselves, I'll try 
 
 My best." She had her chair wheeled over to 
 
 The piano ; and played unaffectedly 
 
 Some favorite pieces of her own, then sang 
 
 A simple air or two she liked herself. 
 
 Her voice was sweet, pathetic, capable 
 
 Of giving full expression to a strain 
 
 That needed feeling chiefly ; and her songs 
 
 Were mostly these, soft Indian tunes, and scraps 
 
 Of melody, regretful, wild ; replete 
 
 With mournful, dirge-like, sad lament and wail; 
 
 109 
 
1 10 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 The merchant rendered duest homage by 
 His silence and his moistened eyes, as Grace 
 Concluded : she, a music-lover, well 
 Could understand this best of praise. He then 
 Resumed his walking round the room, and stopped 
 At each successive sketch and picture ; found 
 Them principally old remembered bits 
 Of Indian scenery, rock, mountain, and ravine, 
 Small fisher hut, or ancient temple, with 
 A single lofty tree of cocoa-nut, 
 Thick jungle, tangled underwood, or else 
 A river-side with boat fantastic-shaped. 
 Amid them all there hung a portrait-sketch, 
 That Bernard knew at once, his old friend Dick : 
 The face was capitally hit, that look 
 Of bright expectant eagerness and hope, 
 So well remembered by the merchant, as 
 He gazed upon the likeness. " Grace, did you 
 Draw this ? " he said, at length. " I did," was her 
 Low-toned reply ; " I took it once when he 
 Was reading to my mother, full of glee 
 At news he had received : she thought it like." 
 " 'Tis very like," the merchant answered with 
 A deep-drawn breath, " poor Dick ! poor Dick ! " Grace 
 had 
 
THE REMITTANCE. Ill 
 
 Been nervously observing Bernard, as 
 
 He looked upon the crayon-sketch ; but when 
 
 She heard his sighing word there came a light 
 
 Into her face, a sweet, glad light, a light 
 
 That seemed a softened reflex of the bright 
 
 Expression in her father's : " Then you love 
 
 Him still ? I thought, I feared " she stopped. " I 
 
 loved 
 
 Him from a boy, he saved my life ; I love 
 His memory still, in thinking of his bright 
 And kindly nature. Could you fear I ceased 
 To love your father ? Dear old eager Dick ! " 
 " I fancied dreaded the remittance that 
 He failed to send might cause you to " " He sent 
 A treasure, priceless household treasure, that 
 Outvalues all the sums of India ! " said 
 The merchant in an earnest under-breath ; 
 And, for a moment, not a word beyond 
 Was uttered by himself or Grace. He then 
 Began to talk of other things, and fell 
 To asking her about the simple white 
 Soft draperies that curtained shadingly 
 The windows in harmonious contrast with 
 The grass-like green of carpet, and of walls 
 
112 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 That papered were with trellis, bowered in 
 
 By woodbine, jasmine, climbing rose ; while round 
 
 The base there ran a garland-bordering 
 
 Of clustered ferns and wild anemones. 
 
 Recalling rustic gardens, woodland glades, 
 
 And pleasant, country, open-air retreats. 
 
 " How did you manage, Grace, to ornament 
 
 Your room with all these elegancies, for 
 
 So small a sum as Wilson vouches that 
 
 You spent ? You must not henceforth limit your 
 
 Ingenious thrift to furnishing your own 
 
 Apartments only ; through the house your care 
 
 And taste must now extend ; and let me, too, 
 
 Enjoy the pleasure and the benefit." 
 
 " Most gladly/' she returned. " I never dared 
 
 Attempt a change downstairs ; I fancied you 
 
 Preferred to have all left exactly as 
 
 It ever had been. Now beware the wave 
 
 Of Grace's fairy-wand ; its potency 
 
 Shall be most fully tried, thus summoned by 
 
 Your invocation ; you have called it forth 
 
 To exercise its spell ; take care it does 
 
 Not ruin you in articles undreamed 
 
 Of by the former furnishers employed, 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 Conventional upholsterers, with all 
 Their heavy durable moreens and stuffs." 
 " I'm reckless, Grace ! Perform your fairy will ! 
 Be boundless in your magical behests ! 
 And play the powerful enchantress in 
 Your vast commands ! I can afford to meet 
 Prosaic bills, and write out cheques, with aught 
 Else may assist to summon up the aid 
 Of ministering spirits you may need 
 To bring you silks from Samarcand, or rich 
 Brocades and damasks from the looms of far 
 Cathay or Persia, where you will." " You talk 
 Of bills and cheques, and such ' prosaic ' charms 
 Of incantation but methinks your thoughts 
 Have wandered to the realms of poesy : 
 I fancy I have somewhere seen the words 
 Of c silken Samarcand ' and < far Cathay.' " 
 " I know but little of the poets, Grace," 
 Said Bernard, " saving one, who wrote a play 
 Beginning with a spirited account 
 Of what a merchant's haunting fears must be 
 Lest 'rocks' should split his ' gentle vessel's side,' 
 Should i scatter all her spices on the stream, 
 Enrobe the roaring waters with her silks.' 
 H 
 
U 4 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 But let's return to prose, and understand 
 
 That I am now no longer poor, but rich : 
 
 You look surprised, Grace ; well you may ; for I 
 
 Have gone on quietly at work to gain 
 
 The ground I lost, through these few years, and made 
 
 No outward change, although at present I 
 
 Possess abundant wealth ; so, in plain prose, 
 
 Be sure you use it freely, Grace, and turn 
 
 The house to Palace of Aladdin in 
 
 A trice." " Free use of cash, with liberty 
 
 To use my taste, I have Aladdin's lamp." 
 
 She answered, " therefore you may soon expect 
 
 To see the magic change you authorize." 
 
 But modern genii, although they're swayed 
 To speed by money, still take time to bring 
 About their transformations ; workmen once 
 Within a house, the marvels of their slow 
 Advance vie with the marvels they effect : 
 So, while her gnomes wrought out her mandates with 
 Precision equal to her own in all 
 She ordered, Grace was taken down to the 
 Seaside by careful Mistress Wilson, that 
 She might recover perfectly before 
 The mansion was arranged according to 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 Her wish. The time of Grace's absence was 
 A weary one to Bernard ; but he plunged 
 Into his merchant-work, and slipped away 
 At intervals from town, with pretext that 
 He must tell Grace how gnomes and genii 
 Got on while she played truant by the sea. 
 
