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 LOYE AFTER MARRIAGE; 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER STORIES OF THE HEART. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 
 
 AUTHOR OP " LINDA ; OR, THE YOUNG PILOT OF THE BELLE CREOLE," " THE BANISHED SON," 
 
 " COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE ; OR, THB JOTS AND SORROWS OF AMERICAN LIFE," 
 
 " THE PLANTER'S NORTHERN BRIDE ; OR, SCENES IN MRS. HENTZ'S CHILDHOOD," 
 
 " EOLINE ; OR, MAGNOLIA VALE ; OR, THE HEIRESS OF GLENMORE," 
 
 " ERNEST LINWOOD J OR, THE INNER LIF^ OF THB AUTHOR," 
 
 "HELEN AND ARTHUR; OR, MISS THUSA'S SPINNING-WHEEL," 
 
 " &Ej(A ; OR, THE SNOW BIRD." " THE LOST DAUGHTER," 
 
 "^MARCUS WARLAND; OR, THE LONO MOSS SPRING," 
 
 "ROBERT GRAHAM;" A SEQUEL TO "LINDA," ETC. 
 
 THIS volume contains some of the most charming stories ever written by Mrs. 
 Caroline Lee Hentz, among which will be found : " Love After Marriage." " The 
 Victim of Excitement." "The Blind Girl's Story." "The Parlour Serpent." 
 " The Shaker Girl." " A Rainy Evening." " Three Scenes in the Life of a Belle." 
 "The Fatal Cosmetic." "The Abyssinian Neophyte." "The Village Anthem." 
 "The Brown Serpent." " My Grandmother's Bracelet," and "The Mysterious 
 Keticule." 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; 
 
 306 CHESTNUT STREET.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the 
 Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 
 
 MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ'S WORKS. 
 
 Each Work is complete in one large duodecimo volume. 
 
 LINDA; OR, THE YOUNG PILOT OF THE BELLE 
 CREOLE. 
 
 ROBERT GRAHAM. A SEQUEL TO "LINDA." 
 RENA; OR, THE SNOWBIRD. A TALE OF REAL LIFE. 
 
 EOLINE; OR, MAGNOLIA VALE; OR, THE HEIRESS 
 OF GLENMORE. 
 
 MARCUS WARLAND; OR, THE LONG MOSS SPRING. 
 
 ERNEST LINWOOD; OR, THE INNER LIFE OF THE 
 AUTHOR. 
 
 THE PLANTER'S NORTHERN BRIDE; OR, SCENES 
 IN MRS. HENTZ'S CHILDHOOD. 
 
 HELEN AND ARTHUR; OR, MISS THUSA'S SPIN 
 NING-WHEEL. 
 
 COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE; OR, THE JOYS AND 
 SORROWS OF AMERICAN LIFE. 
 
 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 THE BANISHED SON. 
 
 Price $1.75 each in Morocco Cloth ; or $1.50 in Paper Cover. 
 
 Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any or 
 all of the above books will be sent to any one, to anyi place, post 
 age pre-paid, on receipt of their price by the Publishers, 
 T. B. PETERSON & BEOTHERS, 
 
 306 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE, . ... Page 17 
 
 THE VICTIM OF EXCITEMENT, 40 
 
 THE BLIND GIRL'S STORY, ; 63 
 
 THE PARLOUR SERPENT, 81 
 
 THE SHAKER GIRL, 104 
 
 A RAINY EVENING, 127 
 
 THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A BELLE, . . 135 
 
 THE FATAL COSMETIC 151 
 
 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE, 175 
 
 THE VILLAGE ANTHEM, 197 
 
 THE BOSOM SERPENT, 210 
 
 MY GRANDMOTHER'S BRACELET, .... 234 
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS RETICULE, 247 
 
 93EC55
 
 LOYE AFTER MAEEIAGE. 
 
 &. STRANGER was ushered into the parlour, where two young 
 laaies were seated, one bonneted and shawled, evidently a 
 morning visiter, the other in a fashionable undress, as evidently 
 a daughter or inmate of the mansion. The latter rose with a 
 slight inclination of the head, and requested the gentleman to 
 take a chair. " Was Mr. Temple at home 1" " No ! but he 
 was expected in directly." The young ladies exchanged mirth 
 ful glances, as the stranger drew nearer, and certainly his ex 
 traordinary figure might justify a passing sensation of mirth, 
 if politeness and good feeling had restrained its expression. 
 His extreme spareness and the livid hue of his complexion 
 indicated recent illness, and as he was apparently young, the 
 almost total baldness of his head was probably owing to the 
 same cause. His lofty forehead was above the green shade 
 that covered his eyes in unshadowed majesty, unrelieved by a 
 single lock of hair, and the lower part of his face assumed a 
 still more cadaverous hue, from the reflection of the green 
 colour above. There was something inexpressibly forlorn and 
 piteous in his whole appearance, notwithstanding an air of 
 gentlemanly dignity pervaded his melancholy person. He 
 drew forth his pocket-book, and taking out a folded paper, 
 was about to present it to Miss Temple, who, drawing back 
 with a suppressed laugh, said " A petition, sir, I suppose ?" 
 then added in a low whisper to her companion- " the poor 
 fellow is perhaps getting up a subscription for a wig." The 
 whisper was very low, but the stranger's shaded though pene 
 trating eyes were fixed upon her face, and the motion of her 
 lips assisted him in a knowledge of their sound : he replaced 
 
 (IT)
 
 18 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 the paper in his pocket-book " I am no petitioner for your 
 bounty, madam," said he, in a voice, whose sweetness fell 
 like a reproach on her ear, " nor have I any claims on your 
 compassion, save being a stranger and an invalid. I am the 
 bearer of a letter to your father, from a friend of his youth, 
 who, even on his death-bed, remembered him with gratitude 
 and affection ; will you have the goodness to present to him 
 my name and direction ?" 
 
 Then laying his card upon the table, he made a low bow 
 and retreated, before Miss Temple had time to apologize, if 
 indeed any apology could be offered for her levity and rude 
 ness. She approached the table and took up the card 
 " Gracious Heavens !" she exclaimed " it cannot be possi 
 ble ? Sydney Allison that bald, yellow, horrid-loooking 
 creature Sydney Allison ! they described him as the per 
 fection of manly beauty I never will believe it he is an 
 impostor- 1 the wretch !" 
 
 The young lady who was with her, beheld with astonish 
 ment, the passion that lighted up Miss Temple's face, and 
 her looks besought an explanation. <( Have you not heard," 
 said Miss Temple, "since you came to this city, that I was 
 betrothed; that I had been so from a child, to a young gentle 
 man residing in Cuba, whose uncle was the bosom friend of 
 my father ? You must have heard it, for my father has 
 always taken pains to circulate the report, so that no one 
 might presume upon my favour. And this is the delectable 
 bridegroom ! the one who has been represented as clothed in 
 every grace calculated to fascinate a female heart and I, 
 fool that I was, I believed it, and looked forward with rapture 
 to the hour of our first meeting." Here she paused, and 
 throwing herself back in her chair, burst into a passion of 
 tears. 
 
 Mary Manning, her more rational companion, endeavoured 
 to soothe the excited feelings of her friend, and suggested to 
 her, that whatever disappointment she might feel with regard 
 to his personal appearance, his character might be such as to 
 awaken a very ardent attachment. " Indeed," added Mary, 
 " I thought there was something quite interesting in his 
 address, and his voice was remarkably persuasive in its tones. 
 He has evidently been very ill, and his bad looks are owing 
 to this circumstance. He will become handsomer by and by. 
 Besides, my dear Augusta, wnat is mere beauty in a man ? 
 It is the prerogative oi' a woman, and you are so highly gifted
 
 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. 19 
 
 in that respect yourself, you should be willing that your has- 
 band should excel in those qualities which men generally arro 
 gate to themselves." 
 
 "Husband!" repeated Augusta; "I would as soon take a 
 death's-head for my husband. I care nothing about mere 
 beauty, provided there is intelligence and spirit. But with 
 euch a bald, livid-looking wretch at my side, such a living 
 memento of mortality, I should sink into my grave in a fort 
 night. I never will marry him, unless I am dragged to tfle 
 altar." Here Mr Temple entered the room, and interrupted 
 her rash speech. Miss Manning too retired, feeling that her 
 presence might be an intrusion. He looked astonished at 
 the agitation of his daughter, who handed him the card, and 
 turning away leaned against the mantel-piece, the image of 
 woe. 
 
 " Sydney Allison arrived !" exclaimed Mr. Temple; "where 
 is he ? when was he here ? and why is he gone ? why what 
 is the matter with you, Augusta ? The first wish of my heart 
 seems accomplished, and I find you weeping. Tell me the 
 meaning of all this ?" 
 
 " Oh ! father," sobbed Augusta, covering her face with her 
 handkerchief, " he is so ugly, and you told me he was so very 
 handsome." 
 
 Mr. Temple could not forbear laughing at the piteous tone 
 in which Augusta uttered this melancholy truth, though he 
 immediately resumed, in an accent of displeasure, " I am 
 ashamed of your folly I have always given you credit for 
 being a girl of sense, but you talk like a little fool; ugly ! 
 if a man is not ugly enough to frighten his horse, he is hand 
 some enough. Besides, it is nothing but a whim ; I saw him 
 when a child, and he was an uncommonly beautiful boy. I 
 hope you did not behave in this manner before him why did 
 you suffer him to go away ?" 
 
 " Why, I did not know him," said Augusta, in considerable 
 trepidation, for she feared her father's anger; "and he looked 
 so thin and woe-begone, I thought he was some foreigner ask 
 ing charity, and when he took out a paper I thought it a peti 
 tion, and said something about one so he was angry, I believe, 
 and went away, saying he had letters for you, from a friend, 
 who was dead." 
 
 " And is he dead ! the good old man ! the best, the 
 earliest friend I ever had in the world dead and gone !'' 
 Mr. Temple leaned his face over on his hands, and sat in
 
 20 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 silence several moments, as if struggling with powerful emo 
 tions After a while, Mr. Temple lifted his hands, and fixed 
 his darkened eyes upon his daughter. He took her hand 
 with affection and solemnity. " Augusta, you are the child 
 of affluence as well as of indulgence; you are my only child, 
 and all the wealth, which now surrounds you with luxury, 
 vill be at your disposal after my death." 
 
 " Oh ! father, do not speak of such a thing." 
 
 " Do not interrupt me. Mr. Allison, the uncle of this 
 young man, was my benefactor and friend, when all the world 
 looked dark upon me. He extricated me from difficulties 
 which it is unnecessary to explain gave me the means of 
 making an ample fortune, and ask^ed no recompense, but a 
 knowledge of my success. It was through his influence I was 
 united to your now angel mother yes! I owe everything to 
 him wealth, reputation, and a brief, but rare portion of 
 domestic bliss. This dear, benevolent, romantic old man, had 
 one nephew, the orphan child of his adoption, whom he most 
 tenderly loved. When commercial affairs carried me to Cuba, 
 about ten years ago, Sydney was a charming boy," here 
 Augusta groaned " a charming boy ; and when I spoke with 
 a father's pride of my own little girl whom I had left behind, 
 my friend gladdened at the thought, that the union which 
 had bound our hearts together would be perpetuated in our 
 children j we pledged our solemn promise to each other, that 
 this union should take place at a fitting age j you have long 
 been aware of this betrothal, and I have seen with great 
 pleasure, that you seemed to enter into my views, and to look 
 forward with hope and animation to the fulfilment of this con 
 tract. The engagement is now doubly binding, since death 
 has set his awful seal upon it. It must be fulfilled. Do not, 
 by your unprecedented folly, make me unhappy at a moment 
 like this." 
 
 " Forgive me, my dear father, but indeed when you see 
 him, you will not wonder at the shock I have received. After i 
 all you had said of him, after reading his uncle's letters so , 
 full of glowing descriptions, after dwelling so long on the 
 graceful image my fancy drew, to find such a dreadful con- ' 
 trast." 
 
 " Dreadful contrast ! why surely he cannot be transformed 
 into such a monster." 
 
 " You have not seen him yet," said she mournfully. 
 
 " No ! you remind me of my negligence. Ai'ter the strange
 
 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. 21 
 
 lecpption you have given him, it is doubly urgent that I should 
 hasten to him. Have a care, Augusta, you have always found 
 me a very indulgent father, but in this instance I shall en 
 force implicit obedience. I have only one fear, that you have 
 already so disgusted him with your levity, that he may re 
 fuse, himself, the honour of the alliance." 
 
 " He refuse me !" murmured Augusta, in a low voice, a3 
 she glanced at herself in a mirror that shone above the mantel 
 piece. As the nature of her reflections may be well imagined, 
 it may be interesting to follow the young man, whose figure 
 had made so unfortunate an impression on his intended bride, 
 and learn something of the feelings that are passing through 
 his mind. 
 
 Sydney Allison returned to his lonely apartment at the 
 hotel with a chilled and aching heart. The bright day-dream, 
 whose beauty had cheered and gilded him, even while mourn 
 ing over the death-bed of his uncle, while languishing himself 
 on the bed of sickness, and while, a sea-sick mariner, he was 
 tossed upon the boisterous waves this dream was fled. She, 
 who had always risen upon his imagination as the morning 
 star of his destiny this being he had met, after years of 
 romantic anticipation what a meeting ! He was well aware 
 of the sad ravages one of the violent fevers of a tropical clime 
 had made upon his beauty, but, never attaching much value 
 to his own personal attractions, he could not believe that the 
 marks of a divine visitation would expose him to ridicule, or 
 unkindness ; of an extremely sensitive disposition, he was 
 peculiarly alive to the stings of satire, and the sarcastic whis 
 per of Miss Temple wounded him to the quick. 
 
 " What !" said he, to himself, as he folded his arms in 
 melancholy abstraction, in the solitude of his chamber, "what, 
 if the dark luxuriance of waving hair which once shadowed 
 my temples, is now gone, is not thought and intelligence still 
 lingering on my brow ? Are there no warm and animated 
 t veins of feeling in my heart, because the tide of health' no 
 longer colours my wan and faded cheek ? These enfeebled 
 eyes, which I must now shelter from the too dazzling light, 
 can they not still emit the rays of tenderness, and the beams 
 of soul ? This proud beauty ! May she live to know what a 
 heart she has wounded !" 
 
 He rose and walked slowly across the floor, pausing before 
 a large looking-glass, which fully reflected his person. He 
 could not forbear a smile, in the midst of his melancholy, at
 
 22 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 the ludicrous contrast to his former self, and acknowledge it 
 was preposterous to expect to charm at first sight, under the 
 present disastrous eclipse. He almost excused the covert 
 ridicule of which he had been the object, and began to pity 
 the beautiful Augusta for the disappointment she must have 
 endured. It was under the influence of these feelings Mr. 
 Temple found him. 
 
 " My dear fellow," said the latter, warmly grasping his 
 hand, and gazing earnestly at him " My poor boy ! how ill 
 you must have been ! your uncle, too" the warm-hearted 
 man was incapable of uttering another syllabic, not more 
 moved at that moment, by the recollection of his friend, than 
 affected by the transformation of the blooming boy, whose 
 waving locks were once so singularly beautiful. 
 
 His sympathy was so unaffected, his welcome so warm, and 
 his affection expressed in so heartfelt a manner, that Sydney, 
 who had just been arming himself with proud philosophy 
 against the indifference and neglect of the world, melted into 
 woman's softness. He had been so long among strangers, 
 and those of rougher natures had experience^ so cold a dis 
 appointment in his warmest hopes he had felt so blighted, so 
 alone the reaction was too powerful, it unmanned him. Mr. 
 Temple was a remarkable instance of a man who retained a 
 youthful enthusiasm and frankness of character, after a long 
 and prtrsperous intercourse with the world of business. The 
 rapid accumulation of wealth, instead of narrowing, as it too 
 often does, enlarged his benevolent heart. When, in a long 
 and confidential conversation with Sydney, he learned that 
 Mr. Allison had left but a small fortune for his support, in 
 stead of the immense one he had been led to expect, he was 
 more than ever anxious to promote his union with bis daughter. 
 However mysterious it seemed that Mr. Allison's property 
 should be so diminished, or have been so much overrated, he 
 rather rejoiced at the circumstance, as it gave him an oppor 
 tunity of showing his gratitude and disinterestedness. But 
 Sydney was proud. He felt the circumstance of his altered 
 fortunes, and, though not a poor man, was no longer the heir 
 of that wealth which was his in reversion when Mr. Temple 
 had plighted his daughter to him. In his short interview 
 with her he had gained such an insight into her character, 
 that he recoiled from the idea of appearing before her as her 
 betrothed lover. 
 
 " Receive me as a friend," said he to Mr. Temple ; " let
 
 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. 23 
 
 your daughter learn to look upon me as such, and I ask no 
 more; unless I could win her affections, nothing would induce 
 me to accept of her hand under existing circumstances, I 
 believe that impossible. Much as I feel your kindness, and 
 sacred as I hold the wishes of the dead, I hold your daughter's 
 happiness paramount to every other consideration. This must 
 not be sacrificed for me. Promise me, sir, that it shall not. I 
 should be more wretched than words can express, if I thought 
 the slightest force were imposed upon her sentiments." 
 
 "Be satisfied on that score; say nothing about it; only let 
 her get fully acquainted with you, and there will be no occa 
 sion to employ force. You must forget the mistake of the 
 morning. This yellow fever makes sad work of a man when 
 it gets hold oi him, but you will soon revive from its effects." 
 
 Sydney Allison became a daily visitor at Mr. Temple's 
 Had he assumed the privileges of a lover, Augusta would 
 have probably manifested, in a wounding manner, the aversion 
 she felt for him in that character; but it was impossible to 
 treat with disdain one who never presumed to offer any atten 
 tions beyond the civilities of friendship. Though rendered 
 vain from adulation, and selfish from indulgence, and though 
 her thoughtless vivacity often made her forgetful of the feel 
 ings of others, Augusta Temple was not destitute of redeeming 
 virtues. Nature had gifted her with very ardent affections, 
 and opened but few channels in which those affections could 
 flow. She had the great misfortune to be the only child of a 
 rich, widowed, and doting parent, and from infancy had been 
 accustomed to see every one around her subservient to her 
 will. She had reached the age of womanhood without know 
 ing one real sorrow, or meeting with a being who had excited 
 in any degree the affections of her heart. Her warm and 
 undisciplined imagination had dwelt for years on one image. 
 She had clothed it in the most splendid hues that fancy ever 
 spread upon her palette ; and had poor Sydney appeared be 
 fore her in his original brightness, the reality would probably 
 have been dim, to the visions of ideal beauty by which she 
 had been so long haunted. In the greatness of her disappoint 
 ment, she became unjust and unreasonable, violent in her pre 
 judices, and extravagant in the manifestations of them. But 
 after the first ebullition of her grief, she grew more guarded, 
 from the dread of her father's anger; and as Sydney continued
 
 24 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 the same reserved and dignified deportment, she began to think 
 her father's prediction was fulfilled, and that their aversion 
 was mutual. She did not derive as much comfort from this 
 supposition as might be anticipated. She had dreaded his im 
 portunity, but she could not endure his indifference. It was 
 in vain Mr. Temple urged his young friend to a different course 
 of conduct ; he always answered, " Let her cease to dread m 
 as a lover, then she may learn to prize me as a friend." 
 
 One evening, there was a concert at Mr. Temple's. Sydney, 
 who was passionately fond of music, forgot every cause of in 
 quietude, while abandoned to its heavenly influence. He stood 
 near the fair songstress of the hour, keeping time to the har 
 mony, while in a pier-glass opposite, he had a full view of the 
 groups behind. Augusta was a little in the rear, leaning on 
 the arm of Miss Manning. He could gaze on her image thus 
 reflected, without her being conscious of the act, and he sighed 
 as he paid involuntary homage to her brilliant beauty. Her 
 figure was of superb proportions, her features formed on the 
 model of oriental symmetry, while her eyes glittered through 
 their dark sweeping lashes, like sunbeams through the forest 
 foliage. She stood with her head a little averted, and her pro 
 file presented the softened outline of the lineaments ascribed 
 to the beautiful daughters of Judah. He forgot himself 
 entirely, in the contemplation of her loveliness, when he saw 
 her turn, with an arch smile, and hold up her hands in a 
 whimsical attitude in the direction of his head, as if in the 
 act of warming them ; for the full blaze of the chandeliers 
 seemod concentrated in that point, and all eyes, lured by Au 
 gusta's gesture, were turned upon his illuminated skull. For 
 one moment Sydney lost his self-possession, and the angry 
 spot was seen distinctly burning on his sallow cheek. The 
 next, he smiled superior to such weakness, and retreating a 
 few steps, bowed for her to pass forward. She had relied on 
 the shade that covered his eyes, for security from detection, 
 unconscious of the piercing glances that were darting beneath. 
 Her conscience now upbraided her for her folly, and she felt 
 with bitterness how low she must be in the opinion of the 
 man whose admiration she secretly coveted, notwithstanding 
 the ridicule she dared to throw upon his person. After the 
 company dispersed, she remained alone in the drawing-room, 
 dissatisfied with herself and sickening at the pleasure that 
 surrounded her. The door softly opened. It was Sydney, 
 who had returned for his gloves, which he had left on the
 
 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. 25 
 
 mantel-piece. It was the first time she had found herself 
 alone with him, and she felt excessively embarrassed. In 
 that tone, which even she acknowledged to be irresistibly 
 sweet, he apologized for his intrusion, and taking his gloves, 
 was retiring, when she, ever impulsive, arrested his motions. 
 
 " Stay one moment, Mr. Allison you have great reason to 
 despise me I have treated you with unpardonable levity and 
 rudeness. Though I can hardly hope your forgiveness, I can 
 not withhold this acknowledgment of my errors ; your calm 
 forbearance has done more for my reformation, than a thou 
 sand reproofs." 
 
 Surprised and softened by this unexpected avowal from 
 the cold sarcastic Augusta, whose fluctuating complexion and 
 agitated voice bore witness to her sincerity, Allison was at 
 first incapable of replying. 
 
 " Your present candour," at length he said, " would in 
 demnify me for much greater suffering than you have ever 
 inflicted on me. Allow me, Miss Temple, to take advantage 
 of this first moment of confidence, to disarm you of all fear 
 on my account. The relative situation in which we have been 
 placed by others, has given us both much embarrassment; 
 but be assured my only wish is to be looked upon as your 
 friend. Consider yourself as entirely unshackled. In brighter 
 hours I might have aspired to the distinction our parents de 
 signed for me; but, worn down by sickness, the shadow of my 
 former self, I feel but too sensibly, that the only sentiment I 
 can now inspire in the female heart, is that of compassion." 
 
 Augusta was so much impressed by his delicacy and gene 
 rosity, she began to hate herself for not having more justly 
 appreciated his worth. She raised her eyes to his face and 
 sighed " Ah !" said she to herself, " I must respect and 
 esteem, but I can never love him." Mr. Temple, who had 
 been absent the whole evening, returned at this moment, and 
 his countenance expressed his pleasure in finding them thus 
 alone, in apparently confidential conversation with each other. 
 
 "Do not go, Allison," said he; "I have been oppressed 
 with business to-night, and I want a little social enjoyinen 
 before I sleep. Besides, I do not feel quite well." 
 
 They now observed that he looked unusually pale, and 
 pressed his hand upon his head, as if in pain. 
 
 " Father," said Augusta, " you do indeed look ill ; you 
 have fatigued yourself too much. A glass of wine will revive 
 you."
 
 26 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 She brought him the glass, but just as he took it from her 
 hand with a smile, a sudden spasm came over him, and he 
 fell back in his chair, speechless and convulsed. Augusta's 
 piercing shriek alarmed the servants, who, rushing in, beheld 
 their master supported in the arms of Allison, gasping for 
 breath, while Augusta was trying to loosen his cravat with 
 hands nerveless from terror. A physician was directly sum 
 moned, who bled him*, profusely, and after a few hours con 
 sciousness was restored. He was removed to his chamber, 
 and Allison remained with him during the remainder of the 
 night. Augusta sat by her father's bedside holding his hand, 
 almost stunned by the suddenness of the calamity. Never, 
 since her recollection, had her father known an hour's sick 
 ness; and now to be prostrated at once, in the midst of florid 
 health, it was awful. She dared not ask the physician if 
 there was danger, lest he should confirm her worst fears. 
 She looked at Allison, and, in his pale and anxious counte 
 nance, she saw a reflection of her own anxiety and sorrow. 
 Towards morning Mr. Temple opened his eyes, and looked 
 earnestly round him. 
 
 " My children," said he, " come near me both both." 
 
 " Father," cried Augusta, " we are near thee oh ! my 
 father, say that you are better only say that you will live." 
 
 As she uttered the last word she bowed her head upon the 
 bed cover, and sobbed as if her heart were breaking. 
 
 " My child," said Mr. Temple, faintly, "you must call >jj)on. 
 Ged to sustain you, for there is need. I feel that the hand 
 of death is on me. Sudden and awful is the summons but 
 it must be obeyed. Doctor, I would see my minister. Not 
 to give peace to my parting soul for all is peace here" said 
 he, laying his hand feebly on his heart, "peace with God and 
 man but there is one thing I would witness before I die." 
 
 Sydney, who stood at the bed's head, trembled at the im 
 port of these words; Augusta in her agony comprehended 
 them not. 
 
 " Sydney, my son, give me your hand ; Augusta, is this 
 yc-ur hand I hold ? My children, if you would bless my last 
 hour, you must let my dying eyes behold your union. It 
 W'll gladden my friend, when I meet him in another world, 
 to tell him his last wishes are consummated. Do you con 
 sent, my children ?" 
 
 He looked up to Sydney, with that earnest expression wh ; ch 
 ia oever seen except in the eye of the dying, and pressed their
 
 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. 2? 
 
 hands together in his, already cold and dewy with the damps 
 of death. Sydney sunk upon his knees, unutterably affected. 
 All the happiness of his future life was at stake, but it seemed 
 as nothing at that moment. 
 
 " Your daughter, sir ?" was all he could utter. 
 
 " Augusta," repeated Mr. Temple, in a voice fearfully hol 
 low, " will you not speak ?" 
 
 "Oh! my father," she murmured, .." do with me as you 
 will, only take me with you." 
 
 The reverend figure of the minister was now added to the 
 group that surrounded that bed of death. Strange and awful 
 was the bridal ceremony, performed at such a moment, and 
 attended by such solemnities. Sydney felt that he was mys 
 teriously and irresistibly impelled on to the fulfilment of his 
 destiny, without any volition of his own ; and he supported, 
 with a firm arm, the sinking form of her he was now to call 
 his own. It was with bloodless lips and deadened perceptions 
 A.ugusta repeated her vows ; but low as they were, they fell 
 like music on the ear that was so shortly to close to all earthly 
 sound. 
 
 " There is a blessing above, mingling with mine," faintly 
 articulated the dying man. " I bless you, my dear children, 
 and ye will be blessed." 
 
 These were the last words he ever uttered. Augusta fell 
 almost lifeless on her father's bosom, but what was a moment 
 befo,r. the temple of an immortal spirit, was now but dust and 
 ashes. At the same moment an orphan and a bride, she was 
 incapable of comprehending the startling realities of her situa 
 tion. The images that flitted through her mind, were like the 
 phantasmagoria of a dream a vague impression of something 
 awful and indescribable having occurred, a wild fear of some 
 thing more awful still impending, filled her imagination and 
 paralyzed her frame. But Allison had a full and aching sense 
 of the responsibilities so unexpectedly imposed upon him. 
 He mourned for the venerated and generous friend so sud 
 denly snatched away; but he grieved most of all, that his last 
 act had placed in his keeping that to which he felt he had no 
 legitimate right. No selfish repinings filled his heart but to 
 find himself married, joined irrevocably to a woman who had 
 given him so many proofs of personal aversion ; who never, 
 till that evening, had evinced towards him the slightest sensi 
 bility a woman whom he did not love, and whose superior 
 fortune burdened him with a painful sense of obligation
 
 28 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 there was something inexpressibly galling and humbling -in 
 these circumstances, to the sensitive and high-minded Allison. 
 Tenderness, however, mingled with the bitterness of his re 
 flections ; and even then, he could have taken her to his heart, 
 and wept over her tears of sympathy and sorrow, had he no^t 
 dreaded that she would recoil from his embraces. He did not 
 intrude on the safcredness of her grief, and for days she buried 
 herself in the solitude of her chamber. She admitted no one 
 but her chosen friend, Miss Manning, who represented her as 
 inconsolable, either sunk in a torpor, from which nothing could 
 arouse her, or in a state of nervous excitement still more dis 
 tressing. He waited, hoping that time would restore her to 
 comparative composure, and that she would be willing to re 
 ceive from him the consolations of friendship. Finding, at 
 length, that she persevered in her system of solitary grief, 
 and that time, while it must, according to its immutable laws, 
 soften her anguish for her father's death, probably increased 
 her dread of the shackles that bound her, his resolution was 
 taken. In a shor t time everything was arranged for his de 
 parture to a foreign land. The ship, in which he was bound 
 a passenger, was ready to sail, when he requested a parting 
 interview with Augusta. A parting interview ! Augusta was 
 roused at that sound, from the selfishness of her grief. He 
 was going into banishment, and she was the cause. For the 
 first time since the bridal ceremony, the thought forced itself 
 into her mind, that he too might have cause for sorrow, and 
 that his happiness might be sacrificed as well as her own. 
 Allison was greatly shocked, to see the change wrought in her 
 radiant face. He was so much agitated, he forgot everything 
 he purposed to say, and remembered only the strangeness of 
 their situation. He endeavoured to repress his own emotion, 
 that he might not increase hers; while she, unused to self-con 
 trol, abandoned herself to a passion of tears. He approached 
 her with tenderness and solemnity, and entreated her to listen 
 to him, as a friend, as one willing to promote her happiness 
 by any sacrifice she might require. " I go," said he, " Au 
 gusta, to another clime, whose genial influence may restore 
 me again some portion of my former vigour. I go, too, in the 
 hope, that in my absence you will learn submission to a destiny 
 which my presence renders insupportable. If you knew the 
 anguish that fills my heart, when I think of myself as the 
 involuntary cause of your wretchedness, you would pity me, 
 even as much as you abhor. Hear me, Augusta, while I re-
 
 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. 29 
 
 peat with all the solemnity of the vows that bound us to each 
 other, thai 1 will never claim the name of husband, till your 
 own tree alleetions hallow the sacred title. In the mean time 
 I leave you with one who will be to you as a loving sister, in 
 whose lather you will find a faithful and affectionate guardian 
 will you not part from me, at least in kindness ?" 
 
 Augusta sat, with her arms thrown around Miss Manning, 
 weeping, yet subdued. All the best impulses of her nature 
 were wakened and active. She would have given worlds to 
 say something expressive of her remorse and regret for her 
 selfishness and waywardness. Clasping her hands together 
 she exclaimed, " Oh ! forgive me, Sydney, that I cannot love 
 you j" ihen, conscious that she was only wounding more doeply 
 when she wished to heal, she only uttered, " what an unfor 
 tunate wretch I am I" 
 
 ' We are both unfortunate," said he, moved beyond his 
 po-fter ot control "but we may not be always miserable. 
 Something whispers me, that we shall meet again -with 
 chastened feelings, capable of appreciating all that is excel 
 lent in each other, and both earnest in the endeavour to v^erit 
 the blessing that hallowed our nuptial tie. I leave you that 
 you may be restored to tranquillity I may never retuia I 
 pray to God, that he may find me a grave in that ocean to 
 whose bosom I am about to commit myself, if I am only to 
 live for the misery of others." 
 
 " No, no," cried Augusta, " this must not be, you must not 
 become an exile for me." 
 
 " Listen to her," said Miss Manning, earnestly, her whole 
 soul wrought up into the most painful excitement, at the sight 
 of their mutual distress " indeed, sir, you are doing what is 
 rash and uncalled for oh ! why, with so much to bind you 
 together, with qualities capable of inspiring the strongest 
 attachment in each other, will ye close up your hearts in this 
 manner, and resolve to be miserable ?" 
 
 ' ' I cannot now remain if I would, as I have taken steps 
 which cannot well be recalled your father, Miss Manning, 
 knows and approves my intention. He is the delegated guar 
 dian and protector of Augusta. I will not, I cannot prolong 
 the pain of these moments. Farewell, Augusta ! think of me, 
 if possible, with kindness should I live to return, I will be 
 to you friend, brother, or husband, as your own heart shall 
 dictate." 
 
 He pressed her cold and passive hand in his turned, arJ 
 103
 
 30 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 was gone. Augusta would have spoken, but slie seemed as 
 if under the influence of a nightmare. Her faculties were 
 spell-bound ; she would have returned the parting pressure of 
 his hand, but her fingers seemed icicles. She shuddered with 
 superstitious dread. Her father's upbraiding spirit appeared 
 to her imagination, armed with the terrors of the grave, and 
 threatening her with the retribution of heaven. Poor Au 
 gusta ! her mind required the stern, but salutary discipline of 
 adversity, and that discipline was preparing. How she pro 
 fited by the teachings of this monitress, whose lessons, however 
 hard, have such high and celestial bearings, the eveuts of after 
 years may show. 
 
 Augusta and her friend are once more presented to the 
 view of the reader, but the destiny of the former is changed. 
 They are seated in a parlour side by side, but it is not the 
 same, rich in all the adornments of wealth and fashion, that 
 Augusta once occupied. It is in a neat rural cottage, in the 
 very heart of the country, embosomed iu trees and flowers. 
 A few words will explain the past. Mr. Temple's open, 
 generous, uncatculating disposition had exposed him to the 
 designs of the mercenary and treacherous. He never could 
 refuse to endorse a note for a friend, or to loan money when 
 it was asked with a look of distress. He believed his resources 
 as exhaustless as his benevolence ; but by the failure of several 
 houses with which he was largely connected, his estate was 
 involved in ruin, and his daughter left destitute of fortune. 
 Mr. Manning suffered so much himself in the general loss, he 
 was obliged to sell all that he still possessed in the city and 
 retire into the country, with limited means of subsistence. 
 But, though limited, he had sufficient for all the comforts of 
 life, and what he deemed its luxuries books, music, the 
 socialities of friendship, and the exercise of the kindly chari 
 ties. A cherished member of this charming family, Augusta 
 no longer the spoiled child of fortune,, but the chastened dis 
 ciple of sorrow, learned to estimate the true purposes of her 
 being, and. to mourn over her former perversity. With such 
 ennobled views of life and its enjoyments, she began to think 
 she might be happy with a husband, with such irreproachable 
 worth and exalted attributes as Sydney Allison, even though 
 he had the misfortune to be bald and sallow. But him she 
 had banished, and when would he return ? He had written
 
 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. 31 
 
 to her once or twice, in the most affectionate manner, as a 
 brother would write ; he had spoken of amended health and 
 reviving spirits, but he spoke of his return as of something 
 indefinite and even remote. She too had written, and her , 
 letters were transcripts of the progressive elevation of her 
 character, and expressed with candour and warmth the just 
 appreciation she now had of his own. She was uncertain \ 
 whether they had ever reached him. It was long since she 
 had received any tidings, and she felt at times that sickness 
 of the heart, which suspense unfed by hope creates. 
 
 " I bring you a messenger, who I trust is the bearer of glad 
 tidings," said Mr. Manning, entering, with a benevolent smile, 
 and ushering in a young gentleman, whom he introduced by 
 the name of Clarence. " Augusta, you will greet him with 
 joy, for he comes with letters from Mr. Allison, your hus 
 band." 
 
 Augusta sprang forward, scarcely waiting to go through the 
 customary form of introduction, and took the letter with a 
 trembling hand. " Tell me, sir, do you know him, and is he 
 well ?" The stranger bent his dark and lustrous eyes upon 
 her face, with a look of undisguised admiration. 
 
 " I know him intimately, madam ; when I last saw him, 
 he was in perfect health, and animated by the prospect of a 
 speedy return." 
 
 Augusta waited to hear no more, but retired to her own 
 chamber, t,n peruse the epistle she had so anxiously antici 
 pated. It was in answer to her last, and breathed the lan 
 guage of hope and confidence. There was a warmth, a fervour 
 of sentiment, far different from his former cold, but kind com 
 munications. He rejoiced in the knowledge of her altered 
 fortune, for he could prove his disinterestedness, and show 
 her that he loved her for herself alone, by returning and de 
 voting himself to the task of winning her affections. " Say 
 not, my Augusta," said he in conclusion, " that I cannot win 
 the prize. All the energies of my heart and soul are enlisted 
 for the contest. I could look on your beauty, all dazzling a 
 it is, without much emotion ; but the humility, the trust, th 
 gentleness and feeling expressed in your letter has melted me 
 into tenderness. Dare I indulge in the blissful dream, that 
 even now gilds this page with the hues of heaven ? Augusta, 
 the sad, reluctant bride, transformed into the fond and faith 
 ful wife, cherished in my yearning bosom, and diffusing there 
 the life, the warmth, the fragrance of love I"
 
 82 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 Augusta's tears rained over the paper. " Oh ! Allison,' 
 she cried, " the task shall not be in vain ; I will love thee for 
 thy virtues, and the blessing my dying father called down, 
 may yet rest upon us." She was about to fold the letter, 
 when a postscript on the envelope met her eye. " Receive 
 Clarence," it said, " as my friend he knows all my history, 
 and the peculiarity of our situation he is interested in you, 
 for my sake as a stranger and my especial friend, may I ask 
 for him the hospitable attentions of Mr. Manning's family ?" 
 
 When she descended into the room, where Clarence was 
 seated, she could not repress a painful blush, from the con 
 sciousness that he was familiar with her singular history. 
 " He must despise me," thought she ; but the deference, and 
 respect of his manner forbade such an impression. Gradually 
 recovering from her embarrassment, and finding him directing 
 his conversation principally to Mr. Manning, she had leisure 
 to observe one who possessed strong interest in her eyes, as 
 the friend of Allison. And seldom does the eye of woman. 
 rest upon a more graceful or interesting figure, or a more 
 expressive and glowing countenance. There was a lambent 
 brightness in his eyes, a mantling bloom upon his cheek, that 
 indicated indwelling light and conscious youth. His hair 
 clustered in soft waves round his temples, relieving by its 
 darkness the unsunned whiteness of his forehead. Yet the 
 prevailing charm was manner, that indescribable charm, that, 
 like sunshine in the summer landscape, gilded and vivified 
 the whole. The acquisition of such a guest gave life and ani 
 mation to the domestic circle. Mr. Manning was a man of 
 varied information, and the society of this accomplished travel 
 ler recalled the classic enthusiasm of his earlier days. Mary, 
 though usually reserved to strangers, seemed fascinated into 
 a forgetfulness of herself, and found herself a partaker of a 
 conversation to which at first she was only a timid listener. 
 Augusta, while she acknowledged the stranger's uncommon 
 power to please, was preoccupied by the contents of her hus 
 band's letter, and longed to be alone with Mary, whose sym 
 pathy was always as spontaneous as it was sincere. She was 
 not disappointed in the readiness of Mary's sympathy; but 
 after having listened again and again, and expressed her hope 
 and joy that all would yet be for the happiest and the best, 
 she returned to the subject next in interest, the bearer of this 
 precious document. " Ah ! my dear Augusta," said she, " if 
 Allison's noble spirit had been enshrined in such a temple,
 
 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. fat 
 
 you had not been parted now." Augusta felt the comparison 
 odious. It brought before her the person of Allison in too 
 melancholy a contrast with the engaging stranger. " I thought 
 it was Mary Manning," answered she in a grave tone, " who 
 once reproved me for attaching too much importance to manly 
 beauty I never thought you foolish or unkind till this mo 
 ment." 
 
 " Forgive me," cried Mary, with irresistible frankness ; 
 " foolish I may be, indeed I know I am ; but intentionally 
 unkind to you never never." It did not require the recol 
 lection of all Mary's tried friendship and sincerity, for Augusta 
 to accord her forgiveness. Mary was more guarded afterwards 
 in the expression of her admiration, but Augusta, in her 
 imagination, had drawn the horoscope of Mary's destiny, and 
 Clarence shone there, as the star that was to give it radiance. 
 A constant guest of her father's, she thought it impossible 
 for him to witness Mary's mild, yet energetic virtues, without 
 feeling their influence. She was interesting without being 
 beautiful, and Clarence evidently delighted in her conversa 
 tion. To her, he was always more reserved, yet there was a 
 deference, an interest, a constant reference to her wishes and 
 opinions, that was as delicate as it was flattering. He was 
 the companion of their walks, and nature, never more lovely 
 than in this delightful season, acquired new charms from the 
 enthusiasm with which he sought out and expatiated on its 
 beauties. Mr. Manning was passionately fond of music, and 
 every evening- Mary and Augusta were called upon for his 
 favourite songs. Now the music was finer than ever, for 
 Clarence accompanied them with his flute, and sometimes 
 with his voice, which was uncommonly sweet and melodious. 
 One evening Augusta was seated at the piano ; she was not 
 an excelling performer, but she played with taste and feeling, 
 and she had endeavoured to cultivate her talent, for she remem 
 bered that Allison was a lover of music. She had played all 
 Mr. Manning's songs, and turned over the leaves, without 
 thinking of any particular tune, when Clarence arrested her 
 at one, which he said was Allison's favourite air. " Let ua 
 play and sing that," said he, repeating the words, "your hus 
 band loves it, we were together when he first heard it; it wag 
 sung by an Italian songstress, whom you have often struck 
 me as resembling. The manner in which your hair is now 
 parted in front, with those falling curls behind, increases the 
 resemblance; it is very striking at this moment"
 
 d4 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 Augusta felt a strange pang penetrate her heart, when he 
 asked her for her husband's favourite. There was something, 
 too, in his allusion to her personal appearance that embar 
 rassed her. He had paid her no compliment, yet she blushed 
 as if guilty of receiving one. " I cannot play it," answered 
 she, looking up, " but I will try to learn it for his sake." She 
 could not prevent her voice from faltering ; there was an ex 
 pression in his eyes, when they met hers, that bowed them 
 down, in shame and apprehension. It was so intense and 
 thrilling she had never met such a glance before, and she 
 feared to interpret it. 
 
 " Shall I sing it for you ?" asked he ; and leaning over the 
 instrument, he sang in a low, mellow voice, one of those im 
 passioned strains, which the fervid genius of Italy alone can 
 produce. The words were eloquent of love and passion, and 
 Augusta, charmed, melted by their influence, could not divest 
 herself of a feeling of guilt as she listened. A new and 
 powerful light was breaking upon her ; truth held up ita 
 blazing torch, flashing its rays into the darkest corners of her 
 heart and conscience, discovering passions, of whose very 
 existence she had been previously unconscious. She saw re 
 vealed in prophetic vision, the misery of her future existence, 
 the misery she was entailing on herself, on others, and a cold 
 shudder ran through her frame. Mary, alarmed at her exces 
 sive paleness, brought her a glass of water, and asked her if 
 she were ill. Grateful for an excuse to retire, she rose and 
 took Mary's arm to leave the room; but as she passed through 
 the door, which Clarence opened and held, she could not avoid 
 encountering again a glance so tender and impassioned, she 
 could not veil to herself the language it conveyed. Augusta 
 had thought herself miserable before, but never had she shed 
 such bitter tears as bathed her pillow that night. Just as 
 she had schooled herself to submission ; just as she was 
 cherishing the most tender and grateful feelings towards her 
 husband, resolving to make her future life one long task of 
 expiation, a being crossed her path, who realized all her early 
 visions of romance, and who gently and insidiously had en 
 twined himself into the very chords of her existence ; and 
 now, when she felt the fold, and struggled to free herself from 
 the enthral rnent, she found herself bound as with fetters of 
 iron and clasps of steel. That Clarence loved her, she could 
 not doubt. Enlightened as to Wie state of her own heart, she 
 ow recollected a thousand covert marks of tenderness and
 
 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. 35 
 
 regard. He had been admitted to the most unreserved inter 
 course with her, as the friend of her husband. Like herself, 
 he had been cherishing sentiments of whose strength he was 
 unaware, and which, when revealed in their full force, would 
 make him tremble. She now constantly avoided his society. 
 Her manners were cold and constrained, and her conscious 
 eyes sought the ground. But Clarence, though he saw the 
 change, and could not be ignorant of the cause, was not re 
 buked or chilled by her coldness. He seemed to call forth, 
 with more animation, the rich resources of his mind, his en 
 thusiasm was more glowing, his voice had more music, and 
 his smile more brightness. It was evident she alone was un 
 happy ; whatever were his feelings, they inspired no remorse. 
 She besjan to believe her own vanity had misled her, and that 
 he only looked upon her as the wife of his friend. She had 
 mistaken the luminousness of his eyes for the fire of passion. 
 Her credulity abased her in her own estimation. 
 
 One afternoon Clarence found her alone. She had declined 
 accompanying Mary and her father in a walk, because she 
 thought Clarence was to be with them. " I did not expect 
 to find you alone," said he, taking a seat by her side 
 " but since I have gained such a privilege, may I ask, with 
 out increasing your displeasure, in what I have offended ? 
 You shun my society your averted looks, your altered mien" 
 he paused, for her embarrassment was contagious, and the 
 sentence remained unfinished. The appeal was a bold one, 
 but a? a friend he had a right to make it. 
 
 " You have not offended me," at length she answered, "but 
 you know the peculiar circumstances of my life, and cannot 
 wonder if my spirits sometimes droop, when reflecting on the 
 misery of the past, and the uncertainty of the future." 
 
 " If," said he, " the uncertainty of the future makes you 
 unhappy as it regards yourself, you may perhaps have cause 
 of uneasiness, but as it respects Allison, as far as I know his 
 sentiments, he has the fullest confidence, and the brightest 
 hopes of felicity. I once looked upon him as the most un 
 fortunate, but I now view him as the most blessed of men. 
 When he told me the circumstances of his exile, how lone 
 and hopeless seemed his lot ! Now, when I see all that wooes 
 him to return, angels might covet his destiny." 
 
 " You forget yourself," cried Augusta, not daring to take 
 iu the full meaning of his words " it is not the oifice of a
 
 36 LOVE AFTER MAKRIAGE. 
 
 friend to flatter Allison never flattered I always revered 
 him for his truth." 
 
 " Yes I" exclaimed Clarence, " he has truth and integrity. 
 They call him upright, and honourable, and just ; but is he 
 not cold and senseless to remain in banishment so long, 
 leaving his beautiful wife in widowhood and sorrow ! and was 
 - lie not worse than mad to send me here the herald of himself, 
 o expose me to the influence of your loveliness, knowing that 
 to see you, to be near you, must be to love, nay, even to wor 
 ship." 
 
 " You have driven me from you for ever !" cried Augusta, 
 rising in indignant astonishment, at the audacity of this 
 avowal. " Allison shall learn in what a friend he has con 
 fided." 
 
 " I am prepared for your anger," continued he, with in 
 creasing impetuosity, " but I brave it ; your husband will 
 soon return, and I shall leave you. Tell him of all my bold 
 ness, and all my sincerity; tell him too all the emotions that 
 are struggling in your heart for me, for oh ! you cannot deny 
 it, there is a voice pleading for my pardon, in your bosom 
 now, and telling you, that, if it is a crime to love, that one 
 crime is mutual." 
 
 " Then I am indeed a wretch!" exclaimed Augusta, sinking 
 down into a chair, and clasping her hands despairingly over 
 her face; "but I deserve this humiliation." Clarence drew 
 nearer to her she hesitated he trembled. The triumphant 
 fire that revelled in his eyes was quenched; compassion, ten 
 derness, and self-reproach softened their beams. He was in 
 the very act of kneeling before her, to deprecate her forgive 
 ness, when the door softly opened, and Mary Manning entered. 
 Her step was always gentle, and she had approached unheard. 
 She looked at them first with a smile, but Augusta's counte 
 nance was not one that could reflect a smile ; and on Mary's 
 face, at that moment, it appeared to her as a smile of derision. 
 Clarence lingered a moment, as if unwilling to depart, yet un 
 certain whether to remain or go then asking Mary for her 
 father, he hastily retired, leaving Augusta in a state of such 
 agitation, that Mary, seriously alarmed, entreated her to ex 
 plain the cause of her distress. 
 