 At length the whole was finished, and return 
 Was gladly made to the old London home ; 
 Old home, but newly, tastefully adorned : 
 The "roomy," now no longer "gloomy" house, 
 Had brightness, cheerfulness, and elegance, 
 The dining-room where Bernard so enjoyed 
 His genial hour of rest, good fare, and chat, 
 Was made chief scene of Grace's care and taste. 
 The lumbering old sideboard, horsehair chairs 
 Ranged side by side along in formal row, 
 The window curtains, with their rigid folds 
 Of stiff, unyielding, thick moreen, in hue 
 A dingy brown half faded into drab, 
 The clumsy girandoles, the ugly grate, 
 The high old-fashioned chimney-piece, beyond 
 One's reach, its marble yellowed through by stain 
 Of smoke and age, the walls left pictureless 
 And blank, with ponderous flock-papering 
 
n6 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 That dull absorbed the light into its own 
 
 Grim red, were all replaced by paintings choice, 
 
 By sculpture exquisite, by colors of 
 
 A delicate harmonious tint ; while the old 
 
 Monotony of " willow-pattern " plates 
 
 And dishes now gave way to porcelain 
 
 Of dainty-flowered device, set off by glass 
 
 And silver, sparkling in a million rays 
 
 Of shifting jewelled light, now amethyst, 
 
 Now topaz, sapphire, ruby, emerald. 
 
 As crowning loveliness to all the rest, * 
 
 Grace decked the table daily with rich groups 
 
 Of ruddy fruits, placed on the frosted glass 
 
 And frosted silver of a branched epergne : 
 
 While freshest flowers she placed with artist eye 
 
 And fingers ; some in feathery sprays down drooped 
 
 From crystal brim of a tall vase, some massed 
 
 In flatter tazzas of Etruscan ware 
 
 And form. Contrasted color, shape, and scent 
 
 Delicious, all were there to yield delight. 
 
 Now Bernard's home was what a home should be, 
 
 A shrine of beauty, comfort, and repose. 
 
 Thus time moved on apace, and two years more 
 Had nearly passed, when in the city was 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 II/ 
 
 Announced a ball for some large charity 
 
 That interested all the world, and roused 
 
 The mingled sympathies of love for deeds 
 
 Benevolent, and dancing. Bernard was 
 
 Entreated by the Lady-Patroness 
 
 To give his aid and to promote the thing. 
 
 He sent a handsome contribution and 
 
 Took tickets home to Grace, with smiling look, 
 
 Demanding if she cared to go. " Of course 
 
 You will. The question hardly need be asked. 
 
 What girl would think of saying l No ' to ball 
 
 Proposed ? What sensible young lady would 
 
 Refuse a dance ? " " Not I," said Grace, " the thought 
 
 Of my first ball already flutters at 
 
 My heart ; in part because it is my first, 
 
 In part because I fear I may not know 
 
 Enough of dancing to acquit myself 
 
 With credit. But I mean to try, and if 
 
 I fail, I can amuse my eyes, if not 
 
 My feet, by looking on at others." "Ah, 
 
 That shows how little of a dancer you 
 
 Have ever been. I've heard that to a good 
 
 Enthusiastic dancer few things are 
 
 More hard than playing the looker-on. Be that, 
 
Il8 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 However, as it may, I've asked the wife 
 
 Of an old business friend of mine to act 
 
 The chaperone, and take you, Grace." " But you 
 
 Will go yourself, will you not ? " she asked 
 
 With quick look up ; "you do not mean to stay 
 
 In peace at home, and shabbily leave me 
 
 To go with this strange lady, do you ? " " No," 
 
 Said he ; " for once I'll play the youngster, and 
 
 Again enjoy a ball. For this one will 
 
 To me be an enjoyment, since I mean 
 
 To see how Grace l acquits ' herself." " Don't go 
 
 With sly intent to entertain yourself 
 
 At my expense, and laugh at my defects 
 
 Of inexperience ; for if you do 
 
 I'll make you dance one dance with me, and show 
 
 How your unpractised steps exceed my own 
 
 In awkwardness." " I ask no better than 
 
 You should accept me for a partner, Grace ; 
 
 I fear the stoop my shoulders have acquired 
 
 By years of bending o'er my merchant work 
 
 At office-desk would make you hesitate, 
 
 Ere figuring with one would cut so bad 
 
 A figure in a ball-room. You would blush 
 
 To have a partner like myself." He spoke 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 In playful tone, but glanced with earnestness 
 
 At Grace's face, which at the moment wore 
 
 Just such a blush as he alluded to, 
 
 While answering with smile should match his tone : 
 
 " You want a compliment ; you know how good 
 
 The figure is you thus conceited that 
 
 You are ! draw notice to, affecting to 
 
 Dispraise. But fear not I shall e'er invite 
 
 You ; lest I might become the envy of 
 
 All ladies in the room." He could not quite 
 
 Determine how much irony might lurk 
 
 In Grace's laughing speech ; but hid whatever 
 
 Of trouble and disturbing doubt he felt 
 
 Beneath responsive rallying. 
 
 The night 
 
 Arrived, and Lady Bullion came, arrayed 
 In matron lappets, diamonds, and gown 
 Of velvet, to conduct the novice, Grace : 
 Who, robed in simple white, looked lovelier, 
 The merchant thought, than any maiden he 
 Had ever seen. He asked himself if this 
 Could be the " unformed awkward girl " he called 
 Her to himself when she had first arrived ; 
 This graceful, modest, perfect creature, fair 
 
120 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 And beautiful in nature as in form. 
 
 And others found her fair no less than he : 
 
 Fat Lady Bullion vowed she was quite proud 
 
 To have the charge of one who'd prove to be 
 
 Without a doubt the beauty of the ball ; 
 
 And the event confirmed her ladyship's 
 
 Prediction. Partners pressed in numbers to 
 
 Be introduced and granted leave to ask 
 
 If she would hold herself engaged for next 
 
 One after fourth ensuing dance ; and thus 
 
 Did Bernard find he should have little chance 
 
 Of the dance she had said she meant to make 
 
 Him dance with her. But just as he began 
 
 To give up hope, Grace beckoned him beside 
 
 Her chair, and said with archness in her tone, 
 
 But with a rosy flush upon her cheek : 
 
 " You've seen how Grace 'acquits herself;' should you 
 
 Refuse to try how i bad a figure ' you 
 
 Would make with her as partner, if she told 
 
 You she has kept one dance the promised dance 
 
 For you ? " For answer, Bernard took her hand, 
 
 His eyes expressing speechless joy, and led 
 
 Her to her place, with more of triumph in 
 
 His heart than had been there to gladden it 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 121 
 
 Since he had been a happy boy, elate, 
 
 With life before him, full of conscious power 
 
 To reach his highest aim of glorious 
 
 Achievement. But when once the dance was done, 
 
 And Grace was claimed by younger partners, more 
 
 Accomplished dancers, a reaction came : 
 
 " Fool, self-deluder that I am ! Why do 
 
 I let my thoughts take that most fruitless bent ? 
 