 " Explain !" cried Augusta. " You have witnessed my 
 humiliation, and yet ask me the cause. I do not claim your 
 sympathy, the grief I now feel admits of none ; I was born 
 to be unhappy, and whichever way I turn, I am wretched."
 
 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. 37 
 
 " Only tell me one thing, dear Augusta, is all your grief 
 owing to the discovery of your love for Clarence, and to the 
 sentiments with which you have inspired him ? There is no 
 humiliation in loving Clarence for who could know him and 
 not love him ?" 
 
 Augustas-looked in Mary's face, assured that she was utter- 
 'ng the language of mockery. Mary, the pure moralist, the 
 nild, but uncompromising advocate for duty and virtue, thus 
 o palliate the indulgence of a forbidden passion ! It could 
 only be in derision ; yet her eye was so serene, and her smile 
 so kind, it was impossible to believe that contempt was lurking 
 beneath. " Then you do love him, Mary, and I am doubly 
 treacherous !" 
 
 Mary blushed " with the affection of a sister, the tender 
 ness of a friend, do I regard him; I admire his talents, I 
 venerate his virtues." 
 
 " Virtues ! oh ! Mary, he is a traitor to his friend j what 
 reliance is there on those virtues, which, having no root in the 
 heart, are swept away by the first storm of passion ?" 
 
 " Passion may enter the purest heart," answered Mary ; 
 "guilt consists in yielding to its influence. I would pledge 
 my life that Clarence would never give himself up to the in 
 fluence of a guilty passion." 
 
 " Talk not of him, let me forget his existence, if I can ; I 
 think of one, who will return from his long exile, only to find 
 his hopes deceived, his confidence betrayed, his heart broken." 
 
 Here Augusta wept in such anguish, that Mary, finding it 
 in vain to console her, threw her arms around her, and wept 
 in sympathy; yet still she smiled through her tears, and again 
 and again repeated to her, that heaven had long years of hap 
 piness yet in store. 
 
 Augusta, in the solitude of her own chamber, recovered an 
 appearance of outward composure, but there was a deadly 
 sickness in her soul, that seemed to her like a foretaste of 
 mortality. The slightest sound made her tremble, and when 
 Mary returned to her, softly, but hurriedly, and told her he 
 father wished to see her, she went to him, with a blanched 
 cheek and trembling step, like a criminal who is about to 
 hear her sentence of doom. 
 
 " I have something to communicate to you," said he, kindly 
 taking ker hana, and leading her to a seat. " But I tear you 
 will be too inuch agitated."
 
 38 LOYE AFTER MARRIAGE. 
 
 "Is he come?" cried she, grasping his arm with sudden 
 energy; " only tell me, is he come?" 
 
 " Your husband is arrived ; I have just received tidings 
 that he is in the city, and will shortly be here." 
 
 Augusta gasped for breath, she pressed her hands on her 
 bosom, there was such a cold, intolerable weight there; she 
 *elt the letter of her husband, which she had constantly woru 
 s a talisman against the evil she most dreaded. That tender, 
 confiding letter, which, when she had first received it, she had 
 hailed as the precursor of the purest felicity. 
 
 " It is all over now," sighed she, unconscious of the pre 
 sence of Mr. Manning. " Poor unhappy Allison, I will tell 
 him all, and then I will lie down and die." 
 
 " I hear a carriage approaching," said Mr. Manning ; " the 
 gate opens support yourself, my dear child, and give him the 
 welcome he merits." Augusta could not move, her limbs 
 were powerless, but perception and sensibility remained ; she 
 saw Mr. Manning leave the room, heard steps and voices in 
 the passage, and then the door reopen. The shades of twilight 
 were beginning to fall, and a mist was over her eyes, but she 
 distinctly recognised the figure that entered what was her 
 astonishment, to behold, instead of the lank form, bald brows, 
 and green shade, marked in such indelible characters on her 
 memory the graceful lineaments, clustering looks, and lus 
 trous eyes of Clarence? She looked beyond in wild alarm 
 for her husband. "Leave me," she exclaimed, "leave me, 
 or you drive me to desperation !" 
 
 But Clarence eagerly approached her, as if defying all con 
 sequences, and reckless of her resentment. He clasped her 
 in his arras, he pressed her to his heart, and imprinted on her 
 brow, cheek, and lips, unnumbered kisses. " My bride, my 
 wife, my own beloved Augusta, do you not know me ? and 
 can you forgive me for this trial of your love ? I did not mean 
 to cause you so much suffering, but I could not resist the 
 temptation of proving whether your love was mine, through 
 duty or inclination. I have been the rival of myself, and I 
 have exulted in finding, that love in all its strength has still 
 oeen mastered by duty. Augusta, I glory in my wife." 
 
 Augusta looked up, in bewildered rapture, hardly knowing 
 in what world she existed. She had never dreamed of such a 
 transformation. Even now it seemed incredible it could not 
 be true her present felicity was too great to be real " Can 
 Allison and Clarence be one ?"
 
 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. 39 
 
 "Yes, my Augusta, these arms have a right to enfold thee, 
 or they would not clasp you thus. No miracle has been 
 wrought, but the skeleton is reclothed with flesh, the locks of 
 youth have been renewed, the tide of health has flowed back 
 again into the wasted veins, lending a glow to the wan cheek, 
 and a brightness to the dim eye ; and more than all, the worn 
 ,nd feeble spirit, always sympathizing with its frail companion, 
 as replumed its drooping wings, and been soaring in regions 
 .f hope, and joy, and love." 
 
 Without speaking metaphorically, Augusta's heart actually 
 ached with its excess of happiness. 
 
 " I have not room here," she cried, " for such fulness of 
 joy," again laying her hand where that precious letter was de 
 posited, but with such different emotions. " My friends must 
 participate in my happiness, it is selfish to withhold it from 
 them so long." 
 
 " They know it already," said Allison, smiling; "they have 
 known my secret from the first, and assisted me in concealing 
 my identity." 
 
 Augusta now understood Mary's apparent inconsistency, 
 and vindicated her from all unkindness and wilful palliation 
 of guilt. " I am not quite an impostor," continued her hus 
 band, " for my name is Sydney Clarence Allison and let me 
 still wear the appellation you have learned to love. It was 
 my uncle's, and he left a condition in his will that I should 
 assume it as my own. I find myself, too, the heir of sufficient 
 wealth to be almost a burden ; for my uncle, romantic to the 
 last, only caused the report of the failure of his wealth, that 
 I might prove the sincerity of your father's friendship. My 
 wife, my own Augusta, is not his blessing resting on us now ?" 
 
 Mr. Manning and his daughter sympathized largely in the 
 happiness of their friends. Their only sorrow was the ap 
 proaching separation. Mary, whose disposition was naturally 
 serious, was exalted on this occasion to an unwonted vein of 
 humour. When she saw Augusta's eyes turning with fond 
 admiration towards her husbaud, she whispered in her ear 
 " Is it possible, that bald, yellow, horrid-looking creature is 
 your husband ? I would not marry him, unless I were dragged 
 to the altar." 
 
 And Allison, passing his hand over his luxuriant hair, re 
 minded her, with a smile, of the subscription and the wig.
 
 THE 
 
 VICTIM OF EXCITEMENT. 
 
 INTEMPERANCE is a vice which is generally considered of 
 the masculine sex. In the pictured scenes of the ravages it 
 has wrought woman is seldom introduced but as the patient 
 victim of brutality, or as the admonishing angel of transgress 
 ing man. There are instances on record, however, of a sad 
 reverse. Not alone in the lower classes of life, amid the 
 dregs of society, but in higher walks, where intelligence, wit, 
 beauty, and wealth, virgin worth, wedded love, and Christian 
 grace, are all cast as unvalued offerings at the beastly shrine 
 of intemperance. One of these fatal examples (of which, to 
 the honour of our sex be it said, there are so few) once .came 
 under the observation of the writer. Her character and history 
 form the subject of the following sketch. 
 
 Mr. Manly first met Anne Weston in a ball-room. It was on 
 the evening of the Fourth of July, and the fairest ladies of the 
 country were assembled to celebrate the national jubilee. He 
 was a lawyer, and had been the orator of the day; an eloquent 
 one, and therefore entitled to distinguished attention. He came 
 from an adjoining town, of which he had recently become an 
 inhabitant, and now found himself in a scene which scarcely 
 presented one familiar countenance. He was a very proud 
 man, and had the air of one who felt himself too superior to 
 the multitude to mingle in the general amusement. He stood 
 with folded arms, as remote as possible from the dancers 
 despising those who were engaged in that exercise on such a 
 sultry night. In vain the obsequious master of ceremonies 
 begged to introduce him to this and that fair lady. He de- 
 40
 
 THE VICTIM OP EXCITEMENT. 41 
 
 clined the honour with a cold bow, declaring his utter dis 
 inclination to dancing. He was told that his disinclination 
 would cease as soon as Miss Weston arrived. She was the 
 belle of the place, the daughter of the richest gentleman, in 
 town had received the most finished education, and refused 
 the most splendid offers. In short, she was irresistible, and 
 it was predicted that he would find her so. It cannot be 
 denied, that the fame of this all-conquering lady had pre- 
 viouly reached his ears, but unfortunately he had a detesta 
 tion of belles, and predetermined to close his eyes, and shut 
 his ears, and steel his heart against her vaunted attractions. 
 He had never yet sacrificed his independence to woman. He 
 had placed his standard of female excellence very high. He 
 had seen no one that reached its altitude. " No," said he to 
 himself, " let me live on in singleness of heart and loneliness 
 of purpose, all the days of my life, rather than unite myself 
 with one of those vain, flimsy, garrulous, and superficial beings 
 who win the smiles, and fix the attention of the many. I 
 despise a weak woman, I hate a masculine one, and a pedantic 
 one I abhor. I turn with fear from the glittering belle, whose 
 home is the crowded hall, whose incense the homage of fools, 
 whose altar the shrine of fashion. Can she sit down contented 
 in the privacy of domestic love who has lived on the adulation 
 of the world, or be satisfied with the affection of one true heart, 
 who has claimed as her due, the vows of all ? No, better the 
 fool, the pedant, than the belle. Who can find that woman, 
 whose price is above rubies ? Ah ! 'tis certain I never shall 
 marry." He was aroused from these reflections, by a move 
 ment in the hall, and he felt a conviction that the vaunted lady 
 was arrived. In spite of his boasted indifference, he could 
 not repress a slight sensation of curiosity to see one who was 
 represented as so transcendent. But he moved not, he did 
 not even turn his eyes towards the spot where so many were 
 clustering. " The late hour of her arrival," said he, " shows 
 equal vanity and affectation. She evidently wishes to be con 
 spicuous studies everything for effect." The lady moved 
 towards that part of the hall where he was stationed. She 
 held the arm of one gentleman, and was followed by some 
 half-dozen others. He was compelled to gaze upon her, for 
 they passed so near, the folds of her white muslin dress 
 fluttered against him. He was pleased to see that she was 
 much less beautiful than he had expected. He scarcely thought 
 her handsome Her complexion was pale, even sallow, and
 
 42 THE VICTIM OF EXCITEMENT. 
 
 her face wanted that soft, flowing outline, which is necessary 
 to the perfection of beauty. He could not but acknowledge, 
 however, that her figure was very fine, her motions graceful, 
 and her air spirited and intellectual. " I am glad she is not 
 beautiful," said he, " for I might have been tempted to have 
 admired her, against my sober judgment. Oppressed by the 
 r heat of the apartment, he left the hall and sauntered for a 
 '4 ong time in the piazza, till a certain feeling of curiosity, to 
 now whether a lady whose bearing expressed so much pride 
 of soul, could be foolish enough to dance, led him to return. 
 The first object he beheld, was the figure of Miss Weston, 
 moving ,in most harmonious time, to an exhilarating air, her 
 countenance lighted up with an animation, a fire, that had as 
 magical an effect upon her features, as the morning sunbeams 
 on the face of nature. The deepest colour was glowing on her 
 cheek, her very soul was shining forth from her darkening 
 eyes. She danced with infinite spirit, but equal grace. He 
 had never witnessed anything to compare with it, not even oil 
 the stage. " She dances entirely too well," thought he ; " she 
 cannot have much intellect, yet she carries on a constant con 
 versation with her partner through all the mazes of the dance. 
 It must be admirable nonsense, from the broad smiles it elicits. 
 I am half resolved to be introduced and invite her to dance 
 from mere curiosity, and to prove the correctness of my 
 opinion." He sought the introduction, became her partner 
 in the dance, and certainly forgot, while he listened to her 
 " admirable nonsense," that she was that object of his detesta 
 tion a leUe. Her conversation was sprightly, unstudied, and 
 original. She seemed more eager to listen than to talk, more 
 willing to admire than to be admired. She did not tell him 
 that she admired his oration, but she spoke warmly on the 
 subject of eloquence, and quoted in the happiest manner, a 
 passage of his own speech, one which he himself judged 
 superb. It proved her to have listened with deep attention. 
 He had never received so delicate or gratifying a compliment. 
 His vanity was touched, and his pride slumbered. He called 
 forth those powers of pleasing, with which he was eminently 
 endowed, and he began to feel a dawning ambition to make 
 the conquest of a heart \vhich so many had found indomitable. 
 He admired the simplicity of her dress, its fitness and elegance. 
 A lady's dress is always indicative of her character. Then 
 her voice was singularly persuasive in its tones, it breathed 
 of feminine gentleness and sensibility, with just enough spirit
 
 THE VICTIM OF EXCITEMENT. 
 
 43 
 
 and independence for a woman. Mr. Manly came to these 
 wise conclusions before the end of the first dance at the ter 
 mination of the second, he admired the depth, as well as the 
 brilliancy of her mind ; and when he bade her adieu for the 
 night, he was equally convinced of the purity of her feelings 
 and the goodness of her heart. Such is the strength of man's 
 wisdom, the stability of his opinions, the steadiness of his 
 purpose, when placed in competition with the fascinations of a 
 woman who has made the determination to please. In after 
 years Mr. Manly told a friend of a dream which that night 
 haunted his pillow. He was not superstitious, or disposed 
 to attach the slighest importance to dreams. But this was a 
 vivid picture, and succeeding events caused him to recall it, 
 as one having the power of prophecy. He lived over agaiu 
 the events of the evening. The winning accents of Miss 
 Weston mingled in his ear with the gay notes of the violin. 
 Still, ever and anon, discordant sounds marred the sweet har 
 mony. The malicious whisper, the stifled, deriding laugh, .ind 
 the open scoff came from every corner. Sometimes he ?aw, 
 through the crowd, the slow finger of scorn pointing at him. 
 As he turned, with a fierce glance of defiance, Miss Westoa 
 seemed to meet him still, holding a goblet in her hand, which 
 she pressed him to drain. Her cheeks and lips burned with a 
 scarlet radiance, and her eyes sparkled with unnatural bright 
 ness. " Taste it not/' whispered a soft voice in his ear, " it 
 is poison." " It. is the cup of immortality," exclaimed the 
 syren, and she drained the goblet to its last drop. In a few 
 moments her countenance changed her face became bloated, 
 her features disfigured, and her eyes heavy and sunken. He 
 turned with disgust from the former enchantress, bui she 
 pursued him, she wound her arms around him. In the vain 
 struggle of liberating himself from her embrace, he awoke. 
 It was long before he could overcome the sensation of loathing 
 and horror excited by the unhallowed vision, and even when, 
 overcome by heaviness and exhaustion, he again slept, the 
 same bloated phantom presented her intoxicating draught. 
 The morning found him feverish and unrefreshed. He could 
 not shake off the impression of his dream, and the image 
 of Miss Weston seemed deprived of the witchery that had 
 enthralled his imagination the preceding evening. He was 
 beginning to despise himself, for having yielded up so soon 
 his prejudices and pride, when an invitation to dine at Mr. 
 Weston's, interrupted the severe tenor of bis thoughts. Polite
 
 44 THE VICTIM OF EXCITEMENT. 
 
 ness obliged him to accept, and in the society of Miss Weston, 
 graceful, animated, and intellectual, presiding with unaffected 
 dignity and ease at her father's board, he forgot the hideous 
 metamorphose of his dream. 
 
 From that day his fate was sealed. It was the first time 
 his heart had ever been seriously interested, and he loved 
 with all the strength and ardour of his proud and ardent 
 character. The triumph, too, of winning one whom so many 
 had sought in vain, threw a kind of glory over his conquest, 
 and exalted his estimation of his own attributes. The wedding- 
 day was appointed. The evening previous to his nuptials, 
 Anne Weston sat in her own chamber, with one of the chosen 
 friends of her girlhood, Emily Spencer. Anne had no sisters, 
 and from childhood, Emily had stood to her almost in that dear 
 relation. She was to accompany her to her new home, for 
 Anne refused to be separated from her, and had playfully told 
 Mr. Manly, " that if he married Tier, he must take Emily too, 
 for she could not and would not be parted from her." 
 
 The thought of the future occupied the minds of the two 
 friends. Anne sat in silence. The lamp that partially illu 
 mined the apartment, gave additional paleness to her pale and 
 spiritual countenance. Her thoughts appeared to have rolled 
 within herself, and, from the gloom of her eye, did not appear 
 to be such as usually rest in the bosom of one about to be 
 wedded to the object of her affection and her trust. 
 
 " I fear," said she at length, as if forgetting the presence 
 of her friend, " that I have been too hasty. The very qualities 
 that won my admiration, and determined me to fix his regard, 
 now cause me to tremble. I have been too much accustomed 
 to self-indulgence, to bear restraint, and should it ever be im 
 posed by a master's hand, my rebellious spirit would break 
 the bonds of duty, and assert its independence. I fear I am 
 not formed to be a happy wife, or to constitute the happiness 
 of a husband. I live too much upon excitement, and when 
 the deep monotony of domestic life steals on, what will become 
 of me ?" 
 
 " How can there be monotony," answered Emily, warmly, 
 "with such a companion as Manly? Oh, trust him, Anne, 
 love him as he merits to be loved, as you yourself are loved, 
 and your lot may be envied among women." 
 
 " He has awakened all the capabilities my heart has of 
 loving," cried Anne, " but I wish I could shake off this dull 
 weight from my spirits." She rose as she spoke, approached
 
 THE VICTIM Or EXCITEMENT. 45 
 
 a side table, and, turning out a glass of rich cordial, drank 
 it, as if conscious, from experience, of its renovating influence 
 Emily's anxious gaze followed her movements. A deep sigh 
 escaped her lips. When her friend resumed her seat, she drew 
 nearer to her, she took her hand in hers, and, while her coloui 
 heightened, and her hreath shortened, she said 
 
 " Anne Weston, I should not deserve the name of friend, 
 if in this hour, the last, perhaps, of unrestrained confidenct 
 between us, I did not dare " 
 
 " Dare what ?" interrupted Anne, shame and resentment 
 kindling in her eye. 
 
 " To tell you, that the habit you indulge in, of resorting 
 to artificial means to exhilarate your spirits, though now 
 attended with no obvious danger, may exercise most fatal 
 influence on your future peace. I have long struggled for 
 resolution to utter this startling truth, and I gather boldness 
 as I speak. By all our friendship and sincerity, by the past 
 splendour of your reputation, by the bright hopes of the future, 
 by the trusting vows of a lover, and the gray hairs of a father, 
 I pray you to relinquish a habit, whose growing strength is 
 now only known to me." Emily paused, strong emotions 
 impeded her utterance. " What is it you fear?" asked Anne, 
 in a low, stern voice ; " speak, for you see that I am calm." 
 " You know what I dread," continued Emily. " I see a speck 
 on the bright character of my friend. It may spread and dim 
 all its lustre. We all know the fearful strength of habit, we 
 cannot shake off the serpent when once its coils are around 
 us. Oh, Anne, gifted by nature with such brilliancy of in 
 tellect and gayety of heart, why have you ever had recourse 
 to the exciting draught, as if art could exalt the original buoy 
 ancy of your spirits, or care had laid his blighting hand upon 
 you ?" 
 
 " Forbear," cried Anne, impetuously, " and hear me, before 
 you blast me with your contempt. It was not till bitter dis- 
 apr ointment pressed, crushed me, that I knew art could reno 
 vate the languor of nature. Yes, /, the courted and admired 
 of all, was doomed to love one whose affections I could not 
 win. You knew him well, but you never knew how my in 
 effectual efforts to attach him maddened my pride, or how the 
 triumph of my beautiful rival goaded my feelings. The 
 world guessed not my secret, for still I laughed and glittered 
 with mocking splendour, but with such a cold void within ! I 
 could not bear it. My unnatural spirits failed me. I must 
 104
 
 46 THE VICTIM OF EXCITEMENT. 
 
 still shine on, or the secret of my humiliation be discovered. 
 I began in despair, but I have accomplished my purpose. And 
 now," added she, "I have done. The necessity of shining 
 and deceiving is over. I thank you for the warmth of friend 
 ship that suggested your admonition. But, indeed, Emily, 
 your apprehensions are exaggerated. I have a restraining 
 power within me that must always save me from degradation. 
 Habit, alone, makes slaves of the weak ; it becomes the slave 
 of the strong in mind. I know what's due to Manly. He 
 never shall blush for his choice in a wife." 
 
 She began with vehemence and ended with deliberation. 
 There was something in the cold composure of her manner 
 that forbid a renewal of the subject. Emily felt that she had 
 fulfilled her duty as a friend, and delicacy commanded her to 
 forbear a renewal of her admonitions. Force of feeling had 
 betrayed her into a warmth of expression she now regretted. 
 She loved Anne, but she looked with many misgivings to being 
 the sharer of her wedded home. She had deeply studied the 
 character of Manly, and trembled to think of the reaction that 
 might one day take place in his mind, should he ever discover 
 the dark spot on the disk of his sun of his destiny. Though 
 she had told Anne that the secret of her growing love for the 
 exciting draught was known only to herself, it was whispered 
 among the servants, suspected by a few discreet individuals, 
 and had been several times hinted in a private circle of 
 friends. It had never yet reached the ears of Manly, for 
 there was something in his demeanour that repelled the most 
 distant approach to familiarity. He married with the most 
 romantic and enthusiastic ideas of domestic felicity. Were 
 those bright visions of bliss realized? Time, the great dis- 
 enchanter, alone could answer. 
 
 It was about five years after the scenes we have recorded, 
 that Mr. and Mrs. Manly took up their residence in the town 
 
 of G- . Usually, when strangers are about to become 
 
 inhabitants of a new place, there is some annunciation of their 
 arrival; but they came, without any previous intimation being 
 given for the speculation of the curious, or bringing any 
 letters of introduction for the satisfaction of the proud. They 
 hired an elegant house, furnished it rich and fashionably, and 
 evidently prepared for the socialities of life, as enjoyed in the 
 highest circles. The appearance of wealth always commands
 
 THE VICTIM OP EXCITEMENT. 47 
 
 the respect of the many, and this respect was heightened by 
 their personal claims to admiration. Five years, however, 
 had wrought a change in both, not from the fading touch of 
 time, for they were not of an age when the green leaf begins 
 to grow sere, but other causes were operating with a power 
 as silent and unpausing. The fine, intelligent face of Mrs. 
 Manly had lost much of its delicacy of outline, and her cheek, 
 that formerly was pale or roseate as sensibility or enthusiasm 
 ruled the hour, now wore a stationary glow, deeper than the 
 blush of feminine modesty, less bright than the carnation of 
 health. The unrivalled beauty of her figure had given place 
 to grosser lineaments, over which, however, grace and dignity 
 still lingered, as if unwilling to leave a shrine so worshipped. 
 Mr. Manly's majestic person was invested with an air of deeper 
 haughtiness, and his dark brow was contracted into an expres 
 sion of prevailing gloom and austerity. Two lovely children, 
 one almost an infant, who were carried abroad every fair day 
 by their nurse, shared the attention their parents excited ; and 
 many appealed to her for information respecting the strangers. 
 She was unable to satisfy their curiosity, as she had been a 
 member of their household but a short time, her services 
 having been hired while journeying to the place. The other 
 servants were hired after their arrival. Thus, one of the most 
 fruitful sources from which the inquisitive derive their aliment, 
 
 was denied to the inhabitants of Gr . It was not long 
 
 before the house of Mr. and Mrs. Manly was frequented by 
 those whose society she most wished to cultivate. The suavity 
 of her manners, the vivacity of her conversation, her p >litc- 
 ness and disinterestedness, captivated the hearts of all. Mr. 
 Manly too received his guests with a cordiality that surprised, 
 while it gratified. Awed by the external dignity of his de 
 portment, they expected to be repulsed, rather than welcomed, 
 but it was universally acknowledged, that no man could be 
 more delightful than Mr. Manly, when he chose to unbend. 
 As a lawyer, his fame soon rose. His integrity and eloquenc 
 became the theme of every tongue. Amidst all the admiratioi 
 they excited, there were some dark surmises. The malicious, 
 the censorious, the evil-disposed are found in every circle, and 
 in every land. It was noticed that Mr. Manly watched his 
 wife with painful scrutiny, that she seemed uneasy whenever 
 his glance met hers, that her manner was at times hurried and 
 disturbed, as if some secret cause of sorrow preyed upon her 
 mind. It was settled in the opinion of many, that Mr. Manly
 
 %8 THE VICTIM OP EXCITEMENT. 
 
 Was a domestic tyrant, and that his wife was the meek victim 
 of this despotism. Some suggested that he had been convicted 
 of crime, and had fled from the pursuit of justice, while his 
 devoted wife refused to separate her destiny from his. They 
 gave a large and elegant party. The entertainment was 
 superior to anything witnessed before in the precincts of 
 Gr . The graceful hostess, dressed in unwonted splen 
 dour, moved through her drawing-rooms, with the step of one 
 accustomed to the homage of crowds, yet her smiles sought 
 out the most undistinguished of her guests, and the most 
 diffident gathered confidence from her condescending regards. 
 St'ill the eye of Mr. Manly followed her with that anxious, 
 mysterious glance, and her hurried movements often betrayed 
 inexplicable perturbation. In the course of the evening, a 
 gentleman refused wine, on the plea of belonging to the Tem 
 perance Society. Many voices were lifted in condemnation 
 against him, for excluding one of the gladdeners of existence, 
 what, the Scriptures themselves recommended, and the Saviour 
 of men had consecrated by a miracle. The subject grew in 
 teresting, the circle narrowed round the advocate of Temper 
 ance, and many were pressing eagerly forward to listen to the 
 debate. The opinion of Mrs. Manly was demanded. She 
 drew back at first, as if unwilling to take the lead of her 
 guests. At length she seemed warmed by the subject, and 
 painted the evils of intemperance in the strongest and most 
 appalling colours. She painted woman as its victim, till every 
 heart recoiled at the image she drew. So forcible was her lan 
 guage, so impressive her gestures, so unaffecte'd her emotions, 
 every eye was riveted, and every ear bent on the eloquent 
 mourner of her sex's degradation. She paused, oppressed by 
 the notice she attracted, and moved from the circle, that 
 widened for her as she passed, and gazed after her, with as 
 much respect as if she were an Empress. During this spon 
 taneous burst of oratory, Mr. Manly remained aloof, but those 
 vho had marked him in their minds as the harsh domestic 
 yrant, were now confirmed in their belief. Instead of admir- 
 11 g the wonderful talents of his wife, or sympathizing in the 
 applause she excited, a gloom thick as night lowered upon his 
 brow, his face actually grew of a livid paleness, till at last, as 
 if unable to control his temper, he left the drawing-room. 
 
 "Poor Mrs. Manly," said one, "how much is her destiny to 
 be lamented ! To be united to a man who is incapable of
 
 THE 'VICTIM OF EXCITEMENT. 49 
 
 appreciating her genius, and even seems guilty of the mean 
 ness of annoying her." 
 
 Thus the world judges ; and had the tortured heart of 
 Manly known the sentence that was passing upon him, he 
 would have rejoiced that the shaft was directed to his bosom, 
 rather than hers, which he would fain shield from the proud 
 man's contumely, though it might never more be the resting- 
 lace of love and confidence. Is it necessary to go back and 
 elate the history of those years which had elapsed since Anne 
 Weston was presented to the reader as a triumphant belle, and 
 plighted bride ! Is it not already seen that the dark speck 
 had enlarged, throwing into gradual, but deepening shade, .the 
 soul's original brightness, obscuring the sunshine of domestic 
 joy, converting the home of love into a prison-house of 
 shame, and blighting, chilling, palsying the loftiest energies 
 and noblest purposes ? The warning accents of Emily Spencer 
 were breathed in vain. That fatal habit had already become 
 a passion a passion which, like the rising tide, grows deeper 
 and higher, rolling onward and onward, till the landmarks of 
 reason, and honour, and principle, are swept over by its waves 
 a fidej;hat ebbs not but with ebbing life. She had looked 
 " upc# r the wine when it was red, when it gave its colour to 
 the cup," till she found, by fatal experience, that it biteth like 
 a serpent, and stingeth like an adder. It were vain to attempt 
 a description of the feelings of Manly when he first discovered 
 the idol of his imagination under an influence that, in his 
 opinion, brutalized a man. But a woman ! and that woman 
 his wife ! *Iii the agony, the madness of the moment, he 
 could have lifted the hand of suicide, but Emily Spencer 
 hovered near and held him back from the brink to which he 
 was rushing. She pleaded the cause of her unhappy friend, 
 she prayed him not to cast her off. She dwelt on the bright 
 and sparkling mind, the warm, impulsive heart that might yet 
 be saved from utter degradation by his exerted influence. She 
 pledged herself to labour for him, and with him, and faithfully 
 did she redeem her pledge. After the first terrible shock, 
 Munly's passionate emotion settled down into a misanthropic 
 gloom. Sometimes when he witnessed the remorse which 
 followed such self-abandonment, the grace and beauty with 
 which she would emerge from the disfiguring cloud, and the 
 strong efforts she would make to reinstate herself in his esti 
 mation, a ray of brightness would shine in on his mind, and 
 "he would try to think of the past as a frightful dream. Then
 
 60 THE VICTIM OF EXCITEMENT. 
 
 his prophetic dream would return to him, and he shuddered 
 at its confirmation once it seemed as if the demon had with 
 drawn its unhallowed presence, unable to exist in the holy 
 atmosphere that surrounds a mother's bosom. 
 
 For a long time the burning essence was not permitted to 
 mingle with the fountain of maternal tenderness. Even 
 Manly's blasted spirit revived, and Emily hoped all, and 
 believed all. But Anne had once passed the Rubicon, and 
 though she often paused and looked back with yearnings that 
 could not be uttered, upon the fair bounds she had left, the 
 very poignancy of her shame goaded her on, though every 
 step she took, evidenced the shame that was separating her 
 from the affections of a husband whom she loved and respected, 
 and who had once idolized her. It has been said that when 
 woman once becomes a transgressor, her rapid progress in sin 
 mocks the speed of man. As the glacier, that has long shone 
 in dazzling purity, when loosened from its mountain stay, 
 rushes down with a velocity accelerated by its impenetrability 
 and coldness, when any shameful passion has melted the virgin 
 snow of a woman's character, a moral avalanche ensues, de 
 stroying " whatsoever is venerable and lovely, and of good 
 report." 
 
 Manly occasionally sought to conceal from the world the 
 fatal propensities of his wife. She had occupied too con 
 spicuous a station in society she had been too highly exalted 
 to humble herself with impunity. Her father, whose lavish 
 indulgence probably paved the way to her ruin, was unable to 
 bear himself up under the weight of mortification and grief 
 thus unexpectedly brought upon him. His constitution had 
 long been feeble j and now the bowl was, indeed, broken at 
 the fountain. The nlial hand which he once hoped would 
 have scattered roses on his dying pillow, struck the death 
 blow. Physicians talked of a chronic disease ; of the gradual 
 decay of nature ; but Anne's conscience told her she had 
 winged the dart. The agony of her remorse seemed a fore 
 taste of the quenchless fire, and the undying worm. She 
 made the most solemn promises of reformation vowed never 
 again to taste the poisonous liquor. She threw herself on the 
 forgiveness of her husband, and prayed him to remove her 
 where her name was never breathed ; that she might begin 
 jfe anew, and establish for their children an unblemished 
 reputation. On the faith of these ardent resolutions, Mauly 
 broke his connexion with every former friend sold all his
 
 THE VICTIM OF EXCITEMENT. 51 
 
 possessions, and sought a new home, in a place fnr removed 
 from the scene of their present unhappiness. Circumstances 
 in her own family prevented Emily Spencer from accompany 
 ing them, but she was to follow them the earliest opportunity, 
 hoping miracles from the change. 
 
 Mrs Manly, from the death of her father, came into the 
 possession of a large and independent fortune. She was not 
 sordid enough to deem money an equivalent for a wounded A 
 reputation ; but it was soothing to her pride, to be able to fill 
 her husband's coffers so richly, and to fit up their new estab 
 lishment in a style so magnificent. Manly allowed her to 
 exercise her own taste in everything. He knew the effect of 
 external pomp, and thought it was well to dazzle the judg 
 ment of the world. He was determined to seek society ; to 
 open every source of gratification and rational excitement to 
 his wife, to save her from monotony and solitude. His whole 
 aim seemed to be, " that she might not be led into tempta 
 tion." If with all these cares for her safety, he could have 
 blended the tenderness that once softened his proud manners, 
 could he have banished from his once beaming eye the look 
 of vigilance and distrust ; could she have felt herself once 
 more enthroned in his heart, gratitude might, perhaps, have 
 completed the regeneration begun by remorse. But Anne 
 felt that she was an object of cbfcstant suspicion and fear; she 
 felt that he had not faith in her good resolutions. She was no 
 longer the sharer of his counsels the inspirer of his hopes 
 or the companion in whom his soul delighted. His ruling 
 passion supported him in society ; but in those hours when 
 they were necessarily thrown upon each other's resources, he 
 was accustomed to sit in gloomy abstraction, brooding over 
 his own melancholy thoughts. Anne was only too conscious 
 of the subject of these reveries, and it kept alive a painful 
 sense of her humiliation. She had, hitherto, kept her promise 
 sncred, through struggles known only to herself, and she began 
 to feel impatient and indignant that the reward for which she 
 looked was still withheld. Had she been more deeply skilled 
 in the mysteries of the human heart, she might have addressed 
 the Genius of the household shrine, in the language of the 
 avenging Moor, who first apostrophizes the torch that flares 
 on his deed of darkness : 
 
 " If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, 
 I can again thy former light restore^
 
 52 THE VICTIM OP EXCITEMENT. 
 
 Should I repent me but once put out thine, 
 I know not where is the Promethean heat 
 That can thy light relume." 
 
 Mr. Manly was called away by professional business, wbicti 
 would probably detain him many weeks from home. He 
 regretted this necessity ; particularly before the arrival of 
 ^uiily, whose coming was daily expected. He urged his wife 
 o invite some friends to remain as her guests during his 
 bsence, to enliven her solitude. His request, so earnestly 
 repeated, might have been gratifying to her feelings, if she 
 had not known the distrust of her faith and strength of reso 
 lution it implied. The last words he said to her, at parting, 
 were, "Remember, Anne, everything depends on yourself." 
 She experienced a sensation of unspeakable relief in his ab 
 sence. The eagle glance was withdrawn from her soul, and 
 it expanded and exulted in its newly acquired freedom. She 
 had a constant succession of visitors, who, remarking the elas 
 ticity of her spirits, failed not to cast additional obloquy on 
 Mr. Manly r for the tyranny he evidently exercised over his 
 wife. Emily did not arrive, and Mrs. Manly could not regret 
 the delay. Her presence reminded her of all she wished to 
 forget; for her days of triumph were returned, and the desire 
 of shining rekindled from the ashes of scorn, that had for a 
 while smothered the flame. 
 
 It wanted about a week of Mr. Manly's return. She felt a 
 strong inclination to renew the splendours of her party. She 
 had received so many compliments on the subject : " Mrs. 
 Manly's delightful party !" " Her conversational powers !" 
 " Such a literary banquet !" &c. Invitations were given and 
 accepted. The morning of the day, which was somewhat 
 warm and oppressive, she was summoned by the kitchen 
 council, where the business of preparation was going on. 
 Suddenly, however, they came to a stand. There was no 
 brandy to give flavour to the cake ; and the cook declared it 
 was impossible to make it without, or to use anything as a 
 substitute. 
 
 Mrs. Manly's cheeks flushed high with shame. Her hus 
 band had retained the key of the closet that contained the for 
 bidden article. He was afraid to trust it in her keeping. The 
 mildest cordials were alone left at her disposal, for the enter 
 tainment of her guests. What would her husband think if she 
 purchased, in his absence, what he had himself secreted from. 
 her ? What would the servants believe if she refused to pro-
 
 THE VICTIM OF EXCITEMENT. 53 
 
 vide them with what was deemed indispensable ? The fear of 
 her secret being detected, combined with resentment at her 
 husband's unyielding distrust, decided her conduct. She 
 bought she tasted. The cook asserted there was something 
 peculiar in its flavour, and asked her to judge for herself. 
 Would it not excite suspicion, if she refused? She broke her 
 solemn vow she tasted and was undone. The burning 
 thirst once kindled, in those who have been victims to this 
 fatal passion, it rages with the strength of madness. In the 
 secrecy of the closet where she hid the poison, she yielded to 
 the tempter, who whispered, that, as she had been compelled 
 to taste, her promise had been innocently broken : there could 
 be no harm in a little more the last that should ever pass 
 her lips. In the delirium of the moment, she yielded, till, in 
 capable of self-control, she continued the inebriating draught. 
 Judgment reason at length, perception, vanished. The 
 approach of evening found her still prostrate on her bed, a 
 melancholy instance of the futility of the best human resolu 
 tions, unsupported by the divine principle of religion. The 
 servants were at first struck with consternation. They thought 
 some sudden disease had overtaken her. But the marks of 
 intemperance, that, like the brand on the brow of Cain, single 
 out its votaries from the rest of mankind, those revolting traces, 
 were but too visible. They knew not what to do. Uncertain 
 what guests were invited, they could not send apologies, nor 
 ask them to defer their visit. The shades of evening were 
 beginning to fall; the children were crying, deprived of the 
 usual cares of their nurse ; and in the general bustle, clung 
 to their mother, whose ear was deaf to the appeal of nature. 
 The little one, weary of shedding so many unavailing tears, at 
 last crawled up on the bed, and fell asleep by her side, though 
 there was scarcely room for her to stretch her little limbs, 
 where she had found the means of climbing. As her slumbers 
 deepened, her limbs relaxed from the rigid posture they had 
 assumed : her arms dropped unconsciously over the bed, and 
 she fell. In her fall she was thrown against one of the posts, 
 and a sharp corner cutting her head, inflicted a deep wound. 
 The screams of the little sufferer roused the household, and 
 pierced even the leaden slumbers of intemperance. It was 
 long, however, before Mrs. Manly came to a clear perception 
 of what was passing around her. The sight of the streaming 
 blood, however, acted like a shock of electricity. She sprang 
 up, and endeavoured to stanch the bleeding wound. The effu-
 
 54 THE VICTIM OP EXCITEMENT. 
 
 sion was soon stopped ; the child sunk into a peaceful sleep, 
 and the alarm subsided. 
 
 Children are liable to so many falls, and bruises, and wounds, 
 it is not strange that Mrs. Manly, in the confused state of her 
 mind, should soon forget the accident, and try to prepare her 
 self for the reception of her guests, who were already assem 
 bling in the drawing-room. Every time the bell rung, she 
 tarted, with a thrill of horror, conscious how unfit she was 
 o sustain the enviable reputation she had acquired. Her 
 head ached almost to bursting, her hands trembled, and a 
 deadly sickness oppressed her. The visions of an upbraiding 
 husband, a scoffing world, rose before her and dim, but 
 awful, in the dark perspective, she seemed to behold the 
 shadow of a sin-avenging Deity. Another ring the guests 
 were thronging. Unhappy woman ! What was to be done ? 
 She would have pleaded sudden indisposition the accident 
 of her child but the fear that the servants would reveal the 
 truth the hope of being able to rally her spirits determined 
 her to descend into the drawing-room. As she cast a last 
 hurried glance into the mirror, and saw the wild, haggard 
 countenance it reflected, she recoiled at her own image. The 
 jewels with which she had profusely adorned herself, served 
 but to mock the ravages the destroying scourge had made 
 upon her beauty. No cosmetic art could restore the purity 
 of her complexion ; nor the costliest perfumes conceal the 
 odour of the fiery liquor. She called for a glass of cordial 
 kindled up a smile of welcome, and descended to perform the 
 honours of her household. She made a thousand apologies 
 for her delay ; related, in glowing colours, the accident that 
 happened to her child, and flew from one subject to another, 
 as if she feared to trust herself with a pause. There was 
 something so unnatural in her countenance, so overstrained in 
 her manner, and so extravagant in her conversation, it was 
 impossible for the company not to be aware of her situation. 
 Silent glances were exchanged, low whispers passed round ; 
 but they had no inclination to lose the entertainment they 
 anticipated. They remembered the luxuries of her table, and 
 hoped, at least, if not a " feast of reason," a feast of the good 
 things of earth. 
 
 It was at this crisis Emily Spencer arrived. Her travelling 
 dress, and the fatigue of a journey, were suflicient excuses for 
 her declining to appear in the drawing-room ; but the moment 
 she saw Mrs. Manly, her eye, too well experienced, perceived
 
 THE VICTIM OF EXCITEMENT. 55 
 
 the backsliding of Anne, and hope died within her bosom. 
 Sick at heart, wounded, and indignant, she sat down in the 
 chamber where the children slept those innocent beings, 
 doomed to an orphanage more sad than death even makes. 
 Anne's conscious spirit quailed before the deep reproach of 
 Emily's silent glances. She stammered out an explanation 
 of the bloody bandage that was bound around the infant's , 
 head, assured her there was no cause of alarm, and hurried f 
 down to the friends who had passed the period of her absence 
 in covert sarcasm, and open animadversion on her conduct. 
 
 Emily sat down on the side of the bed, and leaned over the 
 sleeping infant. Though Mrs. Manly had assured her there 
 was no cause of alarm, she felt there was no reliance on her 
 judgment ; and the excessive paleness and languor of its 
 countenance, excited an anxiety its peaceful slumbers could 
 not entirely relieve. " It is all over," thought she, "a re 
 lapse in sin is always a thousand times more dangerous than 
 the first yielding. She is at this moment blazoning her dis 
 grace, and there will be no restraining influence left. Oh ! 
 unfortunate Manly ! was it for this you sacrificed home, 
 friends, and splendid prospects, and came a stranger to a 
 strange land !" Absorbed in the contemplation of Manly's 
 unhappy destiny, she remained till the company dispersed, 
 and Mrs. Manly dragged her weary footsteps to her cham 
 ber. Completely exhausted by her efforts to command her 
 bewildered faculties, she threw herself on the bed, and sunk 
 into a lethargy ; the natural consequence of inebriation. The 
 infant, disturbed by the sudden motion, awakened, with a 
 languid cry, expressive of feebleness and pain. Ernify raised 
 it in her arms, endeavoured to soothe its complaining ; but 
 it continued restless and wailing, till the blood gushed afresh 
 through the bandage. Greatly alarmed, she shook Mrs. 
 Manly's arm, and called upon her to awake. It was in 
 vain ; she could not rouse her from her torpor. Instantly 
 ringing the bell, she summoned the nurse, who was revel 
 ling, with the other servants, over the relics of the feast, and J 
 told her to send immediately for a physician. Fortunately 
 there was one in the neighbourhood, and he came speedily. 
 He shook his head mournfully when he examined the con 
 dition of the child, and pronounced its case beyond the reach 
 of human skill. The injury produced by the fall had reached 
 the brain. The very depth of its slumbers was but a fatal 
 eymptom. of approaching dissolution. The tears of Emily fell
 
 56 THE VICTIM OF EXCITEMENT. 
 
 fast and thick on the pallid face of the innocent victim. 8ta 
 looked upon its mother thought upon its father, and preyed 
 the child in agony to her bosom. The kind physician was? 
 summoned to another chamber of sickness. He had done all 
 he could to mitigate, where he could not heal. Emily felt 
 that this dispensation was sent in mercy. She could not pray 
 for the child's life, but she prayed that it might die in the 
 arms of its father; and it seemed that her prayer was heard. 
 It was a singular providence that brought him that very night 
 a week sooner than he anticipated urged on by a restless 
 presentiment of evil; a dread that all was not well. Imagina 
 tion, however, had not pictured the scene that awaited him. 
 His wife, clothed in her richest raiments, and glittering with 
 jewels, lying in the deep torpor of inebriation. .Emily, seated 
 by the side of the bed, bathed in tears, holding in her lap the 
 dying infant, her dress stained with the blood with which the 
 fair locks of the child were matted. What a spectacle ! He 
 stood for a moment on the threshold of the apartment, as if a 
 bolt had transfixed him. Emily was not roused from her 
 grief by the sound of his footsteps, but she saw the shadow 
 that darkened the wall, and at once recognised his lineaments. 
 The startling cry she uttered brought him to her side, where, 
 kneeling down over his expiring infant, he gazed on its 
 altering features and quivering frame with a countenance so 
 pale and stern, Emily's blood ran cold. Silently and fixedly 
 he knelt, while the deepening shades of dissolution gathered 
 over the beautiful waxen features and the dark film grew over 
 the eyes, so lately bright with that heavenly blue, which is 
 alone seen in the eyes of infancy. He inhaled its last, cold, 
 struggling breath ; saw it stretched in the awful immobility 
 of death ; then slowly rising, he turned towards the gaudy 
 figure that lay as if in mockery of the desolation it had 
 created. Then Manly's imprisoned spirit burst its bonds. 
 He grasped his wife's arm, with a strength that might have 
 been felt, even were her limbs of steel, and calling forth her 
 " name in a voice deep and thrilling as the trumpet's blast, he 
 commanded her to rise. With a faint foretaste of the feeling 
 with which the guilty, soul shall meet the awakening summons 
 of the archangel, the wretched woman raised herself on her 
 elbow, and gazed around her with a wild and glassy stare. 
 "Woman," cried he, still retaining his desperate grasp, and 
 pointing to the dead child, extended on the lap of the weeping 
 Emily, ' woman ! is this your work ? Is* this the welcome
 
 THE VICTIM OP EXCITEMENT. 57 
 
 you have prepared for my return ? Oh ! most perjured wife 
 and most abandoned mother ! You have filled, to overflow 
 ing, the vials of indignation ; on your own head shall they be 
 poured, blasting and destroying. You have broken the last 
 tie that bound me it withers like flax in the flame. Was it 
 not enough to bring down the gray hairs of your father to the 
 grave? to steep your own soul in perjury and shame, but that 
 fair innocent must be a sacrifice to your drunken revels ? One 
 other victim remains. Your husband who lives to curse the 
 hour he ever yielded to a syren, who lured him to the brink 
 of hell V 
 
 He paused suddenly relaxed his iron hold, and fell back 
 perfectly insensible. It is an awful thing to see man fall down 
 in his strength, struck, too, by the lightning of passion. Anne 
 sprang upon her feet. The benumbing spell was broken. His 
 last words had reached her naked soul. She believed him 
 dead, and that he had indeed died her victim. Every other 
 thought and feeling was swallowed up in this belief; she threw 
 herself by his side, uttering the most piercing shrieks, and 
 rending her sable tresses, in the impotence of despair. Poor 
 Emily! it was for her a night of horror; but her fortitude 
 and presence of mind seemed to increase with the strength of 
 the occasion. She turned her cares from the dead to the 
 living. She bathed with restorative waters the pale brow of 
 Manly ; she chafed his cold hands, till their icy chill began 
 to melt in the warmth of returning animation. All the while 
 his wretched wife continued her useless and appalling ravings. 
 