 Why will they wander in that hopeless track 
 
 I have so often told myself is closed 
 
 Against me, past all chance of leading to 
 
 The paradise of happiness that might 
 
 Have been, were I a younger man ? She likes 
 
 Me as her father's friend, no more. Be mute, 
 
 Be patient, Bernard ! Be not your own 
 
 Misleader, and destroyer of what joy 
 
 Is still within your reach. Her innocent 
 
 Devotion and affection are now yours ; 
 
 Why risk their loss by rash betrayal of 
 
 Your deeper feeling for herself ? Be mute, 
 
 Be prudent ; rest contented with the share 
 
 You have in her most gentle, loving heart, 
 
 And lose it not by seeking love itself." 
 
 But on the following day his self-communed 
 6 
 
122 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 Resolves were put severely to the proof. 
 
 A certain May-fair Baronet had seen 
 
 The City Belle and danced with her. He asked 
 
 Her name, her parentage, and found she was 
 
 The ward of Bernard Thorpe, with whom Sir John 
 
 Had had some money dealings recently. 
 
 He called at once upon the merchant at 
 
 His office ; and in easy way began 
 
 To speak his mind : " Look here, you see, I'll tell 
 
 You frankly what has brought me here to-day j 
 
 At your great City Ball last night I saw 
 
 Was introduced to your Miss Middleton 
 
 I danced with her ; I hear she is your ward ? " 
 
 " She is my ward," was Bernard's answer, with 
 
 A cold incline of head. " Well, then, she is, 
 
 Without exception, the most beautiful 
 
 The finest girl I've seen for many a day. 
 
 I was so struck with her, that 'pon my soul 
 
 I came to you at once to-day to ask 
 
 A beauty such as hers excuses what 
 
 May seem abrupt, unusual, my dear sir ; 
 
 But she herself is so unusual in 
 
 Her handsomeness that really, now, a man 
 
 Can't help himself, you know. Of course, you staid, 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 1 
 
 Calm, middle-agers hardly understand 
 
 This sort of thing : you money-worshippers 
 
 Can scarcely be expected to allow 
 
 For hare-brained fellows like myself, who can't, 
 
 By Jove, be prudent where a lovely girl's 
 
 Concerned ; but still, dear sir, you'll pardon me 
 
 For coming straight to ask you " " What, Sir John ? " 
 
 Was Bernard's curt inquiry. " Well, to ask 
 
 If you'll permit me beauty, my dear sir, 
 
 Is irresistible, and so " " And so, 
 
 Sir John ? " " And so, my dearest sir, you see, 
 
 I come at once to ask your leave to court 
 
 Miss Middleton to offer her - to pay 
 
 Her my addresses." " You're aware, Sir John, 
 
 Her father left her portionless ? " " I've heard 
 
 Some story of a loan not paid of a 
 
 Remittance never sent I'm not quite sure 
 
 About the facts ; but think that I have heard 
 
 Her father was a careless scamp, who " " Stay," 
 
 The merchant cried, " her father was my friend, 
 
 My dearest, oldest friend, Sir John ; I will 
 
 Not hear him spoken ill of." "Well, at least 
 
 I've heard he was a thoughtless chap, who left 
 
 His daughter without fortune ; you, dear sir, 
 
124 
 
 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 Just said as much, that she was portionless, 
 
 Worth nothing, did you not ? " " Worth nothing ! I ? 
 
 Grace Middleton worth nothing ? " "Has nothing, 
 
 Dear sir, was what I should have said, of course ; 
 
 I meant Miss Middleton is dowerless ; 
 
 You understand ? " " Oh, yes, I understand," 
 
 Said Bernard quietly. " But you may give 
 
 Her something, though, yourself, you know, dear sir ; 
 
 She's almost like a daughter to you ; or 
 
 Perhaps do something for her at your death." 
 
 " My death ? " " Of course it's to be hoped that may 
 
 Be long deferred, dear sir ; but when it comes, 
 
 You know, you might leave something handsome in 
 
 Your will." " My will ? " " Ay, in your will : of course 
 
 A man like you, a wealthy man, a man 
 
 So prudent as you are, has made his will. 
 
 It needn't make one's death more near, you know. 
 
 You must be getting on, though, now I come 
 
 To think of it ; yet not by any means 
 
 Advanced in years : to fellows like myself 
 
 Of twenty-three, a man like you seems old. 
 
 If fair the question, now, what is your age ? 
 
 It can't be fifty yet." "Just thirty-six." 
 
 " Indeed ! I should have given you more, I own. 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 But, then, hard work, you know, and laying up 
 The lucre, makes us all look older, eh ? 
 You'll think of my proposal, my dear sir, 
 And give it the advantage of your own 
 Good word, when you submit it to the fair 
 Miss Middleton ? " " I promise you I will lay 
 Before her your proposal for her due 
 Consideration," answered Bernard Thorpe ; 
 " And now I'll wish you a good morning, if 
 You please, Sir John ; my time is not my own ; 
 I have appointment with the directors of 
 North Western at eleven o'clock. I know 
 You will excuse me." " Certainly, dear sir; 
 You wealthy City men are never at 
 Your own disposal. We West-enders have 
 Advantage of you there ; but as for more 
 Substantial cash advantage, why ha, ha ! 
 It must be owned you have decidedly 
 Advantage over us." Sir John took leave ; 
 And that same evening, when Bernard sat 
 With Grace beside the fire, he said : " You danced 
 Last night with young Sir John Bodapperton." 
 " I did ? " said Grace ; " I daresay that I did, 
 And knew but little of the honor I 
 
 125 
 
126 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 Enjoyed, there were so many candidates 
 
 For my poor hand to dance, I hardly could 
 
 Distinguish them apart, still less by name. 
 