 The morning dawned upon a scene of desolation. In one 
 darkened room lay the snowy corpse, dressed in the white 
 garments of the grave; in another, the almost unconscious 
 Manly, in the first stages of a burning fever; Anne, crouched 
 in a dark corner, her face buried in her hands ; and Emily, 
 pale and wan, but energetic and untiring, still the ministering 
 and healing spirit of this house of grief. Yes ! darkness and 
 mourning was in that house ; but the visitation of God har 1 
 not come upon it : Pestilence had not walked in the dark 
 ness, nor Destruction, at the noon-day hour. Had Anno 
 resisted the voice of the tempter, her child might have still 
 smiled in his cherub beauty ; her husband might have still 
 presided at his board, and she, herself, at his side ; if not in 
 tlie sunshine of love, in the light of increasing confidence. 
 Her frame was worn by the long, silent struggles of contend 
 ing passions, hopes, and fears. This last blow prostrated her in
 
 58 THE VICTIM OF EXCITEMENT. 
 
 the dust. Had Anne resisted the voice of the tempter, all 
 might yet have been well ; but having once again steeped her 
 lips in the pollution, the very consciousness of her degradation 
 plunged her deeper in sin. She fled from the writhing of 
 remorse to the oblivious draught. She gave herself up, body 
 and soul, irredeemably. She was hurrying on, with fearful 
 strides, to that brink from which so many immortal beings 
 have plunged into the* fathomless gulf of perdition. 
 
 Manly rose from the couch of sickness an altered man : his 
 proud spirit was humbled chastened purified. Brought to 
 the confines of the unseen world, he was made to feel the 
 vanity the nothingness of this and while his soul seemed 
 floating on the shoreless ocean of eternity, the billows of 
 human passion sunk before the immensity, the awfulness of 
 the scene. The holy resolutions, formed on what he believed 
 his death-bed, did not vanish with returning health. He saw 
 the bitter cup prepared for him to drain, and though he prayed 
 that it might be permitted to pass from him, he could say, in 
 the resignation of his heart, "Not my will, oh, Father! but 
 thine be done." He looked upon his degraded wife rather 
 with pity, than indignation. He no longer reproached her, 
 or used the language of denunciation. But sometimes, in her 
 lucid intervals, when she witnessed the subdued expression of 
 his once haughty countenance his deep paleness the mild 
 ness of his deportment to all around him ; the watchful guard 
 he held over his own spirit ; and all this accompanied by an 
 energy in action a devotedness in duty such as she had 
 never seen before Anne trembled, and felt that he had been 
 near unto his Maker, while she was holding closer and closer 
 companionship with the powers of darkness. The wall of 
 separation she had been building up between them, was it 
 to become high as the heavens deep as the regions of irreme 
 diable woe ? 
 
 Emil} was no longer their guest. While Manly lingered 
 between life and death, she watched over him with all a sister's 
 endernesH. Insensible to fatigue forgetful of sleep and 
 regardless of food, she was sustained by the intensity of her 
 anxiety; but as soon as his renovated glance could answer her 
 attentions with speechless gratitude, and he became conscious 
 of the cares that had done more than the physician's skill in 
 bringing him back to life, she gradually yielded to others the 
 place she had occupied as nurse that place, which she who 
 should have claimed it as her right, was incapacitated to fill.
 
 THE VICTIM OP EXCITEMENT. 59 
 
 When Manly was restored tc health, Emily felt that she could 
 no longer remain. There was no more fellowship with Anne; 
 and the sympathy that bound her to her husband she could 
 not, with propriety, indulge. Manly, himself, did not oppose 
 her departure ; he felt it was best she should go. She took 
 with her the little Anne, with the grateful consent of her 
 father. The opposition of the mother was not allowed to 
 triumph over what Manly knew was for the blessing of his 
 child. "Let her go," said he, mildly, but determinately ; 
 " she will not feel the want of a mother's care." 
 
 It was a dark and tempestuous night. The winds of autumn 
 swept against the windows, with the mournful rustle of the 
 withered leaves, fluttering in the blast: the sky was moonless 
 and starless. Everything abroad presented an aspect of gloom 
 and desolation. Even those who were gathered in the halls 
 of pleasure, felt saddened by the melancholy sighing of the 
 gust; and a cold, whispered mortality breathed into the hearts 
 of the thoughtless and gay. It was on this night that Manly 
 sat by the dying couch of Anne. Every one is familiar with 
 the rapid progress of disease, when it attacks the votary of 
 intemperance. The burning blood soon withers up the veins ; 
 the fountain, itself, becomes dry. Fearfully rapid, in this in 
 stance, had been the steps of the destroyer. Here she lay, 
 her frame tortured with the agonies of approaching dissolu 
 tion, and her spirit strong and clear from the mists that had 
 so long and so fatally obscured it. She saw herself in that 
 mirror which the hand of truth holds up to the eye of the 
 dying. Memory, which acquires, at that awful moment, such 
 supernatural power, brought before her all the past the wasted 
 past the irretrievable past. Her innocent childhood her 
 bright and glowing youth ; her blasted womanhood, seemed 
 embodied to her eyes. Her father rose from his grave, and 
 standing by her bedside, waving his mournful locks, warned 
 her of her broken oath. Her little infant, with his fair hair 
 dabbled with blood, came gliding in its shroud, and accused 
 her of being its murderer. Her husband ! As her frenzied 
 spirit called up this last image, she turned her dim eye to him, 
 who was hanging over her couch with a countenance of such 
 grief and compassion, the dry agony of her despair softened 
 into a gush of remorseful tenderness : " Oh ! no no !" cried 
 she, in difficult accents, " you do not curse me ; you live to
 
 60 THE VICTIM OP EXCITEMENT. 
 
 pardon the wretch who has undone herself and you. Oh ! 
 could I live over the past ; could I carry back to our bridal 
 the experience of this awful hour, what long years of happi 
 ness might be ours !" 
 
 The recollection of what she had been of what she might 
 have been contrasted with what she then was, and with what 
 she still might be, was too terrible. Her agonies became 
 wordless. Manly knelt by her side : he sought to soothe her ^ 
 departing spirit by assurances of his own pardon ; and to lead 
 her, by penitence and prayer, to the feet of Him, " in whose 
 sight the heavens are not clean." He poured into her soul 
 the experience of his, when he had travelled to the boundaries 
 of the dark valley : his despair his penitence, and his hopes. 
 He spoke of the mercy that is boundless the grace that is 
 infinite till the phantoms, accusing conscience called up, 
 seemed to change their maledictions into prayers for her be 
 half. Her ravings gradually died away, and she sunk into a 
 troubled sleep. 
 
 As Manly gazed upon her features, on which death was 
 already fixing its dim, mysterious impress, those features 
 whose original beauty was so fearfully marred by the ravages 
 of intemperance, the waters of time rolled back, and revealed 
 that green, enchanted spot in life's waste, where he was first 
 gilded by her presence. Was that the form whose graceful 
 movements then fascinated his senses ; or those the eyes, 
 whose kindling glances had flashed like a glory over his soul ? 
 The love, then so idolatrous and impassioned so long crushed 
 and buried rose up from the ruins to hallow the vigils of that 
 solemn night. 
 
 The morning dawned, but the slumbers of Anne were never 
 to be broken, till the resurrection morn. In the bloom of life 
 the midst of affluence with talents created to exalt society, 
 and graces to adorn it; a heart full of warm and generous im 
 pulses; a husband as much the object of her pride as of her 
 affections ; children, lovely in their innocence, she r'ell a sacri 
 fice to one brutalizing passion. Seldom, indeed, is it that 
 woman, in the higher walks of life, presents such a melan 
 choly example; but were there but one, and that one Anne 
 Weston, let her name be revealed, as a beacon, whose warning 
 light should be seen by the daughters of the land. 
 
 A nother year glided by. The approach of another autumn,
 
 THE VICTIM OF EXCITEMENT. 61 
 
 found Manly girded for enterprise. He had marked out a 
 new path, and was about to become a dweller of a young and 
 powerful city, born on one of the mighty rivers of the West. 
 His child could there grow up, unwithered by the associations 
 of her mother's disgrace. Amidst the hopes and anticipations 
 gathering around a new home, in a new land, his own spirit 
 might shake off the memories that oppressed its energies. He 
 was still young. The future might offer something of bright 
 ness, to indemnify for the darkness of the past. 
 
 He once more sought the native place of his unhappy wife'; 
 for his child was there, under the cherishing care of Emily 
 Spencer. He passed that ball-room, in whose illuminated 
 walls his destiny was sealed. The chamber selected for the 
 traveller's resting-place was the one where the prophetic dream 
 had haunted his pillow. His brow was saddened by the gloom 
 of remembrance, when he entered the dwelling-place of his 
 child ; but when he saw the bright, beautiful little creature, 
 who sprang into his arms, with spontaneous rapture, and wit 
 nessed the emotion that Emily strove vainly to conquer, he 
 felt he was not alone in the world : and the future triumphed 
 over the past. He unfolded all his views, and described the 
 new scenes in which he was soon to become an actor, with 
 reviving eloquence. 
 
 " Are you going to carry me there too, father ?" said the 
 little girl, whose earnest blue eyes were riveted on his face. 
 
 " Are you not willing to go with me, my child ? or must I 
 leave you behind ?" 
 
 " I should like to go, if you will take Emily, but I cannot 
 leave her behind," cried the affectionate child, clinging to 
 that beloved friend, who had devoted herself to her with all a 
 mother's tenderness. 
 
 " We will not leave her," exclaimed Manly, a warm glow 
 spreading over his melancholy features, "if 'she will go with 
 us, and bless our western home." 
 
 Emily turned pale, but she did not speak she could not, 
 if her existence had depended upon it. She was no sickly 
 sentimentalist, but she had ardent affections, though always 
 under the government of upright principles. Her mind was 
 well balanced, and though passion might enter, it was never 
 suffered to gain the ascendancy. From her earliest acquaint 
 ance with Manly, she had admired his talents, and respected 
 his character ; but the idea of loving the husband of her friend, 
 never entered her pure imagination. It was not till she saw 
 105
 
 62 THE VICTIM OF EXCITEMENT. 
 
 him borne down by domestic sorrow, on the bed of sickness, 
 thrown by the neglect of his wife on her tenderness and 
 care, that she felt the danger and depth of her sympathy. 
 The moment she became aware of her involuntary departure 
 from integrity of feeling she fled, and in the tranquillity of 
 her own home, devoted to his child the love she shuddered 
 to think began to flow in an illegitimate channel. That 
 Manly ever cherished any sentiments towards her, warmer 
 than those of esteem and gratitude, she did not believe, but 
 now he came before her, freed by heaven from the shackles 
 that bound him, and duty no longer opposed its barrier to her 
 affections, her heart told her she could follow him to the ends 
 of the earth, and deem its coldest, darkest region, a Paradise, 
 if warmed and illumed by his love ! The simplicity of child 
 hood had unveiled the hearts of each to the other. It was 
 not with the romance of his earlier passion that Manly now 
 wooed Emily Spencer to be his wife. It was love, approved 
 by reason, and sanctified by religion. It was the Christian, 
 seeking a fellow labourer in the work of duty; the father, 
 yearning for a mother to watch over an orphan child the man 
 awakened to the loftiest, holiest purposes of his being. 
 
 In a beautiful mansion, looking down on one of the most 
 magnificent landscapes unfolded in the rich valley of the West, 
 Manly and Emily now reside. All the happiness capable of 
 being enjoyed around the household shrine is theirs and the 
 only shade that ever dims their brows, is caused by the re 
 membrance of the highly gifted but ill-fated Anne.
 
 THE BLIND GIRL'S STORY. 
 
 ALL \s still and solitary the lamp burns on the table, with 
 wasting splendour. The writing-desk is open before me, with 
 the last letter unfolded the letter I have cherished so fondly, 
 though every word seems an arrow to my conscience. I can 
 not solace myself by the act, yet I must give utterance to the 
 feelings with which my heart is bursting. On these unwritten 
 sheets I will breathe my soul I will trace its early history, 
 and, perchance, his eye may see them when mine are veiled 
 in a darkness deeper than that which once sealed them. Yet 
 what shall I write? How shall I commence? What great 
 events rise up in the records of memory, over which imagination 
 may throw its rich empurpling dyes ? Alas ! mine is but a 
 record of the heart but of a blind girl's heart and that 
 Being who bound my eyes with a fillet of darkness, till the 
 hand of science lifted the thick film, and flooded them with 
 the glories of creation, alone knows the mysteries of the spirit 
 he has made. His eye is upon me at this moment, and as 
 this awful conviction comes over me, a kind of deathlike calm 
 ness settles on the restless sea of passion. Oh ! when I was 
 blind, what was my conception of the All-seeing eye ! It 
 seemed to me as if it filled the world with its effulgence. I 
 felt as if I, in my blindness, were placed in the hollow of that 
 rock where Moses hid, when the glory of the Lord passed by 
 Would that no daring hand had drawn me from that protect 
 ing shade ! The beams that enlighten me have withered u_ 
 the fountains of joy, and though surrounded by light, as with a 
 garment, my soul is wrapped in the gloom of midnight. I 
 was a blind child blind from my birth with one brother, 
 older than myself, and a widowed father for we were mo 
 therless motherless, sisterless yet blind. What a world of 
 dependence is expressed in these few words ! But, thougk 
 
 (63)
 
 64 THE BLIND GIRL'S STORY. 
 
 thus helpless and dependent, I was scarcely conscious of my 
 peculiar claim to sympathy and care. 
 
 My father was wealthy, and my childhood was crowned 
 with every indulgence that wealth could purchase, or parental 
 tenderness devise. My brother was devotedly attached to me, 
 giving up all his leisure to my amusement for I was looked 
 upon as hallowed by the misfortune which excluded me from 
 communion with the visible world and my wishes became 
 laws, and my happiness the paramount object of the household. 
 Heaven, perhaps, as a kind of indemnification for depriving 
 me of one of the wonted blessings of life, moulded me in a 
 form which pleased the fond eyes of my relatives, and, as it 
 was my father's pride to array me in the most graceful and 
 becoming attire, my sightless eyes being constantly covered by 
 a silken screen, I was a happy child. If it had not been for 
 the epithet, poor, so often attached to my name, I should 
 never have dreamed that mine was a forlorn destiny. " My 
 poor little blind girl," my father would exclaim, as he took 
 me in his lap, after his return from his business abroad 
 " My poor little sister," was the constant appellation given 
 me by my affectionate brother, yet I was happy. When he 
 led me in the garden, through the odorous flowers, I felt a 
 kind of aching rapture at the sweetness they exhaled their 
 soft, velvet texture, was ecstasy to the touch, and the wind- 
 harps that played amid the branches of the trees were like the 
 lyres of angels to my ears. Then the songs of birds, with 
 what thrilling sensations would I listen to these harmonists of 
 nature, these winged minstrels of God's own choir, as they 
 lifted their strains of living harmony in the dim corridors of 
 the woods ! They painted to me the beauty of the world, and 
 I believed them but I could conceive of nothing so beautiful 
 as sound. I associated the idea of everything that was lovely 
 with music. It was my passion, and also my peculiar talent. 
 Every facility which art has furnished to supply the deficien- 
 >ies of nature was given me, and my progress was considered 
 stouishing by those who are not awarp of the power and acute- 
 ness of touch bestowed upon the sightless. I love to linger 
 on the days of my childhood, when sunshine flowed in upon 
 my heart in one unclouded stream. The serpent slumbered in 
 the bottom of the fountain had no one gone down into its 
 depths, its venom might have slumbered yet. 
 
 My first cause of sorrow was parting with my brother 
 " my guide, my companion, my familiar friend." He was
 
 THE BLIND GIRI/S STORY. 65 
 
 sent to a distant college, and I felt for a while as if I were 
 alone in the world, for my father was in public life, and it was 
 only at evening he had leisure to indulge in the tenderness of 
 domestic feeling. He had never given up the hope that I 
 might recover my sight. When I was very small there was 
 an operation performed upon my eyes, but it was by an unskilful 
 oculist, and unsuccessful. After this I had an unspeakable 
 dread of any future attempt, the slightest allusion to the 
 subject threw me into such nervous agitation, my father at last 
 forbore to mention it. "Let me live and die under this 
 shade," I would say, " like the flower that blooms in the cleft 
 of the rock. The sunshine and the dew are not for me." 
 Time glided away. In one year more Henry would complete 
 his collegiate course. I was in the morning of womanhood, 
 but my helpless condition preserved to me all the privileges 
 and indulgences of the child. It was at this era why did I 
 here dash aside my pen, and press my hands upon my temples 
 to still the throbbings of a thousand pulses, starting simultane 
 ously into motion ? Why cannot we always be children ? Why 
 was I not suffered to remain blind ? A young physician came 
 into the neighbourhood, who had already acquired some fame 
 as an oculist. He visited in our family he became almost 
 identified with our household. Philanthropy guided him in 
 his choice of a profession. He knew himself gifted with ex 
 traordinary talents, and that he had it in his power to mitigate 
 the woes of mankind. But though the votary of duty, he 
 was a worshipper at the shrine of intellect and taste. He 
 loved poetry, and, next to music, it was my passion. He read 
 to me the melodious strains of the sons of song, in a voice 
 more eloquent, in its low depth of sweetness, than the min 
 strels whose harmony he breathed. When I touched the keys 
 of the piano, his voice was raised, in unison with mine. If I 
 wandered in the garden, his hand was ever ready to guide, and 
 his arm to sustain me. He brought me the wild-flower of the 
 field, and the exotic of the green-house, and, as he describfd 
 t'aeir hues and outlines, I scarcely regretted the want of vision. 
 Here, in this book, I have pressed each faded gift. I remem 
 ber the very words he uttered when he gave me this cluster. 
 " See," said he, " nay, feel this upright stem, so lofty, till 
 bending from the weight of the flower it bears. It is a lily 
 I plucked it from the margin of a stream, in which it seemed 
 gazing on its white, waxen leaves. Touch gently the briars 
 of this wild rose. Thus heaven guards the innocence and
 
 66 THE BLIND GIRI/S STORY. 
 
 beauty that gladdens the eyes of the wayfaring man. Cecilia, 
 would you not like to look upon these flowers ?" " Yes, but 
 far rather on the faces of those I love my father's my 
 brother's. Man is made in the image of his Maker, and his 
 face must be divine." " Oh I" added I, in the secrecy of my 
 own soul, " how divine must be the features of that friend, 
 who has unfolded to me such unspeakable treasures of genius 
 and feeling, whose companionship seems a foretaste of the 
 felicities of heaven." It was then, for the first time, he dared 
 to suggest to me a hope that my blindness was not incurable. 
 He told me he had been devoting all his leisure to this one 
 subject, and that he was sure he had mastered every difficulty; 
 that though mine was a peculiar case, and had once baffled the 
 efforts of the optician, he dared to assure himself of complete 
 success. " And if I fail," said he, " if through my means no 
 light should visit your darkened orbs, then," continued he, 
 with an expression of feeling that seemed wholly irrepressible, 
 " suffer me to be a light to your eyes and a lamp to your feet. 
 But if it should be my lot to bestow upon you the most glori 
 ous of the gifts of God, to meet from you one glance of grati 
 tude and love, were a recompense I would purchase with life 
 itself." Did I dream ? or were these words breathed to me ? 
 me, the helpless, blind girl ! to receive the unmeasured 
 devotion of one of the most gifted and interesting of created 
 beings. I had thought that he pitied me, that he felt for me 
 the kindness of a brother, that he found in me some congenial 
 tastes but that he loved me so entirely, it was a confession 
 as unlooked for as overpowering. My heart ached, from the 
 oppression of its joy. Let not the cold-hearted and vain smile, 
 when I repeat the broken accents of gratitude, trust, and love, 
 that fell from my lips. My helplessness sanctified the offer, 
 and I received his pledge of faith as a holy thing, to be kept 
 holy through time and eternity. 
 
 ********* 
 
 Never shall I forget that moment, when the first ray of light 
 penetrated the long midnight that had shrouded my vision. 
 It was in a darkened apartment. My father, one female friend, 
 and Clinton, the beloved physician these were around me. 
 Faint, dim, and uncertain, as the first gray of the dawn, was 
 that ray, but it was the herald of coming light, and hailed as 
 a day-spring from on high. A bandage was immediately drawn 
 over my brow, but during the weeks in which I was condemned 
 to joinaiu in darkness, the memory of that dim radiance wis
 
 THE BLIND GIRI/S STORY. 67 
 
 ever glimmering round me. There was a figure kneeling, with 
 clasped hands and upraised head, pale and venerable I knew 
 it was my father's for the same figure folded me to his heart 
 the next moment, and wept like an infant. There was one 
 with soft flowing outline, and loose robes, by my side, and 
 bending over me, with eyes gazing down into the mysteries of 
 my being, shadowy but glorious, was he, who received the firs 
 glance of the being he had awakened to a new creation 
 Slowly, gradually was I allowed to emerge from my eclipse, 
 but when I was at last led from my darkened chamber, when 
 I looked abroad on the face of nature, clothed as she was 
 in the magnificent garniture of summer, when I saw the 
 heavens unrolled in their majesty, the sun travelling in the 
 greatness of his strength, the flowers glowing in the beams that 
 enamelled them, I closed my eyes, almost fainting from the 
 excessive glory. I will not attempt to describe my sensations 
 when I first distinctly saw the lineaments of my lover. Crea 
 tion contained nothing so lovely to my sight. To see the soul, 
 the thinking, feeling, immortal soul, flashing with enthusi 
 asm, or darkening with tenderness, looking forth from his eyes, 
 and feel my own mingling with his ! No one but those who 
 have once been blind, and now see, can imagine the intensity 
 of my emotions. Next to my Creator, I felt my homage was 
 due to him, and surely it is not impious to apply to him the 
 sublime language of Scripture " He said, let there be light, 
 and there was light." 
 
 Our mansion was transformed. My father gathered all his 
 friends around him to participate in his joy. My brother was 
 summoned home. There seemed one continual jubilee. I 
 turned coldly, however, from all these festivities, occupied al 
 most exclusively with one feeling. I could not feign an in 
 terest in others I did not feel. I began even at this early pe 
 riod to experience the first symptoms of that passion, which 
 has since consumed me. Clinton, though still, as ever, the 
 kind, devoted, and watchful guardian, hovering round my 
 steps, as if to shield me from every danger, Clinton, I saw, 
 shared in the pleasures of sociality, and returned the smiles 
 that kindled wherever he moved. He was a universal favour 
 ite in society, and knew how to adapt himself to others, not 
 from a vague desire of popularity, but from a benevolence, 
 sunny glow of feeling, shedding light and warmth all around. 
 Even then there were moments when I regretted my blindness, 
 and wished I had never seen those smiles and glances, which
 
 68 THE BLIND GIRI/S STORY. 
 
 I would fain rivet for ever on myself. Henry, my brother, 
 once whispered to me, as I was turning, in a languid manner, 
 the leaves of a music book, not caring to play because Clinton 
 was not bending over my chair, " My dear Cecilia, do not let 
 Clinton see too glaringly his power over you. There is scarcely 
 man in the world who can be trusted with unlimited power. 
 'We are ungrateful creatures, my sweet sister, and you do not 
 know us half as well as we know each other. You ought to 
 love Clinton, for he merits it, but be mistress of yourself. Do 
 not love him too well for his peace and your own." Alas ! 
 poor Henry how little have I heeded your brotherly admo 
 nitions? But when did passion ever listen to the counsels of 
 reason when will it? When the cygnet's down proves a 
 barrier to the tempest's breath. We were married. I became 
 the inmate of a home, fashioned after the model of my own 
 taste. Everything was arranged with a view to my happiness. 
 The curtains and decorations of the house were all of the softest 
 green, for the repose of my still feeble eyes/ Oh ! thou bene 
 factor of my life friend, lover, husband, would that I could 
 go back to the hour when we plighted our wedded vows, and 
 live over the past, convinced, though too late, how deeply I 
 have wronged thee confiding implicitly in thy love and truth, 
 we might live together the life of angels ! And we were happy 
 for a while. We withdrew as much as possible from the gay 
 world. He saw that I loved retirement, and he consulted uiy 
 feelings as far as was consistent with the duties of his profes 
 sion. I might have been convinced by this of the injustice of 
 my suspicions. I might have known that he loved me better 
 than all the world beside. During the day he was but 
 seldom with me, as his practice was extensive, and often called 
 him to a distance from home, but the evening was mine, and 
 it seemed my peculiar province, for I shrunk from the full 
 blaze of sunlight. The brightness was too intense, but when 
 the moon was gliding over the firmament, in her sweet, ap 
 proachable loveliness, and the soft glitter of the stars was 
 around, I could lift my undazzled eyes, and marvel at the 
 wonderful works of Grod. Clinton was a devout astronomer 
 he taught me the name of every planet that burned of every 
 star known to science. He was rich in the wisdom of ancient 
 days, and his lips distilled instruction as naturally and con 
 stantly as the girl in the fairy tale dropped the gems of the 
 Orient. I have made mention of a female friend she was 
 f.he daughter of a deceased friend of my father, and, as such,
 
 THE BLIND GIRI/S STORY. 69 
 
 came under his especial guardianship. Since my marriage 
 she had remained with him, to cheer his loneliness, but her 
 health becoming very delicate, he sent her to be my guest, 
 that she might receive medical aid from my husband. She 
 was not a decided invalid, but her mother had died of a con 
 sumption, and it was feared she had a hereditary tendency to 
 that disease. Alice was a pale, delicate-looking girl, with 
 sometimes a hectic flush on her cheek, a frail, drooping form, 
 and extremely pensive cast of countenance. The dread of this 
 constitutional malady hung over her like a death-cloud, and 
 aggravated symptoms slight in themselves. Though there was 
 nothing very attractive in the appearance of this poor girl, she 
 was calculated to excite pity and sympathy, and surely she 
 had every claim to mine. I did pity her, and sought, by every 
 attention and kindness, to enliven her despondency, and muse 
 her to hope and vivacity. But I soon found that my father 
 had encroached sadly on my domestic happiness by giving this 
 charge to my husband. Air, exercise, and gentle recreation, 
 were the remedies prescribed by the physician, and it was his 
 duty to promote these by every means in his power. She often 
 accompanied him on horseback in his rides, a pleasure from 
 which I was completely debarred, for, in my blindness, I was 
 incapacitated, and the timidity which originated from my situ 
 ation remained after the cause was removed. It was some time 
 before I was willing to acknowledge to myself the pain which 
 this arrangement gave me. I felt as if my dearest privileges 
 were invaded. I had been so accustomed, from infancy, to be 
 the sole object of every attention, these daily offices bestowed 
 upon another, though dictated by kindness and humanity, 
 were intolerable to me. Had I seen the congregated world 
 around her, offering every homage, it would not have given me 
 one envious pang but Clinton, my husband, he was more 
 precious to me than ten thousand worlds. She leaned too ex 
 clusively on his guardian care. I tried to subdue my feelings 
 I tried to assume an appearance of indifference. My man 
 ners gradually became cold and constrained, and instead of 
 greeting my husband with the joyous smile of welcome, on his 
 return, I would avert from his the eyes which had received 
 from him their living rays. Frank and unsuspicious himself, 
 he did not seem to divine the cause of my altered demeanour. 
 When he asked me why I was so silent, or so sad, I pleaded 
 indisposition, lassitude anything but the truth. I blamed 
 him for his want of penetration, for I felt as if my soul were
 
 70 THE BLIND GIRL's STORY. 
 
 bare, and that the eye of affection could read the tiding? re 
 vealed by my changing cheek and troubled brow. In justice 
 to myself, let me say, that Alice, by her manner, justified my 
 emotions. 
 
 Enlightened by the sentiment in my own bosom, I could 
 not but mark that the hectic flush always became brighter 
 when Clinton approached, that her glance, kindling as it moved 
 "ollowed his steps with a kind of idolatry. Then she hung 
 upon his words with an attention so flattering. Was she read 
 ing, reclining on the sofa, apparently languid and uninterested, 
 the moment he spoke she would close her book, or lean for 
 ward, as if fearful of losing the faintest sound of that voice, 
 which was the music of my life. I could have borne this for 
 a day, a week, a month but to be doomed to endure it for an 
 indefinite term, perhaps for life, it was unendurable. A hun 
 dred times I was on the point of goiug to my father, and, tell 
 ing him the secret of my unhappiness, entreat him to recall 
 my too encroaching guest, but shame and pride restrained me. 
 Chilled and wounded by my coldness, my husband gradually 
 learned to copy it, and no longer sought the smiles and caresses 
 my foolish, too exciting heart, deemed he no longer valued. 
 Oh ! blissful days of early confidence and love ! were ye for 
 ever flown? Was no beam of tenderness permitted to pene 
 trate the cold frost-work of ceremony deepening between us? 
 It is in vain to cherish love with the memory of what has 
 been. It must be fed with daily living offerings, or the vestal 
 fire will wax dim and perish then fearful is the penalty that 
 ensues. The doom denounced upon the virgins of the temple, 
 when they suffered the holy flame to become extinct, was less 
 terrible. Alice, when the mildness of the weather allowed, 
 almost made her home in the garden. She must have felt 
 that I shrunk from her society, and I knew she could not love 
 the wife of Clinton. She carried her books and pencil there 
 she watched the opening blossoms, and gathered the sweet 
 est, to make her offering at the shrine she loved. My husband 
 was evidently pleased with these attentions, flowing, as he 
 thought, from a gentle and grateful heart, and his glance and 
 voice grew softer when he turned to address the invalid. 
 
 Once during the absence of Alice I went into her chamber 
 for a book I had lent her, which contained a passage I wished 
 to recall. I took up several others, which lay upon the table. 
 There was one which belonged to my husband, and in it was 
 a piece of folded paper, embalmed with flowers, like some holy
 
 THE BLIND GIRI/S STORY. 11 
 
 relic.' It was not sealed it was open it was a medical pre 
 scription, written by Clinton, thus tenderly, romantically pre 
 served. On another half-torn sheet were some broken lines, 
 breathing passion and despair. They were in the handwriting 
 of Alice, and apparently original, without address or signature, 
 but it was easy for my excited imagination to supply them. 
 Poor victim of passion by the side of this record of all my 
 fears was the composing draught, prepared to check the con 
 sumptive cough the elixir to sustain the failing principles of 
 vitality. How is it that we dare to kindle an unhallowed 
 flame, even on the ashes of decaying mortality ? I left the 
 chamber, and retired to my own. I knew not in what manner 
 to act. I endeavoured to reflect on what I ought to do. Alice 
 and myself could not live long under the same roof, yet how 
 could I bid her depart, or betray her to my husband ? I could 
 not believe such feelings could be excited in her without suffi 
 cient encouragement. I laid myself down on the bed, and 
 wished I might never rise again. I closed my eyes, and 
 prayed that the dark fillet of night might rest on them again, 
 and forevermore. My cheeks burned as with consuming fire, 
 but it was in my heart. When Clinton returned, not finding 
 me in the drawing-room, he sought me in my own chamber. 
 He seemed really alarmed at my situation. He forgot all his 
 former constraint, and hung over me with a tenderness and 
 anxiety that might have proved to me how dear I was. He 
 sat by me, holding my burning hand, and uttering every en 
 dearing expression affection could suggest. Melted by his 
 caresses, I yearned to unbosom to him my whole heart my 
 pride, my jealousy was subdued. I endeavoured to speak, 
 but the words died on my tongue. Confused images flitted 
 across my brain then came a dreary blank. For weeks I lay 
 on that bed of sickness, unconscious of everything around me. 
 My recovery was for a long time doubtful but when I at last 
 opened my languid eyes, they rested on the face of my hus 
 band, who had kept his unwearied vigils by my pillow, 
 and still he held my feeble hand in his, as if he had never 
 unloosed his clasp. He looked pale and wan, but a ray of 
 divine joy flashed from his eye as he met my glance of recog 
 nition. 
 
 Humbled and chastened by this visitation from heaven, reno 
 vated by the warm and gracious influences exerted for my 
 restoration, animated by new-born hope, I rose from my sick 
 bed. The vulture had unloosened its fangs, and the dove once
 
 72 THE BLIND GIRI/S STORY. 
 
 more returned to its nest. I could even pity the misguided 
 girl who had caused me so much unhappiness. I treated her 
 with a kindness, of late very unwonted but she evidently 
 shunned my companionship, and in proportion as my spirits 
 rose from the weight that had crushed them to the dust, hers 
 became depressed and fitful. Let me hurry on I linger too 
 long on feelings. Few events have marked my brief history, 
 yet some have left traces that all the waves of time can never 
 wash out. 
 
 It was Sunday it was the first time I had attended church 
 since my illness. My husband accompanied me, while Alice, 
 as usual, remained at home. The preacher was eloquent the 
 music sweet and solemn the aspirations of faith warm and 
 kindling. I had never before felt such a glow of gratitude 
 and trust ; and while my mind was in this state of devout ab 
 straction, Clinton whispered to me that he was obliged to 
 withdraw a short time, to visit a patient who was dangerously 
 sick " but I will return/' said he, " to accompany you 
 home." My thoughts were brought back to earth by this in 
 terruption, and wandered from the evangelical eloquence of 
 the pulpit. The services were unusually long, and my head 
 began to ache from the effort of listening. I experienced the 
 lingering effects of sickness, and feeling that dimness of sight 
 come over me, which was a never-failing symptom of a malady 
 of the brain, I left the church, and returned home, without 
 waiting for the coming of my husband. When I crossed the 
 threshold, my spirit was free from a shadow of suspicion. I 
 had been in an exalted mood I felt as if I had been sitting 
 under the outspread wings of the cherubim, and had brought 
 away with me some faint reflection of the celestial glory. I 
 was conscious of being in a high state of nervous excitement. 
 The reaction produced by the unexpected scene that presented 
 itself, was, in consequence, more terrible. There, on a sofa, 
 half supported in the arms of my husband, whose hand she 
 was grasping with a kind of convulsive energy, her hair un 
 bound and wet, and exhaling the odorous essence with which 
 it had been just bathed, sat Alice, and the words that passed 
 her lips, as I entered, at first unperceived by them, were these 
 " Never, never she hates me she must ever hate me." 
 I stood transfixed the expression of my countenance must 
 have been awful, for they looked as if confronted by an 
 avenging spirit. Alice actually shrieked, and her pale features 
 writhed, as the scroll when the scorching blaze comes near it.
 
 THE BLIND GIRL'S STORY. 73 
 
 My resolution was instantaneous. I waited not for explana 
 tions the scene to my nrind admitted none. The sudden 
 withdrawal of my husband from church, upon the pretence of 
 an errand of duty, the singular agitation of Alice all that I 
 saw and heard, filled me with the most maddening emotions 
 all the ties of wedded love seemed broken and withered, at 
 once, like the withes that bound the awakening giant. " Clin 
 ton," exclaimed I, " you have deceived me but it is for the 
 last time." Before he could reply, or arrest my motions, I 
 was gone. The carriage was still at the door. " Drive me to 
 my father's, directly," was all I could utter, and it was done. 
 Swiftly the carriage rolled on I thought I heard my name 
 borne after me on the wind, but I looked not behind. I felt 
 strong in the conviction of my wrongs. It would have been 
 weakness to have wept. My scorn of such duplicity lifted me 
 above mere sorrow. It was in the gloom of twilight when I 
 reached my father's door. I rushed into the drawing-room, 
 and found myself in the arms of my brother. " Cecilia, my 
 sister ! what brings you here ?" He was alarmed at my sudden 
 entrance, and through the dusky shade he could discover the 
 wild flashing of my eyes, the disorder of my whole appearance. 
 The presence of human sympathy softened the sternness of my 
 despair. Tears gushed violently forth. I tried to explain to 
 him my wretchedness and its cause, but could only exclaim, 
 " Clinton, Alice, cruel, deliberate deceivers I" Henry bit his 
 lip, and ground his teeth till their ivory was tinged with blood, 
 but he made no comments. He spoke then with his usual calm 
 ness, and urged me to retire to my chamber, and compose my 
 self before my father's return. He almost carried me there in his 
 arms, soothing and comforting me. He called for an attend 
 ant, again whispered the duty and necessity of self-control, 
 then left me, promising a speedy return. I watched for the 
 footsteps of Henry, but hour after hour passed away, and he 
 returned not. I asked the servants where he had gone ? They 
 knew not. I asked myself, and something told me, in au 
 awful voice " Gone to avenge thee." The moment this idea 
 flashed into my niind, I felt as if I were a murderess. I would 
 convince myself of the truth. I knew my brother's chamber 
 thither I ran, and drawing back the bed curtains, looked for 
 the silver mounted pistols that always hung over the bed's 
 head. They were gone and a coat dashed hastily on the 
 counterpane, a pocket-book fallen on the carpet, all denoted a 
 hurried departure on some fatal errand. The agony I had
 
 74 THE BLIND GIRL'S STORY. 
 
 previously suffered was light to what pierced me now. To 
 follow him was my only impulse. I rushed out of the house 
 it \\ias a late hour in the evening there was no moon in the 
 sky, and I felt the dampness of the falling dew, as I flew, 
 with uncovered head, like an unblessed spirit, through the 
 d-arkness. My brain began to be thronged with wild images. 
 It seemed to me, legions of dark forms were impeding my 
 steps. "Oh'! let me pass," cried I, "it is my husband and 
 brother I have slain. Let me pass," continued I, shrieking, for 
 an arm of flesh and blood was thrown around me, and held me 
 struggling. " Gracious heavens, it is the voice of my Cecilia \" 
 Itf was my father that spoke. I remember that I recognised 
 him, and that was all. My cries were changed to cries of 
 madness. I was borne back raving. The malady that had so 
 recently brought me to the door of the grave, had renewed its 
 attack with increased malignancy. My brain had been too 
 much weakened to bear the tension of its agony. For long 
 months I was confined within my chamber walls, sometimes 
 tossing in delirious anguish, at others lying in marble uncon 
 sciousness, an image of the death they prayed might soon re 
 lease me from my sufferings. They prayed that I might die, 
 rather than be doomed to a living death. But I lived lived 
 to know the ruin I had wrought. 
 
 My father was a man of majestic person, and time had 
 scarcely touched his raven locks. His hair was now profusely 
 silvered, and there were lines on his brow which age never 
 furrowed. It was long before I learned all that had transpired 
 during this fearful chasm in my existence, but gradually the 
 truth was revealed. All that I was at first told, was, that my 
 husband and brother lived then, when it was supposed I had 
 sufficient strength to bear the agitation, this letter from my 
 husband was given me. 
 
 " Cecilia, how shall I address you ? I will not reproach you, 
 for you have had too bitter a lesson. I would fain have seen 
 you before my departure, but you decline the interview, and 
 perhaps it is well. Should I live to return Oh ! Cecilia, 
 what wretchedness have you brought upon us all ! If your 
 alienated heart does not turn from any memento of me, you 
 will read these lines, and I know you will believe them. I 
 have been, as it were, to the very threshold of the presence- 
 chamber of the King of Kings, and am just emerging from 
 the shadows of approaching death. This is the first effort of 
 my feeble hand. Most rash and misjudging woman, what have
 
 THE BLIND GIRI/S STORT. 75 
 
 you done? How madly have I doted on you, how blindly 
 have I worshipped ! yet all the devotion of my life, my truth, 
 love and integrity, weighed nothing in the balance with one 
 moment's mystery. I leave my vindication to Alice. She 
 will not deceive you. She will tell you that never did t\i& 
 heart of man throb with a more undivided passion for another 
 than mine for you. She will tell you but what avails it? 
 You have cast me from you, unvalued and untrusted. Your 
 poor, unhappy brother ! his avenging hand sought my life 
 the life of him who he believed had betrayed his sister's happi 
 ness, the wretch almost unworthy of a brave man's resentment. 
 In wresting the weapon from his frenzied grasp, I received an 
 almost deadly wound. His wrath was slaked in my blood. 
 He believes me innocent. He has been 1 to me more than a 
 brother. He will accompany me f o another clime, whither 
 I am going, to try the effect of u.ore genial air on my 
 shattered frame. Would to God we could have met before we 
 parted perhaps for ever. Your father says you have been 
 ill, that you fear the effect of the meeting on both. You have 
 been ill my ever adored, still tenderly beloved Cecilia, I write 
 not to reproach you. Bitter is the penalty paid for one mo 
 ment of passion. Had I ever swerved in my affection for you, 
 even in thought, I should deserve all I have suffered. I recall 
 your sadness, your coldness, and averted looks. I now know 
 the cause, and mourn over it. Why did you not confide in 
 me ? We might yet have been happy but the will of Goa 
 be done. The vessel waits that is to bear us to a transatlantic 
 clime farewell. Should I return, bearing with me some por 
 tion of my former vigour, should your confidence in my love 
 be restored, then, perchance, through the mercy of heaven, 
 two chastened and humble hearts may once more be united on 
 earth. If I am never permitted to revisit my native soil, if I 
 die in a foreign land, know, that, faithful to you to my latest 
 hour, my last thought, prayer, and sigh, will be yours." 
 
 And he was gone gone sick, wounded, perhaps dying, he 
 was gone to another land, and the blood that was drained from 
 him on my soul. My father forbade him to see me he was 
 too feeble to bear the shock of beholding me in the condition 
 I then was. My-real situation was concealed from him. The 
 only means of making the prohibition effectual, was to word 
 it as proceeding from myself. Thus, he believed me cold aud
 
 76 THE BLIND GIRL' 8 STORY. 
 
 selfish to the last. My father talked to me of better dayf , of 
 the hope of my husband's speedy restoration, and of our future 
 reunion. I could only listen and weep. I dared not murmur. 
 I felt too deeply the justice of the judgment the Almighty had 
 passed against me. I had one ordeal yet to pass an inter 
 view with Alice. She also was under my father's roof, cun- 
 fined by increasing debility to her own apartment. As soon 
 as my strength allowed, I made it a religious duty to visit the 
 poor invalid. I was shocked to see the ravages of her malady. 
 Her eye of glassy brightness turned on me with such a look 
 of woe and remorse, it cut me to the heart. I took the pale 
 thin hand she extended towards me, and burst into tears. 
 Yes ! I saw it but too clearly. Here was another victim. 
 The steps of the destroyer were fearfully accelerated. She had 
 had a profuse hemorrhage from the lungs, and her. voice was so 
 weak and husky, it was with difficulty I could understand her. 
 She drew me down near to her pillow, and, placing my hand 
 on her heart, said, in a careful whisper " Remorse, Cecilia, 
 it is here. It is this which gives the sting to death." She 
 then drew from beneath her pillow a paper that she had writ 
 ten for me, which she begged me to read when I was alone. 
 I did read it. It was the transcript of a warm, romantic heart, 
 erring and misguided, yet even in its aberrations discovering 
 an innate love for virtue and truth. Her whole soul was 
 bared before me all her love, imprudence, and remorse. 
 She described my husband as an angel of light and purity, 
 soaring high above the clouds of passion that gathered darkly 
 around herself. She spoke of that scene, followed by such 
 irremediable woe. " Even now," continued Alice, " wasting 
 as I am on the bed of death, with the shadows of earthly 
 feeling dimly floating round me, knowing that I shall soon 
 turn to cold, impassive clay, the memory of that hour presses 
 with scorching weight on my brain. I must have been mad. 
 Surely I had not the control of my reason. I had taken the 
 previous night an unusual quantity of opium, which, instead 
 of composing me to sleep, had excited my nerves, and strung 
 them as with fire. Your husband came in only a short time 
 before your sudden entrance, evidently on some errand ; and 
 though he kindly paused to speak to me, his looks expressed 
 haste to depart. Just as he was about to leave the room, I 
 was attacked with one of those spasms you have sometimes 
 witnessed. He came to my relief he administered every 
 restorative. I know not all I uttered, but when I recovered I
 
 THE BLIND GIRI/S STORY. 77 
 
 remember many wild expressions that escaped my lips. It 
 seemed to me that I was going to die, and while his arms thus 
 kindly supported me, I felt as if it would be joy to die. With 
 this conviction, was it so black a crime to breathe forth the 
 love that had so long pervaded my frail and lonely existence ? 
 Cecilia, he recoiled from me with horror. He proclaimed his 
 inviolable love and devotion for you his glance was stern and 
 upbraiding. Then seeing me sinking in despair, the kindness 
 of his nature triumphed, and he sought to calm my over 
 wrought and troubled spirit. He expressed the affection of a 
 brother, the pity of a friend, the admonitions of a Christian. 
 " Above all," said he, " make a friend of Cecilia. She will 
 always cherish you with a sister's love." " Never !" I exclaim 
 ed, " she hates me, she must ever hate me." The vision of an 
 injured wife arrested my unhallowed accents. You know the 
 dreadful tragedy that followed. Never since that hour have 
 I had one moment's calm. Conscience, with her thousand 
 scorpions, lashes me whether sleeping or waking there is no 
 rest. ' There is no peace/ saith my God, to the wickd.' 
 Yet mine was not deliberate guilt. Had I only wrecked my 
 own happiness ! but the wide desolation, the irretrievable 
 ruin ! I shudder, I weep, I lift my feeble hands to that 
 Power whose laws I have transgressed, and pray for pardon. 
 To you, whose home of love I have laid waste, dare I turn my 
 fading eyes, and hope for forgiveness ? To him whom I have 
 driven from his native land, shorn of the brightness of his 
 
 manhood Oh ! sinful dust and ashes" here the unhappy 
 
 writer broke off the blank was stained with tears. Probably 
 in that broken sentence the embers of passion flashed out their 
 last fires, through the " dust and ashes" of withering mortality. 
 Poor Alice ! may'st thou be forgiven by a merciful Creator as 
 freely as thou art by me. Gentle be thy passage through the 
 valley of the shadow of death, to that country where no storms 
 desolate the heart, where passion and penitence are unknown. 
 As for me why and for what do I live ? For hope or des 
 pair ? I pray for tidings from the beloved exiles, yet dread to 
 receive them. If the night gale sweeps with hasty gust 
 against the window, I tremble lest they be exposed to the 
 stormy deep. When I gaze on the moon and stars, I ask my 
 self if they are lighting the wanderers on their homeward 
 way, and sometimes gather hope from their heavenly bright 
 ness. 
 
 The manuscript of Cecilia here abruptly closes. It has 
 106
 
 78 THE BLIND GIRI/S STORY. 
 
 fallen to the lot of one who afterwards became the devoted 
 friend of Clincon, to relate the sequel of their melancholy 
 history. 
 
 " It was in the spring of the year 18 , I was sitting on 
 
 the deck, watching the rapid motion of the boat, as it glided 
 over the waves, thinking earnestly of the place of my destina 
 tion, when I first beheld Cecilia, the wife of Clinton. I was a 
 stranger on board, and gazed around me with that indefinite 
 expression, which marks the stranger to the experienced eye. 
 At length my glance was riveted by the appearance of a lady, 
 leaning on the arm of a gray-haired gentleman, slowly prome 
 nading the deck. They passed and rcpassed me, while I con 
 tinued to lean over the railing, fearing, by a change of position, 
 to disturb the silent strangers. There was something in the 
 figure of the lady inexpressibly interesting. She wore a 
 mourning-dress, and her eyes were covered with a green shade. 
 Notwithstanding her face was thus partially obscured, the 
 most exquisite beauty of outline and colouring was visible I 
 ever saw in any human countenance. She wore no bonnet or 
 veil, for the sun was verging towards the west, and its rays 
 stole soft and mellow over the golden waters. Fair and meek 
 as the virgin mother's was the brow that rose above the silken 
 screen, defined with beauteous distinctness by dark, divided 
 hair, whose luxuriance was confined by a golden band. At 
 length they seated themselves very near me, and began to 
 converse in a low tone. There was a melancholy sweetness in 
 her accents, and I was sure they were speaking of some sor 
 rowful theme. We were now entering the bay, and the 
 
 boat rocked and laboured as she plunged through the increased 
 volume of the waters. Now, just visible on the glowing hori 
 zon, was the topmast of a vessel. On she came, with sails 
 full spread, her canvas swelling in the breeze, her majestic 
 outline softened by the sunset hues. The gentleman pointed 
 out the object to his companion, who lifted the shade from 
 her brow, revealing as she did so, eyes of such melting soft } 
 ness, I wondered I Lad thought her lovely before. She pressed - 
 the arm of the gentleman, and gazed eagerly on the vessel 
 which now bore dowr ' majestically near.' She rose, she bent 
 forward with earnest gestures, her face kindled, and sparkled 
 like the waters themselves. The ship approached so near we 
 could discern figures on the deck. The boat had diverged 
 from her path to give place to the nobler craft. She was sail 
 ing with great rapidity, and the noise of the engine and the
 
 THE BLIND GIRI/S STORY. 79 
 
 dashing of the waves drowned the sound of the voices near 
 me. I began to feel a strange interest in the vessel on which 
 the eyes of the strangers were so earnestly riveted. Amid the' 
 figures that walked her deck, I distinguished one, which was 
 aloof from the others, of a more lofty bearing a cloak was 
 gathered round him, and from this circumstance, together with 
 his extremely pallid complexion, I judged him to be an in 
 valid. From the rapid motion of both vessels, it was but ^ 
 glance I obtained, after we were near enough to trace these 
 lineaments. At this moment the lady sprang upon the bench 
 beneath the railing she stretched forth her arms, with a 
 startling cry. I saw her for an instant, bending far over the 
 edge of the boat. I rose and rushed towards her to warn her 
 of her danger, but a plunging sound in the water, that closed 
 darkly over her sinking form, froze my veins with horror. 
 ' Oh ! my God !' exclaimed the father, ' save her ! My daugh 
 ter ! Oh, my daughter !' then fell back, almost paralyzed, on 
 the seat. To throw off my coat and plunge in after the ill- 
 fated lady, in whom I had become so painfully interested, wag 
 an instantaneous deed. Alas ! all my efforts were unavailing. 
 The current was so powerful, I found it in vain to struggle 
 with its force. I relaxed not, however, till my failing strength 
 warned me that I was seeking a grave for myself, without being 
 able to rescue the victim for whom I had willingly periled my 
 life. 
 