 I think, though, now, I clo remember that 
 
 One name among the several that were 
 
 Pronounced by Lady Bullion, when they came 
 
 To bow and beg to be presented. He 
 
 Is fair and lanky, is he not ? with just 
 
 A morsel of light sandy whisker, that 
 
 He pulled and pulled, while he was dancing, with 
 
 The bright intention as it seemed to me 
 
 Of making it grow longer ere he'd done." 
 
 " You thought it ' honor ' to be asked to dance 
 
 By him : what will you think when I inform 
 
 You that he offers you the honor of 
 
 Becoming, if you please, the partner of 
 
 His life ? " " Of his ? " she answered in a tone 
 
 So unmistakably contemptuous, 
 
 That Bernard laughed outright, and she in turn, 
 
 To witness his amusement. " Poor Sir John ; 
 
 I see that I shall have to break his heart 
 
 By telling him of your refusal, your 
 
 Point-blank refusal." " Well, please say that I 
 
 Decline the honor he proposes ; that 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 127 
 
 Will be the proper style, I fancy.' 7 "Ay, 
 
 Exactly," Bernard said. " Among the rest 
 
 Of those who danced with me last night, at least 
 
 A dozen were worth fifty of Sir John \ 
 
 And one there was, an old acquaintance, that 
 
 I was quite glad to see again, your clerk, 
 
 Young Mr. Frankland, who so frequently 
 
 At one time used to come with messages 
 
 To you. I've often meant to ask you why 
 
 He never comes of late ; I hope he still 
 
 Is with you as a clerk ? " " Yes," Bernard said, 
 
 " He still is in our house of business." 
 
 " Then how is it he never comes now to 
 
 Your dwelling-house ? I feel quite sure he has 
 
 Done nothing that should forfeit your esteem. 
 
 I know he prized it highly, and from what 
 
 I know of him, I'm confident he can 
 
 Have done no ill." " You speak with warmth, Grace, you 
 
 Avouch your confidence in one of whom 
 
 You've seen but little ; what can you have known 
 
 Of Henry Frankland that should warrant such 
 
 Full confidence in his desert ? " "I speak 
 
 With warmth because I warmly feel," she said. 
 
 " I feel quite certain Mr. Frankland has 
 
I2 8 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 Committed nothing base, unworthy ; no 
 
 Dishonorable action that should cause 
 
 You to forbid his coming here ; now tell 
 
 Me, has he ? " " None," said Bernard dryly. " I 
 
 Was sure of it ; I told you so ; I knew 
 
 He could have done no ill. From what I've seen 
 
 Of him, I feel that he's incapable 
 
 Of meanness or disgraceful conduct; and, 
 
 In justice, nothing less should make you change 
 
 The former friendliness you showed him, 
 
 And damage his good name by letting him 
 
 No longer enter your own private house. 
 
 Consider, how his feelings will be hurt, 
 
 And how his prospects injured by so marked 
 
 An alteration. Knowing well the high 
 
 And honoring regard he has for you, 
 
 The gratitude he feels for all you've done 
 
 For him and his, I can imagine his 
 
 Unhappiness, to find himself no more 
 
 Entrusted with your messages, nor sent, 
 
 As previously, to your own home. Forgive 
 
 My warmly speaking if too warm it be 
 
 But I feel earnestly in this ; and I 
 
 Must always speak to you exactly as 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 129 
 
 I feel." " Nay, God forbid you erer should 
 Do otherwise," said Bernard warmly as 
 Herself; "but how, Grace, comes it that you know 
 So much of Henry Frankland's character, 
 Of what I have done for him and his, 
 Of his regard, his gratitude, to me ? " 
 " I saw a great deal of him when he used 
 To come and wait while you wrote out replies 
 To papers that he brought," said Grace ; " you know 
 I told you how I asked him to explain 
 Whatever I could not make out from books 
 On calculation and accounts : well, when 
 All that was done, he sometimes talked of you, 
 And sometimes of himself ; and all he said 
 Convinced me of his grateful nature, of 
 His honorable character ; so I 
 Was sure he could have done no act that ought 
 To forfeit him your trust." " He used his time 
 With good effect, and made the most of it," 
 Said Bernard bitterly ; " it seems he talked 
 So eloquently of himself, that you 
 Imbibed impression of his worth enough 
 To render you his advocate, and make 
 You plead his cause with warmth and fervor that 
 6* i 
 
130 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 Might fill with envy any other man 
 
 Less favored. What would poor Sir John have said 
 
 Could he have made a like impression ? " " He ! " 
 
 Said Grace, with scornful emphasis again. 
 
 " Sir John's not worthy to be named with such 
 
 A man as Henry Frankland ; though the one 
 
 May be a baronet, the other but 
 
 A merchant's clerk." "The merchant's clerk 
 
 Is to be envied, Grace, if he have gained 
 
 The favor that the baronet has sought 
 
 In vain." " The l favor ' ? " echoed Grace, at length 
 
 Observing Bernard's strangely bitter tone 
 
 Of sadness. " Yes, your favor, favoring 
 
 Opinion, preference." " I have a high, 
 
 A very high opinion of the one, 
 
 While of Sir John, I fear, 'tis very low ; 
 
 But if by ' preference ' you mean the sort 
 
 Of liking asked by the lank baronet, 
 
 For neither of them have I that," said Grace, 
 
 With laughing frankness. " All the better for 
 
 Myself it should be so," continued she ; 
 
 " Since Henry Frankland told me once his hope 
 
 To marry Lucy Mildmay, his betrothed, 
 
 When better salary shall justify 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 131 
 
 The match." " To marry I " Bernard cried, in tone 
 
 Now clear as clouded 'twas before ; " I've heard 
 
 No word of this : how comes it that you know 
 
 A secret so important, while to me 
 
 'Twas never breathed ? " " He thought me likely, I 
 
 Suppose, to sympathize with what he said ; 
 
 Of you he has too great an awe ; and feared, 
 
 Perhaps, you might not quite approve ; or, still 
 
 More likely, dreaded mentioning his wish, 
 
 Lest it might seem like begging you to raise 
 
 A salary that you yourself had been 
 
 The means of his obtaining." " ' Awe ' ? of me ? 
 
 He thinks most probably that I'm too old 
 
 To have much sympathy with lovers, and 
 
 Their hopes of marriage." " You ! too old ? " said Grace, 
 
 With genuine surprise. " Too old to think 
 
 Of love, to care for love ; and if he should, 
 
 What wonder ? An old bachelor like me 
 
 Is sure to be regarded as stone deaf 
 
 To lovers' hopes, and dead to love itself." 
 
 A sudden pang of vital agony, 
 
 That gave sharp negative to Bernard's words, 
 
 Shot through him as he spoke, and made him start 
 
 From forth his chair to pace the room in wild 
 
132 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 Disorder irrepressible. Then by 
 
 An effort, mastering himself, he came 
 
 To Grace's side, and strove to steady down 
 
 His voice to more of calmness, as he said : - 
 
 " I can no longer bear this torture of 
 
 Perpetual struggle to suppress the truth. 
 
 Grace, what would you think were you told by me 
 
 A love-story ? Would you think me too old 
 
 To care for love ? Would you believe me deaf 
 
 And dead to love ? " " Too old ? " again said Grace ; 
 
 But now with agitation in her tone, 
 
 Besides surprise ; " confide to me your love, 
 
 You'll have my sympathy, believe me ; your 
 
 Commencement tells me that your story is 
 
 Of hopeless love ; how strange it should be so ! 
 
 How stranger still I never guessed you loved ; 
 
 Yet saw you all that is most loving and 
 
 Most lovable. But tell me who she is : 
 
 I know so little of your outer life, you know ; 
 
 I only know you in your home." Grace spoke 
 
 With firmness, spite of agitation and 
 
 A secret pain she ne'er had felt before ; 
 
 But very low and gentle was her voice. 
 
 " It is my inner life I tell you of," 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 133 
 
 Said Bernard. " True," Grace answered ; "what I meant 
 
 Was life outside this house, your friendships, your 
 
 Attachments, which are all beyond the sphere 
 
 Wherein I've seen you, known you, learned to make 
 
 You centre of my interest and thought." 
 
 A little tremble came in Grace's voice , 
 
 As she said this, but she went on : " You need 
 
 Not fear indifference because I do 
 
 Not know the lady ; I shall feel for you." 
 
 " You have not heard my story, Grace," he said. 
 
 " No ; tell it me." " You do not know how mad, 
 
 How rash I've been ; how I have let my thoughts 
 
 Entwine themselves around perfection in 
 
 A gentle woman's shape : a creature so 
 
 Endowed with every quality of good, 
 
 Of tender, and of true j of sensible, 
 
 Of gifted, and of prudent ; of modest, 
 
 Of diffident, devoted, kind ; withal 
 
 So beautiful, and more than all so young, 
 
 That my own difference of years makes such 
 
 Enamoured sense of her fair excellence 
 
 No less than madness, consignment of 
 
 Myself to hopeless, endless misery, 
 
 Unless, indeed, this young, this beautiful 
 
134 THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 Perfection could perceive the youth of heart, 
 
 The freshness of affection that survive 
 
 To render years of small account, and serve 
 
 As sacred light to cast into eclipse 
 
 Defects that else would be but only too 
 
 Apparent. Grace, 'tis you, 'tis you alone 
 
 That can decide this doubt which long has made 
 
 My secret torment of suspense, and now 
 
 Impels me to speak out, that I may learn 
 
 At once the worst or best." As Bernard spoke, 
 
 There spread a gradual beam of happy, glad 
 
 Delight o'er Grace's face, a radiance of 
 
 Content, that made her look as beautiful 
 
 As even his adoring words proclaimed. 
 
 He was not slow to read the speaking look ; 
 
 And murmured : " Grace, you do not bid me fear 
 
 The ' worst ' ? " " I bid you know the ' best,' if < best ' 
 
 You call the certainty that you have long 
 
 Been loved by Grace ; unconsciously, but yet 
 
 Most deeply, truly : without knowing it 
 
 Herself, she must have loved you from the first, 
 
 I think," she said, with sweet ingenuous eyes 
 
 Soft raised to his. " When first she came to you, 
 
 A helpless, timid girl, afraid to find 
 
THE REMITTANCE. 
 
 Herself a burden and a worthless charge, 
 
 A graceless, profitless young thing, you let 
 
 Her try her best to expiate the wrong 
 
 Her father did you ; suffered her to help 
 
 You and endeavor what she could to make 
 
 Your home a home to you ; well might she learn 
 
 To love you with a love that was at once 
 
 Revering, grateful, worshipping, and fond ; 
 
 Spontaneously it sprang, and unawares 
 
 It grew to be the love you wish ; ay, love 
 
 Itself.' 7 He folded her within his arms, 
 
 And drew her to his heart of hearts. " My Grace, 
 
 My own, my wife ! From first to last you've been 
 
 A wife to me, a priceless home delight 
 
 And treasure ; wifely in your childish care 
 
 And ministry, most wifely in your youth 
 
 Of sympathy and aid in my pursuits ; 
 
 Now wifeliest in your acknowledged love. 
 
 A thousandfold you have redeemed the pledge 
 
 My old friend gave, and made me nobly rich : 
 
 My Grace has proved the best REMITTANCE that 
 
 Her father could have sent to Bernard Thorpe." 
 
 Cambridge: Press of John Wilson & Son. 
 
Messrs. Roberts Brothers 1 Publications. 
 
 GOETHE'S 
 
 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN 
 
 BY ELLEN FROTHINGHAM. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Thin %vo, cloth, gilt, bevelled boards. Price $2.00. 
 A cheaper edition, ibmo, cloth. Price$i.c>o. 
 
 "Miss Frothingham's translation is something to be glad of: it lends itself 
 kindly to perusal, and it presents Goethe's charming poem in the metre of the 
 original. ... It is not a poem which could be profitably used in an argument for 
 the enlargement of the sphere of woman : it teaches her subjection, indeed, from 
 the lips of a beautiful girl, which are always so fatally convincing ; but it has its 
 charm, nevertheless, and will serve at least for an agreeable picture of an age when 
 the ideal woman was a creature around which grew the beauty and comfort and 
 security of home." Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 "The poem itself is bewitching. Of the same metre as Longfellow's ' Evan- 
 geline,' its sweet and measured cadences carry the reader onward with a real pleas- 
 ure as he becomes more and more absorbed in this descriptive wooing song. It is 
 a sweet volume to read aloud in a select circle of intelligent friends." Providence 
 Press. 
 