 " I will not attempt to describe the grief of the half-distracted 
 father. I never left him till he reached his own home. What 
 a scene of agony awaited him there ! The husband and brother, 
 so long absent, were returned, yearning to behold once more 
 that beloved being, whose involuntary sin had been so fearfully 
 expiated. It was Clinton whom I had seen on the vessel's 
 deck. As he afterwards told me, the dazzle of the rays on 
 the water, in that direction, had prevented him from dis 
 tinguishing the features for ever engraven on his heart. The 
 hoarse sound of *he waves swallowed her drowning shriek- 
 onward they bore him, and he saw not the fond arms tha 
 would have embraced him, even over that watery chasm. * 
 have witnessed many a scene of sorrow, but never saw I one 
 like this. From the peculiar circumstances that brought ua 
 together, I became almost identified with this unhappy family. 
 Clinton was the most interesting man I ever saw. He was a 
 confirmed invalid, never having recovered from the effects of 
 his wound I never saw a smile upon his face, nor could I
 
 SO THE BLIND GIRI/S PTORY. 
 
 ever smile in his presence. He seldom spoke, and never but 
 once did he mention the name of Cecilia. It was one night 
 when he was unusually ill, and I was sitting alone with him 
 in his chamber. He gave me the manuscript for perusal which 
 is here transcribed, an act of confidence he considered due to 
 me, who would have been her saviour. Through the watches 
 of that night he poured into my ear the hoarded agonies of 
 his grief. Never before did I know how deep human sorrow 
 could be, or how holy was that love which clings to the memory 
 of the dead. 
 
 " Alice dwelt in ( the dark and narrow house.' She was 
 spared the knowledge of the fatal catastrophe, for she died be 
 fore her victim. Yes her victim ! Had she guarded against 
 the first inroads of a forbidden passion, there might have been 
 ' beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, and the gar 
 ment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.' The angel form 
 that lies low, wrapped in the winding-sheet of the waves, might 
 now be moving in the light of loveliness, love, and joy. But 
 who shall dare to arraign the doings of the Almighty ?"
 
 THE PARLOUR SERPENT. 
 
 MRS. WENTWORTH and Miss Hart entered the breakfast- 
 room together, the latter speaking earnestly and in a low con 
 fidential tone to the other, whose countenance was slightly 
 discomposed. 
 
 " There is nothing that provokes me so much as to hear 
 such remarks," said Miss Hart, " I have no patience to listen 
 to them. Indeed, I think they are made as much to wound 
 my feelings as anything else, for they all know the great affec 
 tion I have, for you." 
 
 " But you do not say what the remarks were, that gave you 
 so much pain," answered Mrs. Wentworth. " I would much 
 prefer that you would tell me plainly, than speak in such 
 vague hints. You will not make me angry, for I am entirely 
 indifferent to the opinion of the world." 
 
 Now there was not a woman in the world more sensitively 
 alive to censure than Mrs. Wentworth, and in proportion to 
 her sensitiveness, was her anxiety to know the observations of 
 others. 
 
 " If you had overheard Miss Bentley and Miss Wheeler 
 talking of you last night as I did," continued Miss Hart, "you 
 would not have believed your own ears. They said they 
 thought it was ridiculous in you to make such a nun of your 
 self, because Captain Wentworth was absent, and to dress so 
 plain and look so moping. One of them said, you did not dar 
 to visit or receive visiters while he was away, for that you were 
 as much afraid of him as if you were his slave, and that he had 
 made you promise not to stir out of the house, or to invite any 
 company while he was gone." 
 
 " Ridiculous ! nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth, 
 " there never was such an absurd idea. Captain Wentworth 
 nuver imposed such a restraint upon me, though I know he 
 
 (81)
 
 fc2 THE PARLOUR SERPENT. 
 
 would rather I would live retired, when lie cannot attend me 
 himself in the gay world. It is not despotism, hut affection, 
 that prompts the wish, and I am sure I feel no pleasure in 
 dressing, shining, and mingling in society, when he is exposed 
 to danger, and perhaps death, on the far deep sea." 
 
 " I know all that, my dear Mrs. Wentworth," replied Miss 
 Hart, insinuatingly, "and so I told them; but how little can 
 a heartless and censorious world judge of the feelings of the 
 refined and the sensitive ! It seems to be a general impression 
 that you fear your husband more than you love him, and that 
 this fear keeps you in a kind of bondage to his will. If I were 
 you, I would invite a large party and make it as brilliant as 
 possible, and be myself as gay as possible, and then that will 
 be giving the lie at once to their innuendoes." 
 
 " It is so mortifying to have such reports in circulation," said 
 Mrs. Wentworth, her colour becoming more and more height 
 ened and her voice more tremulous. " I don't care what they 
 say at all, and yet I am half resolved to follow your advice, if it 
 were only to vex them. I will do it, and let them know that I 
 am not afraid to be mistress of my own house while its master 
 is absent." 
 
 " That is exactly the right spirit," answered the delighted 
 Miss Hart; " I am glad you take it in that way. I was afraid 
 your feelings would be wounded, and that is the reason I was 
 so unwilling to tell you." 
 
 But though Mrs. Wentworth boasted of her spirit and her 
 indifference, her feelings were deeply wounded, and she sat at 
 the breakfast-table, cutting her toast into the most minute 
 pieces, without tasting any, while Miss Hart was regaling her 
 self with an unimpaired appetite, and luxuriating in fancy on 
 the delightful party, she had so skilfully brought into pro 
 mised existence, at least. She had no idea of spending the 
 time of her visit to Mrs. Wentworth, in dullness and seclusion, 
 sympathizing in the anxieties of a fond and timid wife, and 
 listening to a detail of domestic plans and enjoyments. She 
 knew the weak side of her character, and mingling the gall she 
 extracted from others, with the honey of her own flattery, and 
 building her influence on their ruined reputations, imagined it' 
 firm and secure on such a crumbling foundation. It is unne 
 cessary to dwell on the genealogy of Miss Hart. She was well 
 known as Miss Hart, and yet it would be very difficult for any 
 body to tell precisely who Miss Hart was. She was a general 
 visitor; oue of those young ladies who are always ready to fill
 
 THE PARLOUR SERPENT. 83 
 
 up any sudden vacuum made in a fairrly n kind of birr! of 
 passage, who, having no abiding place of her own, went 
 fluttering about, generally resting where she could find the 
 softest and most comfortable nest. She was what was called 
 excellent company, always had something new and interesting 
 to say about everybody ; then she knew so many secrets, and 
 had the art of exciting a person's curiosity so keenly, ar>d 
 making them dissatisfied with everybody but herself, it would 
 be impossible to follow all the windings, or discover all the 
 nooks and corners of her remarkable character. It was astonish 
 ing to see the influence she acquired over the minds of those 
 with whom she associated, male as well as female. She was 
 a showy, well-dressing, attractive-looking girl, with a great 
 deal of manner, a large, piercing, dark eye, and an uncom 
 monly sweet and persuasive tone of voice. Mrs. Wentworth 
 became acquainted with her a very short time before Captain 
 Wentwortb's departure, and esteemed it a most delightful 
 privilege to have such a pleasing companion to charm away 
 the lingering hours of his absence. Acting upon the sugges- 
 f ions of her friend, and following up the determination she had 
 so much applauded, she opened her doors to visiters, and 
 appeared in society with a gay dress and smiling countenance. 
 
 " What a change there is in Mrs. Wentworth !" observed 
 Miss Bentley to Miss Hart, as they met one morning at the 
 house of a mutual friend. " I never saw any one so trans 
 formed in nay life. She looks and dresses like the most com 
 plete flirt I ever saw ; I suspect Captain Wentworth has very 
 good reason to watch her as he does." 
 
 Miss Hart shrugged her shoulders and smiled significantly, 
 but did not say anything. 
 
 " It must be a very pleasant alteration to you," continued 
 Miss Bentley, "the house seems to be frequented by gentle 
 men from morning till night. I suppose you have the grace 
 to appropriate their visits to yourself." 
 
 " I have nothing to say about myself," answered Miss Hart, 
 " and I do not wish to speak of Mrs. Wentworth otherwise 
 than kindly. You know she is excessively kind to me, and 
 it would be ungrateful in me to condemn her conduct. To be 
 sure I must have my own thoughts on the subject. She is 
 certainly very imprudent, and too fond of admiration. But 
 I would not have you repeat what I have said, for the 
 world, for being in the family it would have such weight.
 
 84 THE PARLOUR SERPENT. 
 
 Be very careful what you say, and above all, don't mention 
 my name." 
 
 Miss Bentley was very careful to repeat the rem?rks to 
 every one she saw, with as many additions of her own as 
 she pleased, and the unutterable language of the smile and the 
 shrug was added too, to give force to the comments. Mrs. 
 Wentworth, in the mean while, unconscious of the serpent she 
 was nursing in her bosom, suffered herself to be borne along 
 on the current on which she had thoughtlessly embarked, 
 without the power to arrest her progress, or turn back into 
 the quiet channel she had quitted. The arrival of her brother, 
 a gay and handsome young man, gave additional animation to 
 her household, and company flowed in still more continuously. 
 Henry More, the brother of Mrs. Wentworth, was the 
 favourite of every circle in which he moved. With an uncom 
 mon flow of spirits, a ready and graceful wit, a fluent and flat 
 tering tongue, he mingled in society unaffected by its contrasts, 
 unwounded by its asperities, and unruffled by its contentions. 
 He seemed to revel in the happy consciousness of being able 
 to impart pleasure to all, and was equally willing to receive it. 
 He was delighted to find a fine-looking, amiable girl, an inmate 
 of his sister's dwelling, and immediately addressing her in his 
 accustomed strain of sportive gallantry, found that she not only 
 lent a willing ear, but was well skilled in the same language. 
 Though Miss Hart was still young, she had outlived the 
 romance and credulity of youth. She had a precocious 
 experience and wisdom in the ways of this world. She had 
 seen the affections of many a young man, with a disposition 
 open and ingenuous as Henry's, won through the medium of 
 their vanity, by women, too, who could not boast of attractions 
 equal to her own. She believed that juxtaposition could work 
 miracles, and as long as they were the inmates of the same 
 house, participating in the same pleasures, engaged in the same 
 pursuits, and often perusing the same book, she feared no 
 rival. She rejoiced, too, in the close-drawing socialities of the 
 winter fireside, and delighted when a friendly storm compelled 
 them to find all their enjoyment within their own little circle. 
 Mrs. Wentworth, who had once been cheerful and serene in 
 clouds as well as sunshine, was now subject to fits of despond 
 ency and silence. It was only when excited by company, 
 that her eyes were lighted up with animation, and her lipa 
 with smiles. She dreaded the reproaches of her husband on 
 his return, for acting so contrary to his wishes, and when she
 
 THE PARLOUR SERPENT. 85 
 
 heard the night-gust sweep by her windows, and thought of 
 him exposed to the warring elements, perhaps even then cling 
 ing to the drifting wreck, or floating in a watery grave, and 
 recollected the scenes of levity and folly in which she was now 
 constantly acting a part, merely to avoid the censures of the 
 very people she detested aud despised, she sighed and wept, 
 and wished she had followed her bosom counsellor, rather than 
 the suggestions of the friend in whom she still confided, and 
 on whose affection she relied with unwavering trust. It 
 was strange, she could hear Miss Hart ridicule others, 
 and join in the laugh; she could sit quietly and see her 
 breathe the subtle venom of slander over the fairest characters, 
 till they blackened and became polluted under her touch, and 
 yet she felt herself as secure as if she were placed on the 
 summit of Mont Blanc, in a region of inaccessible purity and 
 splendour. So blinding is the influence of self-love, pampered 
 by flattery, strengthened by indulgence, and unrestrained by 
 religious principle. 
 
 One evening, and it chanced to be the evening of the Sab 
 bath day, Henry sat unusually silent, and Miss Hart thought 
 that his eyes were fixed upon her face with a very deep and 
 peculiar expression " No," he suddenly exclaimed, " I never 
 saw such a countenance in my life." 
 
 " What do you see so remarkable in it ?" asked she, laugh 
 ing, delighted at what she supposed a spontaneous burst of 
 admiration. 
 
 " I don't know; I can no more describe it, than one of those 
 soft, fleecy clouds that roll melting away from the face of the 
 moon. But it haunts me like a dream." 
 
 Miss Hart modestly cast down her eyes, then turned them 
 towards the moon, which at that moment gleamed with pallid 
 lustre through the window. 
 
 " Your imagination is so glowing," replied she, " that it 
 invests, like the moonlight, every object with its own mellow 
 and beautiful tints." 
 
 " Jane," continued he, without noticing the compliment t9 
 his imagination, and turning to his sister, who was reading 
 intently, " Jane, you must have noticed her you were at the 
 same church." 
 
 " Noticed her !" repeated Miss Hart to herself, in utter dis 
 may; "who can he mean?" 
 
 " Noticed who ?" said Mrs. Wentworth, laying down her 
 "book, " I have not heard a syllable you have been saying."
 
 86 THE PARLOUR SERPENT. 
 
 " Why, that young lady dressed in black, with such a sweet, 
 modest, celestial expression of face. She sat at the right hand 
 of the pulpit, with another lady in mourning, who was very 
 tall and pale/' 
 
 " What coloured hair and eyes had she ?" asked his sister. 
 
 " I could no more tell the colour of her eyes, than I could 
 paint yon twinkling star, or her hair either. I only know that 
 they shed a kind of glory over her countenance, and mantled 
 her brow with the softest and most exquisite shades." 
 
 "I declare, Henry," cried Mrs. Wentworth, "you are the 
 most extravagant being I ever knew. I don't know whether 
 you are in jest or earnest." 
 
 " Oh ! you may be sure he is in earnest," said Miss Hart. 
 I know whom he means very well. It is Miss Carroll. Lois Car 
 roll, the grand-daughter of old Mr. Carroll, the former minister 
 
 of church. The old lady with whom she sat is her aunt. 
 
 They live somewhere in the suburbs of the city but never go 
 anywhere except to church. They say she is the most complete 
 little methodist in the world." 
 
 " What do you mean by a methodist ?" asked Henry abruptly 
 "an enthusiast?" 
 
 " One who never goes to the theatre, never attends the ball 
 room, thinks it a sin to laugh, and goes about among poor 
 people to give them doctor's stuff, and read the Bible." 
 
 " Well," answered Henry, " I see nothing very appalling 
 in this description. If ever I marry, I have no very great 
 desire that my wife should frequent the theatre or the ball 
 room. She might admire artificial graces at the one and 
 exhibit them in the other, but the loveliest traits of her sex 
 must fade and wither in the heated atmosphere of both. And I 
 am sure it is a divine office to go about ministering to the wants 
 of the poor and healing the sick. As to the last item, I may 
 not be a proper judge, but I do think a beautiful woman read 
 ing the Bible to the afflicted and dying, must be the most 
 angelic object in the universe." 
 
 " Why, brother," said Mrs. Wentworth, " what a strange 
 compound you are ! Such a rattle-brain as you, moralizing 
 like a.second Johnson!" 
 
 " I may be a wild rattle-brain, and sport like a thousand 
 others in the waves of fashion, but there is something here, 
 Jane," answered he, laying his hand half seriously, half 
 sportively on his breast, " that tells me that I was created for 
 immortality ; that, spendthrift of time, I am still bound for
 
 THE PARLOUR SERPENT. 87 
 
 eternity. I have often pictured the future, in my musing 
 hours, and imagined a woman's gentle hand was guiding me 
 in the path that leads to heaven." 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth looked at her brother in astonishment. 
 There was something in the solemnity of his expressions that 
 alarmed her, coming from one so gay and apparently thought 
 less. Miss Hart was alarmed too, but from a different cause. 
 She thought it time to aim her shaft, and she knew in what 
 course to direct it. 
 
 " This Miss Carroll," said she, " whom you admire so much, 
 has lately lost her lover, to whom she was devotedly attached. 
 He was her cousin, and they had been brought up together 
 from childhood, and betrothed from that period. She nursed 
 him during a long sickness, day and night, and many thought 
 she would follow him to the grave, her grief was so great." 
 
 " Her lover l' f exclaimed Henry, in a mock tragedy tone. 
 " Then it is all over with me I never would accept the second 
 place in any maiden's heart, even if I could be enshrined 
 there in heaven's crystal. Give me the rose before the sun 
 beams have exhaled the dew of the morning, or it wears no 
 charms for me." 
 
 Miss Hart and Mrs. Wentworth laughed, rallied Henry upon 
 his heroics, and the beautiful stranger was mentioned no more. 
 Miss Hart congratulated herself upon the master stroke by 
 which she had dispelled his enchantment, if indeed it existed 
 at all. She had often heard Henry declare his resolution never 
 to marry a woman who had acknowledged a previous affection, 
 and she seized upon a vague report of Miss Carroll's being in 
 mourning for a cousin who had recently died, and to whom 
 she thought she might possibly, be betrothed, and presented it 
 as a positive truth. Finding that Henry's ideas of female 
 perfection were very different from what she had imagined, 
 she was not sorry when an opportunity offered of displaying 
 those domestic virtues, which he so much extolled. One 
 night, when Mrs. Wentworth was prepared to attend a private 
 ball, she expressed her wish to remain at home, declaring tha 
 she was weary of dissipation, and preferred reading and medi 
 tation. She expected Henry would steal away from the party, 
 and join her in the course of the evening, but her real motive 
 was a violent toothache, which she concealed that she might 
 have the credit of a voluntary act. After Mrs. Wcntworth's 
 departure, she bound a handkerchief round her aching jaw, 
 and having found relief from some powerful anodyne, she
 
 88 THE PARLOUR SERPENT. 
 
 reclined back on the sofa and fell at last into a deep sleep. Th 
 candles burned dim from their long, unsnuffed wicks, and threw 
 a very dubious light through the spacious apartment. She 
 was awakened by a tall, dark figure, bending over her, with 
 outspread arms, as if about to embrace her, and starting up, 
 her first thought was that it was Henry, who had stolen on 
 her solitude, and was about to declare the love she had no 
 doubt he secretly cherished for her. But the figure drew back, 
 with a sudden recoil, when she rose, and uttered her name in 
 a tone of disappointment. 
 
 " Captain Wentworth," exclaimed she, " is it you ?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said he, extending his hand cordially 
 towards her, " I thought for a moment it was my wife, my 
 Jane, Mrs. Wentworth where is she ? Is she well ? Why 
 do I not see her here ?" 
 
 " Oh ! Captain Wentworth, she had no expectation of your 
 coming so soon. She is perfectly well. She is gone to a qua 
 drille party, and will probably not be at home for several hours 
 I will send for her directly." 
 
 " No, Miss Hart," said he, in a cold and altered voice, " no, 
 I would not shorten her evening's amusement. A quadrille 
 party I thought she had no taste for such pleasures." 
 
 " She seems to enjoy them very much," replied Miss Hart, 
 " and it is very natural she should. She is young and hand 
 some, and very much admired, and in your absence she found 
 her own home compafatively dull." 
 
 The captain rose, and walked the room with a sailor's 
 manly stride. His brows were knit, his lips compressed, and 
 his cheek flushed. She saw the iron of jealousy was entering 
 his soul, and she went on mercilessly deepening the wound 
 she had made. 
 
 " You will be delighted when you see Mrs. Wentworth 
 she looks so blooming and lovely. You have reason to be 
 quite proud of your wife she is the belle of every party and 
 ball-room. I think it is well that you have returned." This 
 she added, with an arch, innocent smile, though she knew every 
 word she uttered penetrated like a dagger, where he was most 
 vulnerable. " How thoughtless I am !" she exclaimed ; " you 
 must be weary and hungry I will order your supper." 
 
 " No, no," said he, " I have no appetite I will not trouble 
 you. Don't disturb yourself on my account I will amuse 
 myself with a book till she returns." 
 
 He sat down and took up a book, but his eyes were fixed
 
 THE PARLOUR SERPENT. 89 
 
 moodily on the carpet, and his hands trembled as he uncon 
 sciously turned the leaves. Miss Hart suffered occasional 
 agony from her tooth, the more as she had taken off the dis 
 figuring bandage, but she would not retire, anticipating with 
 a kind of savage delight, the unpleasant scene that would ensue 
 on Mrs. Wentworth's return. The clock struck twelve before 
 the carriage stopped at the door. Mrs. Wentworth came 
 lightly into the room, unaccompanied by her brother, her cloak 
 falling from her shoulders, her head uncovered, most fashion 
 ably and elegantly dressed. She did not see her husband 
 when she first entered, and throwing her cloak on a chair, 
 exclaimed, " Oh ! Miss Hart, I'm so sorry you were not there, 
 we had such a delightful party the pleasantest of the whole 
 season." Her eye at this moment fell upon her husband, 
 who had risen upon her entrance, but stood back in the shade, 
 without making one step to meet her. With a scream of sur 
 prise, joy, and perhaps terror too, she rushed towards him, and 
 threw her arms around him. He suffered her clinging arms to 
 remain round his neck for a moment while he remained as pas 
 sive as the rock on the seabeat shore when the white foam 
 wreathes and curls over its surface, then drawing back, he looked 
 her steadfastly in the face, with a glance that made her own to 
 quail, and her lip and cheek blanch. She looked down upon 
 her jewelled neck and airy robes, and wished herself clothed 
 in sackcloth and ashes. She began to stammer forth some 
 excuse for her absence, something about his unexpected 
 return, but the sentence died on her lips. The very blood 
 seemed to congeal in her heart, under the influence of his 
 freezing glance. 
 
 " Don't say anything, Jane," said he, sternly. " It is 
 better as it is I had deluded myself with the idea, that in all 
 my dangers and hardships, to which I have exposed myself 
 chiefly for your sake, I had a fond and faithful wife, who pined 
 at my absence and yearned for my return. I was not aware 
 of the new character you had assumed. No," continued be 
 impetuously, entirely forgetful of the presence of Miss Hart 
 " I was not prepared for a welcome like this. I expected to 
 have met a wife not a flirt, a belle, a vain, false-hearted, 
 deceitful woman." Thus saying, he suddenly left the room, 
 slosing the door with a force that made every article of the 
 furniture tremble. Mrs. Wentworth, bursting into hysterical 
 sobs, was about to rush after him, but Miss Hart held her 
 back " Don't be a fool/' said she; " he'll get over it directly
 
 90 THE PARLOUR SERPEN'T. 
 
 you've done nothing at which he ought to be angry ; I had 
 no idea he was such a tyrant." 
 
 " He was always kind to me before," sobbed Mrs. Went- 
 worth. " He thinks my heart is weaned from him. Now, I 
 wish I had disregarded the sneer of the world ! It can never 
 repay me for the loss of his love." 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Wentworth," said Miss Hart, putting her 
 rms soothingly round her, " I feel for you deeply, but I hope 
 'you will not reproach yourself unnecessarily, or suffer your 
 husband to suppose you condemn your own conduct. If you 
 do, he will tyrannize over you, through life what possible 
 harm could there be in your going to a private party with your 
 own brother, when, you did not look for his return ? You have 
 taken no more liberty than every married lady in the city would 
 have done, and a husband who really loved his wife, would be 
 pleased and gratified that she should be an object of attention 
 and admiration to others. Come, dry up your tears, and exert 
 the pride and spirit every woman of delicacy and sense should 
 exercise on such occasions." 
 
 Mrs. Wentworth listened, and the natural pride and way 
 wardness of the human heart strengthening the counsels of her 
 treacherous companion, her sorrow and contrition became 
 merged in resentment. She resolved to return coldness for 
 coldness and scorn for scorn, to seek no reconciliation, nor 
 even to grant it, until he humbly sued for her forgiveness. 
 The husband and wife met at the breakfast-table without 
 speaking. Henry was unusually taciturn, and the whole 
 burthen of keeping up the conversation rested on Miss Hart, 
 who endeavoured to entertain and enliven the whole. Captain 
 Wentworth, who had all the frankness and politeness of a 
 sailor, unbent his stern brow when he addressed her, and it 
 was in so kind a voice, that the tears started into his wife's 
 eyes at the sound. He had no words, no glance for her, from 
 whom he had been parted so long, and whom he had once 
 loved so tenderly. Henry, who had been absorbed in his own 
 reflections, and who had not been present at their first meeting, 
 now noticed the silence of his sister, and the gloom of IKT 
 husband, and looking from one to the other, first in astonish 
 ment, and then in mirth, he exclaimed, "Well, I believe I 
 shall remain a bachelor, if this is a specimen of a matrimonial 
 meeting. Jane looks as if she were doing penance for the 
 sins of her whole life, and Captain Wentworth as if he were 
 about to give a broadside's thunder. What has happened?
 
 THE PARLOUR SERPENT. 91 
 
 Miss Hart resembles a beam of sunshine between two 
 clouds." 
 
 Had Henry been aware of the real state of things, he would 
 never have indulged his mirth at the expense of his sister's 
 feelings. He had no suspicion that the clouds to which he 
 alluded, arose from estrangement from each other, and when 
 Mrs. Wentworth burst into tears and left the table, and Cap 
 tain Wentworth set back his chair so suddenly as to upset the 
 teaboard and produce a terrible crash among the china, the 
 smile forsook his lips, and, turning to the captain in rather an 
 authoritative manner, he demanded an explanation. 
 
 " Ask your sister," answered the captain, " and she may 
 give it as for me, sir, my feelings are not to be made a sub 
 ject of unfeeling merriment. They have been already too 
 keenly tortured, and should at least be sacred from your jest. 
 But one thing let me tell you, sir, if you had had more 
 regard to your sister's reputation, than to have escorted her to 
 scenes of folly and corruption during her husband's absence, 
 you might perhaps have spared me the misery I now endure." 
 
 " Do you threaten me, Captain Wentworth ?" said Henry, 
 advancing nearer to him with a flushed brow and raised tone. 
 Miss Hart here interposed, and begged and entreated, and 
 laid her hand on Henry's arm, and looked softly and im 
 ploringly at Captain Wentworth, who snatched up his hat and 
 left the room, leaving Henry angry, distressed, and bewildered. 
 Miss Hart explained the whole as the most causeless and ridi 
 culous jealousy, which would soon pas? away and was not 
 worth noticing, and urged him to treat the matter as unworthy 
 of indignation. She feared she had carried matters a little too 
 far ; she had no wish that they should fight, and Henry, per 
 haps, fall a victim to excited passions. She was anxious to 
 allay the storm she had raised, and she succeeded in prevent 
 ing the outbreakings of wrath, but she could not restore the 
 happiness she had destroyed, the domestic peace she had 
 disturbed, the love and confidence she had so wantonly invaded. 
 Nor did she desire it. Incapable herself of feeling happiness 
 from the evil passions that reigned in her bosom, she looked upon 
 the bliss of others as a personal injury to herself; and where 
 the flowers were fairest and the hopes the brightest, she loved 
 to trample and shed her blasting influence. As the serpent 
 goes trailing its dark length through the long grasses and sweet 
 blossoms that veil its path, silent and deadly, she glided amid 
 the sacred shades of domestic life, darting in ambush her
 
 92 THE PARLOUR SERPENT. 
 
 vcnomed sting, and winding her coil in the very bosoms that 
 warmed'and caressed her. She now flitted about, describing 
 what she called the best and most ridiculous scene imaginable ; 
 and the names of Captain Wentworth and his wife were bandied 
 from lip to lip, one speaking of him as a tyrant, a bear, a 
 domestic tiger another of her as a heartless devotee of 
 fashion, or a contemner of the laws of God and man. Most 
 truly has it been said in holy writ, that the tongue of the 
 slanderer is set on fire of hell, nor can the waters of the mul 
 titudinous sea quench its baleful flames. One evening Henry 
 was returning at a late hour from the country, and passing a 
 mansion in the outskirts of the city, whose shaded walls and 
 modest situation called up ideas of domestic comfort and retire 
 ment; he thought it might be the residence of Miss Carroll, 
 for, notwithstanding Miss Hart's damper, he had not forgotten 
 her. He passed the house very slowly, gazing at one 
 illuminated window, over which a white muslin curtain softly 
 floated, and wishing he could catch another glimpse of a coun 
 tenance that haunted him, as he said, like a dream. All was 
 still, and he passed on, through a narrow alley that shortened 
 his way. At the end of the alley was a small, low dwelling, 
 where a light still glimmered, and the door being partially 
 open, he heard groans and wailing sounds, indicating distress 
 within. He approached the door, thinking he might render relief 
 or assistance, and stood at the threshold, gazing on the unex 
 pected scene presented to his view. On a low seat, not far 
 from the door, sat a young lady, in a loose white robe, thrown 
 around her in evident haste and disorder, her hair partly 
 knotted up behind and partly falling in golden waves on her 
 shoulders, holding in her lap a child of about three years old, 
 from whose bandaged head the blood slowly oozed and dripped 
 down on her snowy dress one hand was placed tenderly under 
 the wounded head, the other gently wiped away the stains from 
 its bloody brow. A woman, whose emaciated features and 
 sunken eyes spoke the ravages of consumption, sat leaning 
 against the wall, gazing with a ghastly expression on the little 
 sufferer, whose pains she had no power to relieve, and a little 
 boy about ten years of age stood near her, weeping bitterly. 
 Here was a scene of poverty, and sickness, and distress that 
 baffled description, and in the midst appeared the outlines of 
 that fair figure, like a descended angel of mercy, sent down to 
 console the sorrows of humanity. 
 
 "This was a dreadful accident," said the young lady,
 
 THE PARLOUR SERPENT. Q' a 
 
 " dreadful," raising her bead as she spoke, and shading back 
 her hair, revealing at the same time the heavenly coun 
 tenance which had once before beamed on Henry's gaze. It 
 was Lois Carroll, true to the character Miss Hart had sar 
 castically given her, a ministering spirit of compassion and 
 benevolence. 
 
 " She will die," said the poor mother, " she'll never get over 
 such a blow as that. She fell with such force, and struck her 
 head on such a dangerous part too. Well, why should I wish 
 her to live, when I must leave her behind so soon ?" 
 
 " The doctor said there was some hope," answered the 
 fair Lois, in a sweet, soothing voice, " and if it is Grod's will 
 that she should recover, you ought to bless Him for it, and 
 trust Him who feedeth the young ravens when they cry to 
 Him for food. Lie down and compose yourself to rest. I wili 
 remain here through the night, and nurse the poor little 
 patient. If she is kept very quiet, I think she will be better 
 in the morning." 
 
 " How kind, how good you are !" said the mother, wiping 
 the tear from her wasted cheek, " what should I do without 
 you? But I never can think of your sitting up the whole 
 night for us." 
 
 "And why not for you?" asked Lois, earnestly. "Can I 
 ever repay your kindness to poor Charles, when he was sick, 
 and you sat up, night after night, and refused to leave him ? 
 And now, when you are sick and helpless, would you deprive 
 me of the opportunity of doing for you, what you have done 
 for one so dear to me ?" 
 
 A pang shot through Henry's heart. This poor Charles 
 must have been the lover for whom she mourned, and at the 
 mention of his name, he felt as if wakening from a dream 
 The love that bound the living to the dead, was a bond his 
 hand would never attempt to loosen, and turning away with a 
 sigh, he thought it would be sacrilege to linger there longer. 
 Still he looked back to catch one more glimpse of a face where 
 all the beatitudes dwelt. He had beheld the daughters of 
 beauty, with all the charms of nature aided by the fascinations 
 of art and fashion, but never had he witnessed anything so 
 lovely as this young girl, in her simplicity, purity, and gentle 
 ness, unconscious that any eye was upon her, but the poor 
 widow's and weeping orphan's. He had seen a fair belle iu 
 ill-humour for an hour, because a slight accident had soiled a 
 new dress, or defaced a new ornament, but Lois sat in her 
 107
 
 94 THE PARLOUR SERPENT. 
 
 blood-spotted robes, regardless of the stains, intent only on tho 
 object of her tenderness, and that a miserable child. 
 
 " Surely," thought he, as he pursued his way homeward, 
 " there must be a divine influence operating on the heart, when 
 a character like this is formed. Even were her affections free 
 and not wedded to the dead, I should no more dare to love 
 such a being, so spiritual, so holy, so little of the earth, earthy, 
 than one of those pure spirits that live in the realms of ether. 
 I! what has my life hitherto been ? Nothing but a tissue 
 of recklessness, folly, and madness. I have been trying 
 to quench the heaven-born spark Avithin me, but it still burns, 
 and will continue to burn, while the throne of the Everlasting 
 endures." 
 
 Henry felt more, reflected more that night, than he had 
 done for five years before. He rose in the morning with a 
 fixed resolve, to make that night an era in his existence. 
 During the day the poor widow's heart was made to " sing ' 
 for joy," for a supply was received from an unknown hand, 
 so bounteous and unlocked for, she welcomed it us a gift from 
 heaven. And so it was, for heaven inspired and also blessed 
 the act. 
 
 Miss Hart began to be uneasy at Henry's deportment, 
 and she had no reason to think she advanced in his good 
 graces, and she had a vague fear of that Lois Carroll, whom 
 she trusted she had robbed of all power to fascinate his 
 imagination. 
 
 " By the way," said she to him, one day, as if struck by a 
 sudden thought, " have you seen that pretty Miss Carroll since 
 the evening you were speaking of her ?" 
 
 " Yes," answered Henry, colouring very high, " I have met, 
 her several times why do you ask ?" 
 
 " No matter," said she, petrified at this information ; "I saw 
 a lady yesterday, who knows her intimately, and her conversa 
 tion reminded me of ours on the same subject." 
 
 " What does the lady say of her character ?" asked Henry. 
 
 " What every one else does, who knows her that she is the 
 greatest hypocrite that ever breathed. Perfectly selfish, self- 
 righteous, and uncharitable. She says, notwithstanding her 
 sweet countenance, she has a very bad temper, and that no one 
 is willing to live in the same house with her." 
 
 ' You told me formerly," said Henry, " that -she was 
 over charitable and kind, constantly engaged in labours of 
 love."
 
 THE PARLOUR SERPENT. 95 
 
 " Oh, yes !" answered she, with perfect self-possession ; 
 * there is no end to the parade she makes about her good works, 
 as she calls them, but it is for ostentation, and to obtain the 
 reputation of a saint, that she does them." 
 
 " But," said Henry, very warmly, " supposing she exercised 
 this same heavenly charity when she believed no eye beheld 
 her, but the poor whom she relieved, and the sick whom sh 
 healed, and the God whom she adores; would you call tha 
 ostentation ?" 
 
 " Oh, my dear Mr. More," cried Miss Hart, with a musical 
 laugh, " you do not know half the arts of the sex. There is 
 a young minister and young physician too, in the neighbour 
 hood, who know all her secret movements, and hear her praises 
 from morning till night they say they are both in love with 
 her, but as her cousin hasn't been dead long, she thinks it 
 proper to be very demure I must say frankly and honestly, I 
 have no faith in these female Tartuffes." 
 
 " Nor I neither," added Henry, with so peculiar a manner, 
 that Miss Hart started and looked inquisitively at him, with 
 her dark, dilated eyes. She feared she had hazarded too 
 much, and immediately observed, 
 
 " Perhaps, in my abhorrence of duplicity and hypocrisy, I 
 run into the opposite extreme, and express my sentiments too 
 openly. You think me severe, but I can have no possible 
 motive to depreciate Miss Carroll, but as she herself stretches 
 every one on the bed of Procrustes, I feel at liberty to speak 
 my opinion of her character, not mine only, but that of the 
 whole world." 
 
 Henry made some evasive reply, and turned the conversa 
 tion to another topic, leaving Miss Hart lost in a labyrinth of 
 conjecture, as to the impression she had made on his mind 
 where and when had he met Lois Carroll, and why was he so 
 reserved upon a theme, upon which he had once been so elo 
 quent ? 
 
 She sat for half an hour after Henry left her, pondering 
 on these things, and looking at one figure in the carpet, as 
 if her eyes grew upon the spot, when her thoughts were 
 turned into another channel by the entrance of Captain Went- 
 worth. 
 
 She believed that she stood very high in his favour ; for he 
 was extremely polite to her, and showed her so much deference 
 and attention, that she had no doubt that if Mrs. Wentworth 
 were out of the way, he would be at no loss whom to choose
 
 96 THE PARLOUR SERPENT. 
 
 as a successor. Her prospects with Henry grew more and 
 more dubious she thought, upon the whole, the captain the 
 finer-looking and most agreeable man of the two. There was 
 no knowing but he might separate from his wife, and as they 
 seemed divorced in heart, she thought it would be much bet 
 ter than to remain together so cold and distant to each other. 
 There was nothing she feared so much as a reconciliation ; and as 
 long as she could prevent Mrs. Wentworth from manifesting any 
 symptoms of submission and sorrow, she was sure her husband's 
 pride would be unyielding. She had a scheme on hand at 
 present, which would promote her own gratification, and widen 
 the breach between them. 
 
 There was a celebrated actor in the city, whom she was 
 very desirous of seeing, and of whom Captain Wentworth had 
 a particular dislike ; he disliked the theatre and everything 
 connected with it, and Miss Hart had vainly endeavoured to 
 persuade Mrs. Wentworth to go with her brother, in open 
 defiance of her husband. Henry manifested no disposition 
 himself, and never would understand the oblique hints she 
 gave him ; she was determined to make a bold attack upon the 
 captain himself. 
 
 " Captain Wentworth," said she, carelessly looking over the 
 morning paper, "don't you mean to take Mrs. Wentworth to 
 see this superb actor ? she is dying to see him, and yet does 
 not like to ask you." 
 
 "She's at perfect liberty to go as often as she pleases," 
 replied the captain coldly " I've no wish to control her in 
 clinations." 
 
 " But she will not go, of course, unless you accompany her," 
 replied Miss Hart, " not even with her brother." 
 
 " Did she commission you to make this request ?" 
 
 "Not precisely; but knowing her wishes, I could not for 
 bear doing it, even at the risk of your displeasure." 
 
 " If her heart is in such scenes, there can be no possible 
 gratification to confine her body within the precincts of home." 
 
 The captain walked several times up and down the room, 
 as was his custom when agitated, then abruptly asked Miss 
 Hart if she wished to go herself. 
 
 She wished it, she said, merely to avoid singularity, as every 
 body else went j but had it not been for Mrs. Wentworth, she 
 would never have mentioned it. 
 
 The captain declared that if she had the slightest desire,
 
 THE PARLOUR SERPENT. 97 
 
 it was a command to him, and the tickets were accordingly 
 purchased. 
 
 Late in the afternoon, Captain Wentworth sat in the dining- 
 rooin, reading. As the sun drew near the horizon, and the 
 light grew fainter, he sat down in a recess by a window, and 
 the curtain falling down, completely concealed him. In this 
 position he remained while the twilight darkened around hirn, 
 and no longer able to read, he gave himself up to those dark 
 and gloomy reflections which had lately filled his mind. He 
 thought of the hours when, tossed upon the foaming billows, he 
 had turned in heart towards his home, 
 
 " And she, the dim and melancholy star, 
 Whose ray of beauty reached him from afar," 
 
 rose upon the clouds of memory, with soft and gilding lustre. 
 Now he was safely anchored in the haven of his hopes and 
 wishes, but his soul was drifted by storms, wilder than any 
 that swept the boisterous seas. The very efibrt of preserving 
 outward calmness, only made the tempest fiercer within. This 
 new instance of his wife's unconquerable levity and heartless- 
 ness, filled him with despair. He believed her too much 
 demoralized by vanity and love of pleasure, ever to return to 
 her duty and allegiance as a wife. 
 
 While indulging these bitter feelings, Miss Hart and Mrs. 
 Wentworth entered the dining-room, unaware of his presence. 
 Miss Hart, as usual, was speaking in an earnest, confi- 
 fidential tone, as if she feared some one was listening to her 
 counsels. 
 
 " I beg, I entreat," said she, " that you would rally your 
 spirits, and not let the world see that you are cast down by his 
 ill treatment. All the fashionable people will be there. to 
 night, and you must remember that many eyes will be upon 
 you ; and pray don't wear that horrid unbecoming dress, it 
 makes a perfect fright of you, muffling you up to the chin." 
 
 " It is no matter," replied Mrs. Wentworth, despondingly, 
 ' I don't care how I look the only eyes I ever really wished 
 to charm, now turn from me in disgust; I'm weary of acting 
 the part of a hypocrite, of smiling and chattering, and talking 
 nonsense, when I feel as if my heart were breaking. Ob ! 
 that I had not weakly yielded my better reason to that fear of 
 the world's censure, which has been the ruin of my happiness." 
 
 " I would never suffer my happiness to be affected one way or
 
 pg THE PARLOUR SERPENT. 
 
 the other," cried Miss Hart, "by a man who showed so little 
 tenderness or delicacy towards me. I wonder your affection 
 is not chilled, nay utterly destroyed by his harshness and 
 despotism/' 
 
 " Oh ! you little know the strength or depth of a woman's 
 love, if you deem it so soon uprooted. My heart yearns to be 
 admitted once more into the foldings of his a hundred times 
 Have I been tempted to throw myself into his arms, implore his 
 forgiveness, and entreat him to commence a new life of confi 
 dence and love." 
 
 Miss Hart began to laugh at this romantic speech, but the 
 laugh froze on her lips when she saw the window-curtains sud 
 denly part, and Captain Wentworth rushing forward, clasp his 
 astonished wife in his arms, exclaiming " Jane, dear Jane, that 
 life is begun !" He could not utter another word. 
 
 When, after a 1'ew moments of intense emotion, he raised 
 his head, tears which were no stain upon his manhood, were 
 glistening on his dark cheek. Miss Hart looked on with feel 
 ings similar to those which we may suppose animate the spirits 
 of darkness, when they witness the restoration of man to the 
 forfeited favour of his Maker. There was wormwood and bit 
 terness in her heart, but her undaunted spirit still saw a way 
 of extrication from all her difficulties. 
 
 " Really, Captain "Wentworth," exclaimed she, laughing vio 
 lently, " the next time you hide yourself behind a curtain, you 
 must draw your boots under ; I saw the cloven foot peeping 
 out, and spoke of you as I did, just to see what Mrs. Went 
 worth would say, and I thought very likely it would have a 
 happy result I am sure this is a finer scene than any we shall 
 see at the theatre." 
 
 "That you have deceived me, Miss Hart," answered the 
 captain, " I acknowledge to my shame, but my eyes are now 
 opened. My situation was accidental; no, I should say pro 
 vidential, for I have made discoveries, for which I can never 
 be sufficiently grateful. Jane, I have been harsh and unjustly 
 suspicious, I know, and richly deserve all I have suffered ; but 
 from the first hour of my return, this treacherous friend of 
 yours, discovering the weakness of my character, has fanned 
 the flame of jealousy, and fed the fires that were consuming 
 me. I despise myself for being her dupe." 
 
 " Oh ! Miss Hart," cried Mrs. Wentworth, "how could you 
 be so cruel ? you whom I so trusted, and thought my best and 
 truest friend !"
 
 THE PARLOUR SERPENT. 99 
 
 " I have said nothing but the truth to either," cried Miss 
 Hart boldly, seeing all subterfuge was now vain, " and 
 you had better profit by it. Everybody has a weak side, and 
 if they leave it unguarded and open to the attacks of the enemy, 
 they have no one to blame but themselves. I never made you 
 joalous, Captain Wentworth, nor your wife credulous ; and, as 
 [ leave you wiser than I found you, I think you both ought to 
 be very much obliged to me." 
 
 Thus saying, with an unblushing countenance, she left the 
 apartment, and recollecting the next morning that a certain 
 lady had given her a most pressing invitation to visit her, she 
 departed, and no one said " God bless her." 
 
 Henry, who had seen full as much as he desired of her, 
 hardly knew which rejoiced him more, her departure or his 
 sister's happiness. Indeed the last seemed the consequence 
 of the first, for never was there such a transformation in a 
 household. There was blue sky for stormy clouds spring 
 gales for chill east winds love and joy for distrust and sorrow. 
 
 Henry had seen the physician and minister whom Miss Hart 
 had mentioned as the lovers of Lois Carroll. The young phy 
 sician happened to be a bald, broad-faced man, with a long 
 nose, which turned up at the end, as if looking at his forehead, 
 and the young minister, a man whose hair was frosted with 
 the snow of sixty winters, and on whose evangelical coun 
 tenance disease had written deeper lines than those of age. 
 Charles, too, the lover-cousin, proved to be an only brother,* 
 whose lingering hours of disease she had soothed with^a7|i +. 
 Christian sister's holy ministration. Henry became a frequent, 'nrl 
 and, as he had reason to believe, a welcome visiter, at the house. 
 He found Lois skilled in all the graceful accomplishments of 
 her sex her mind was enriched with oriental and classical t 
 literature, her memory stored with the brightest and purest 
 gems of genius and taste ; yet, like the wise men of the East, who 
 brought their gold and frankincense and myrrh to the manger 
 of the babe of Bethlehem, she laid these precious offerings in 
 lowliness of spirit, at the feet of her Redeemer. All at once, 
 Henry perceived a cloud come over the confidence in which he 
 was established there. The good aunt was cold and distant ; 
 Lois, though still gentle and kind, was silent and reserved, 
 and he thought he caught her melting blue eyes fixed upon 
 him more than once with a sad and pitying expression. 
 
 " What has occurred ?" asked he with the frankness so
 
 100 THE PARLOUR SERPENT. 
 
 peculiar to him when for a moment he was left alone with her 
 " I am no longer a welcome guest." 
 
 " Forgive us," answered Lois, her face mantling with earnest 
 blushes, " if we feel constrained to deny ourselves the pleasure 
 we have derived from your society. As long as we believed 
 you the friend of religion, though not her acknowledged votary, 
 * our hearts acknowledged a sympathy with yours, and indulged 
 a hope that you would ere long go goal for goal with us for the 
 same immortal priz-e. But an infidel, Mr. More ! Oh ! my 
 BOU! I" continued she, clasping her hands fervently together, 
 and looking upward, " come not thou into his secret !" 
 
 " An infidel I" cried Henry, "and do you believe me such, 
 and condemn me as such, unheard, without granting me an 
 opportunity of vindication ?" 
 
 " We would not have admitted the belief from an authority 
 less respectable. The intelligence came from one who had 
 been an inmate of your family, and expressed for you the 
 warmest friendship. We were told that you ridicule our faith, 
 make the Bible a scorn and mockery, and expose us as indivi 
 duals to contempt and derision." 
 
 " It must have been that serpent of a Miss Hart !" exclaimed 
 Henry, trembling with passion ; " that scorpion, that fiend in 
 woman's form, whose path may be traced by the slime and the 
 poison she leaves behind ! The lips which could brand you, 
 Lois, as a hypocrite, would not leave my name unbluckened. 
 My sister received her into her household, and her domestic 
 happiness came near being the wreck of her malignant arts 
 I could give you any proof you may ask of her falsehood and 
 turpitude." 
 
 "I ask none," cried Lois, with an irradiated countenance, 
 "I believe your assurance, and rejoice in it. I cannot 
 describe the pain, the grief I felt that one so kind to others, 
 could be so cruel to himself." 
 
 Lois, in the godly simplicity of her heart, knew not of the 
 warmth with which she spoke, or of the vivid expression that 
 lighted up her eyes. Henry thought if ever there was a 
 moment