 " Miss Frothingham has done a good service, and done it well, in translating 
 this famous idyl, which has been justly called ' one of the most faultless poems of 
 modern times.' Nothing can surpass the simplicity, tenderness, and grace of the 
 original, and these have been well preserved in Miss Frothingham's version. Her 
 success is worthy of the highest praise, and the mere English reader can scarcely 
 fail to read the poem with the same delight with which it has always been read by 
 those familiar with the German. Its charming pictures of domestic life, the 
 strength and delicacy of its characterization, the purity of tone and ardent love of 
 country which breathe through it, must always make it one of the most admired 
 of Goethe's works." Boston Christian Register. 
 
 Sold everywhere. Mailed, postpaid, by the Publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON. 
 
Messrs. Roberts Brother^ Publications. 
 
 THOUGHTS ABOUT ART. 
 
 BY PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON. 
 
 Author of '"A Painter's Camp," " The Intellectual Life," 
 "The Unknown River," " Chapters on Animals." 
 
 New Rdition, Revised, ivith Notes and an Introduction* 
 
 tf Fortunate is he who at an early age knows what A rt is.' ' GOETHE.. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 I. That certain Artists should write on Art. II. Painting 
 from Nature. III. Painting from Memoranda. IV. The 
 Relation between Photography and Painting. V. Word- 
 Painting and Color-Painting. VI. Transcendentalism in 
 Painting. VII. The Law of Progress in Art. VIII. Artists 
 in Fiction. IX. Picture Buying. X. Fame. XI. Art Crit- 
 icism. XII. Analysis and Synthesis in Painting. XIII. 
 The Reaction from Pre-Raphaelitism. XIV. The Artistic 
 Spirit. XV. The Place of Landscape-Painting amongst the 
 Fine Arts. XVI. The Housing of National Art Treasures. 
 XVII. On the Artistic Observation of Nature. XVIII. 
 Proudhon as a Writer on Art. XIX. Two Art Philosophers. 
 XX. Leslie. XXI. Picture-Dealers. XXII. Thorvaldsen. 
 XXIII. The Philosophy of Etching. XXIV. Amateur Paint- 
 ers. XXV. Can Science help Art ? XXVI. Picture-frames. 
 XXVII. Autographic Art. 
 
 One handsome square I2mo volume, uniform with "The 
 Intellectual Life." Price $2.00. 
 
 Sold everywhere. Mailed, postpaid, by the Publishers, 
 
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Messrs. Roberts Brothers* Publications. 
 
 THOREAU: 
 
 THE POET-NATURALIST. 
 
 WITH MEMORIAL VERSES. 
 
 BY WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING. 
 
 I vol. i6mo. Price $2.00. 
 
 From the Churchman. 
 
 Mr. Channing has the most important qualifications for writing a book on 
 Thoreau. He understands him, sympathizes with all his peculiarities, and has 
 made a thorough study of his writings. This volume will serve as a key to much 
 that has seemed strange in the conduct and in the words of the hermit philosopher, 
 and will, no doubt, be eagerly read by his many admirers. It gives a vivid picture 
 of the man, and furnishes, by means of numerous anecdotes, and frequent quo- 
 tations from his writings, a comparatively full history of both his outward and 
 inward life. 
 
 Front the Liberal Christian. 
 
 He stands forth especially as the lover and interpreter of Nature. What man 
 ever saw more of the great Mother's mysteries than he? He knew all the birds, 
 animals, flowers, shrubs, trees within walking distance of his home. He loved 
 the world in all its phases and varieties, as few men love human beings. Nothing 
 transpired which did not excite his curiosity and interest. He " could not pass a 
 berry, nor fail to ask a question." " His habit was to go abroad a portion of each 
 day to fields or woods or the river : ' I go out to see what I have caught in my 
 traps which I set for facts.' " Yet he had the deepest reverence for Nature, and 
 sought to penetrate her secrets with no conceited impertinence. 
 
 Front the Springfield Republican. 
 
 Altogether the most unique American book of the year, or for several years, 
 is Mr. Channing's memoir of his friend Thoreau, lately published by Roberts in 
 a volume of 370 pages. It defies analysis and eludes criticism, being without 
 method, and quite lawless in its style and aim ; a miscellaneous collection of facts 
 and fancies, prose and verse, passages from Xhoreau, and from a hundred other 
 authors, yet running through it always the thread of personal interest in the man 
 of genius described or describing himself. For it is now time, as it was not, per- 
 haps, ten years ago, when Mr. Emerson printed his brief sketch of Thoreau, to 
 recognize how rare and original was the genius of his friend, whom it has been 
 the fashion to speak of as an imitator of Emerson. 
 
 Sold everywhere. Mailed, postpaid, by the Publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON. 
 
Messrs. Roberts Brothers'* Publications. 
 
 THORVALDSEN: 
 
 HIS LIFE AND WORKS. 
 
 BY EUGENE PLON. 
 
 Translated from the French by I. M. LUYSTER. Illustrated 
 by Two Heliotypes from Steel Engravings by F. GAILLARD, 
 and Thirty-five of the Master's Compositions, drawn by 
 F. GAILLARD, and engraved on wood by CARBONNEAU. 
 Second American Edition. One handsome square 8vo 
 volume, cloth, gilt and black-lettered, gilt top, bevelled 
 boards. Price $4.00. 
 
 From tJie Boston Daily A dvertiser. 
 
 M. Eugene Plon has written a complete and fascinating biography of Thor- 
 valdsen. This great Danish sculptor adopted Winckelmann's theories of art, and 
 endeavored so faithfully to put them into practice that his sculpture is the best 
 and truest expression of them ever given. M. Plon gives a clear and singularly 
 
 From the Golden Age. 
 
 Thorvaldsen's Life belongs to romance, but his genius is an inspiration of art. 
 The story of the man is pathetic as well can be : the history of the artist is full of 
 heroism, aspiration, and triumph. Thorvaldsen's biography is a hard one to write 
 delicately; indeed, it is hard to write at all, because a true biography must come 
 out of sympathy and admiration, and there is much in his conduct that it is impos- 
 sible to extenuate, and difficult to tell in a way that shall not offend the modern 
 reader. M. Plon has done his work well. He has told the story unexceptionally, 
 and interpreted the acts of the master from the spirit, the genius, the destiny of 
 the man rather than by conventional rules. He is an admirable interpreter of the 
 great Northman's artistic spirit and achievements. The volume, with its finely 
 executed cuts and complete account of the great master's works, is a real contribu- 
 tion to the literature of art, and well calculated to foster the growing interest in 
 art studies and pursuits. 
 
 Sold everywhere. Mailed, postpaid, by the Publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON. 
 
THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF MADAME 
 
 SWETCHINE. By COUNT DE FALLOUX. 1 vol. 16mo. Price 
 $150. 
 
 THE WRITINGS OF MADAME SWETCHINE. 
 
 Edited by COUNT DE FALLOUX. 1 vol. 16mo. Price $1.25. 
 MADAME SWETCHINE. 
 
 BY LUCY LARCOM. 
 
 A well-written history of an excellent and gifted woman, like the " Life and 
 Letters of Madame Swetchine, "" by Count de Falloux, will naturally meet with a 
 welcome among people of the truest culture. Madame Swetchine was not a 
 woman who courted publicity ; but the thread of her life was so interwoven with 
 the political and religious movements of her time, it was impossible for her to 
 escape notice. And it brightens that dark period of strife between France and 
 Russia, with which the present century opened, to follow the life-track of this 
 Russian lady, who seemed to have been equally at home in both countries. 
 
 She was intimately acquainted with the noblest men and women of that re- 
 markable period, and there is not one of them upon whom her friendship does not 
 cast a beautiful glow. 
 
 She was one of those rare beings who seem to have been created to draw out 
 what is best in others, by the power of sympathy and self-forgetfulness. She was 
 a woman of uncommon intellect, and of wide reading ; and every thing she read 
 was brought to the standard of a judgment remarkably clear and penetrative ; 
 indeed, her conversion to the Roman Catholic faith seems to have been mostly a 
 matter of the head, a choice between the Greek and the Roman ecclesiasticisms 
 Long before her decision was made, her life shows her to have been a humble and 
 earnest Christian; and, as such, as one whose sympathies took wing higher and 
 wider than the opinions in which she had caged herself, her history has a rare value. 
 
 One wonders at the amount of good accomplished by her, always a weak in- 
 valid. In order to understand how she lived, and what she did, the book must be 
 read through ; but some extracts might give a hint of it : 
 
 " She rarely gave what is called advice, an absolute solution of a given 
 problem : her humility made her shrink from direct responsibilities. She did not 
 lecture you. She did not set herself up as a model or guide. She did not say 
 ' Walk thus; ' but sweetly. ' Let us walk together; ' and so, without making the 
 slightest pretensions, she often guided those she seemed to follow. Young and 
 old acknowledged her sway. She never evoked a sentiment of rivalry, because no 
 one ever detected in her a temptation to win admiration at the expense of others, 
 or to eclipse any person whatever. Her disinterestedness won pardon for her 
 superiority. 
 
 " Sick and erring hearts came and revealed themselves to Madame Swetchine 
 in all sincerity ; and she shed upon them, sweetly and gradually, light and truth 
 and life. 
 
 " In her turn she drew from this intimate intercourse, added to her own ex- 
 quisite penetration, a knowledge of the human heart which amounted almost to 
 divination. She knew the science of the soul as physicians know that of the body . 
 
 " Her charity was not a careless and mechanical practice. She consecrated 
 to it all her strength and all her skill. Almsgiving was not, with her, the mere 
 fulfilment of a duty. She liked to give pleasure besides doing good, and her 
 heart always added something to what her hand gave." 
 
 Madame Swetchine lived a little beyond the boundaries of threescore and ten. 
 It is only ten years since she died. Heaven does not ask to what communion she 
 belonged, neither will posterity. The memory of her saintliness is a possession 
 to the church universal, in the present and in the future Such a record as hers 
 is an inspiration to all who read ; such an example, the most imperative u Go 
 thou and do likewise." 
 
 Sold by a.11 booksellers. Mailed, postpaid, by the publishers. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON. 
 
ROBERTS BROTHERS' PUBLICATIONS. 
 THE 
 
 INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 BY PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "A Painter's Camp," "Thoughts About Art," "The Un- 
 known River," " Chapters on Animals." 
 
 Square I2mo, cloth, gilt. Price $2.00. 
 
 From the Christian Union- 
 
 " In many respects this is a remarkable book, the last and best production 
 of a singularly well balanced and finely cultured mind. No man whose life was 
 not lifted above the anxieties of a bread-winning life could have written this work ; 
 which is steeped in that sweetness and light, the virtues of which Mr. Arnold so 
 eloquently preaches. Compared with Mr. Hamerton's former writings, 'The 
 
 Intellectual Life' is incomparably his best production But above all, 
 
 and specially as critics, are we charmed with the large impartiality of the writer. 
 Mr Hamerton is one of those peculiarly fortunate men who have the inclination 
 and means to live an ideal life. From his youth he has lived in an atmosphere 
 of culture and light, moving with clipped wings in a charmed circle of thought. 
 Possessing a peculiarly refined and delicate nature, a passionate love of beauty, 
 and purity and art ; and having the means to gratify his tastes, Mr. Hamerton 
 has held himself aloof from the commonplace routine of life ; and by constant 
 study of books and nature and his fellow men, has so purified his intellect and 
 tempered his judgment, that he is able to view things from a higher platform even 
 than more able men whose natures have been soured, cramped, or influenced by 
 the necessities of a laborious existence. Hence the rare impartiality of his deci- 
 sions, the catholicity of his views, and the sympathy with which he can discuss 
 the most irreconcilable doctrines. To read Mr. Hamerton's writings is an intel- 
 lectual luxury. They are not boisterously strong, or exciting, or even very forci- 
 ble ; but they are instinct with the finest feeling, the broadest sympathies, and a 
 philosophic calm that acts like an opiate on the unstrung nerves of the hard- 
 wrought literary reader. Calm, equable, and beautiful, 'The Intellectual Life,' 
 when contrasted with the sensational and half digested clap-trap that forms so 
 large a portion of contemporary literature, reminds one of the old picture of the 
 nuns, moving about, calm and self-possessed, through the fighting and blasphem- 
 ing crowds that thronged the beleagured city." 
 
 " This book is written with perfect singleness of purpose to help others 
 towards an intellectual life," says the Boston Daily Advertiser. 
 
 " It is eminently a book of counsel and instruction," says the Boston Post. 
 
 " A book, which it seems to us will take a permanent place in literature," 
 says the New York Daily Mail. 
 
 Sold by all Booksellers. Mailed, postpaid, by the Pub- 
 Ushers^ 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON. 
 
MESSES, KOBEETS BEOTHEES' PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 RADICAL PROBLEMS. By Rev. C. A. BARTOL, 
 D.D. One volume, IGmo. Cloth. Price $2. 
 
 CONTENTS. Open Questions; Individualism; Transcendentalism; 
 Radicalism; Theism; Naturalism; Materialism; Spiritualism; Faith; 
 Law; Origin; Correlation; Character; Genius: Father Taylor; Expe- 
 rience; Hope; Ideality. 
 
 From the Liberal Christian. 
 
 What a wonderful, wonderful book is the " Radical Problems." We are 
 not a third through it yet, and Heaven only knows where and how we shall 
 find ourselves at the end of the journey. Already are we so shocked, 
 stunned, bewildered, edified, delighted, in short, thorougnly, thoroughly 
 bewitched, that we have no words to express ourselves. . . . That this 
 book has a long life before it who can doubt, or that it will cause a grand 
 commotion in the theological world? It will be impetuously attacked and 
 vehemently defended, but will survive alike the onslaught of its assailants 
 and the intemperate zeal of its defenders ; and will be the fruitful source 
 of many a brilliant essay and inspiring discourse and stimulating and 
 suggestive club-talk, long, long after its gentle and gifted author has left 
 us to receive a most cordial welcome by his brother thinkers in brighter 
 spheres. 
 
 From tlie Commonwealth. 
 
 Spirituality, purity, gentleness, love, child-like simplicity, bless and 
 sanctify him; but he is spirited as well as spiritual. In his gentleness 
 there is a quick vivacity, and he sometimes exhibits a keen incisiveness 
 as of whetted steel. His aim is not so much to solve as to suggest. He is 
 no dogmatist, nor is he an expositor or judge. He finds open questions, 
 and delights to leave them open questions still. Meantime he looks into 
 them with the eyes of his inmost soul, discerns much, throws out a pro- 
 fusion of glancing and irradiating suggestions that open the questions 
 farther instead of closing them, then retires to look elsewhere. . . . This 
 man carries eternal summer in the eyes, and sees beds of violets in snow- 
 banks. His own climate is his world, and he can make no excursions out 
 of it. A pleasant world it is, with no deserts, jungles, reeking bogs, foul, 
 ravening creatures, and poles heaped with ice. As some will see only with 
 the physical eye, so he with the spiritual only. 
 
 From the Globe. 
 
 It contains seventeen chapters, honestly representing the individual 
 spiritual experience of the author, and at the same time indicating some 
 of the intellectual tendencies of the time. It is " radical," not in the usual 
 sense of the word, but in its true sense, that of attempting to pierce to the 
 roots of things. Many of the opinions and ideas expressed in the book may 
 be repudiated by the conservative reader, but its spirit and aim cannot 
 fail to charm and invigorate him. Dr. Bartol, indeed, is one of those men 
 who have religious genius as well as religious faith. . . . The book is a 
 protest against popular theology, made from what the writer considers 
 the standpoint of true and pure religion. We have considered it from a 
 literary point of view, and, thus considered, its wealth of thought ana 
 imaginative illustration 'entitle it to a high rank among the publications 
 of the year. 
 
 Sold everywhere. Mailed, postpaid, by the Publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON. 
 
f 
 
 MESSRS, ROBERTS BROTHERS' PUBLICATIONS, 
 
 THE INFINITE AND THE FINITE. By THE- 
 
 OPHILUS PARSONS, Author of " Deus Homo," &c. One neat 
 IGmo volume. Cloth. Price $1.00. 
 
 " No one can know," says the author, " better than I do, how poor aud 
 dim a presentation of a great truth my words must give. But I write thorn 
 in the hope that they may suggest to some minds what may expand iu 
 their minds into a truth, and, germinating there, grow and scatter soed- 
 truth widely abroad. I am sure only of this: The latest revelation oftera 
 truths and principles which promise to give to man a knowledge of the 
 laws of hig being and of his relation to God, of the relation of the Infinite 
 to the Finite. . . . And therefore I believe that it will gradually, it may 
 be very slowly, so utterly does it oppose man's regenerate nature, but it 
 will surely, advance in its power and in its influence, until, in its own 
 time, it becomes what the sun is in unclouded noon." 
 
 From the Clilcago Republican. 
 
 Few writers have obtained a more enviable reputation in this country 
 than the author of this little book, and few are more justly entitled to 
 consideration. His works upon jurisprudence are to be found in almost 
 every public and private law library in the country; while his writings 
 upon Christian philosophy and the science of religion are universally re- 
 ceived as models of close and logical reasoning by those even who differ from 
 him in the form of their religious belief. . . . Mr. Parsons has been pro- 
 nounced to be *' the most fascinating interpreter of the writings of Swe- 
 denborg," and the present volume will add to rather than detract from a 
 reputation to which he is so justly entitled. The defects of the work are 
 only such as necessarily attach to the ^subject itself. The Unite cannot 
 grasp the infinite, but the author has accomplished this: he leads the 
 reader through new and pleasant paths of thought into the boundless 
 immensity that surrounds us, where the mind, freed frem the idea that the 
 only source of spiritual truth is a revelation, the interpretation of which 
 is limited to a prescribed class, feels and acknowledges the power of the 
 infinite in newer, simpler, and not less holy truths. 
 
 From tJie New York Evening Post. 
 
 Professor Parsons, in his little work, does not undertake to controvert 
 the huge volumes that have been written upon the philosophical problem 
 of the Infinite and the Absolute: he merely attempts to show us how the 
 problem has been treated by his master, Swedenborg. He has a profound 
 reneration for the teachings of that illustrious seer, and his expositions 
 >f these teachings have the merit of unusual clearness and simplicity. 
 . . . Whatever difficulties the reader encounters in his pages are dini- 
 Hiltics inherent in the subjects themselves, and not in his methods of eluci- 
 dation. Any one accustomed to think at all upon deep religious questions 
 will be able to understand what he means, though he may not be disposed 
 to accept his conclusions. And the inquirer who simply wishes to be in- 
 formed of the general scope and purport of Swedenborg's remarkable dis- 
 closures will find few better helps than the small and unpretending volumei 
 of Professor Parsons. 
 
 Sold everywhere. Mailed, postpaid, by the Publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON. 
 
LU 
 
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M93763 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY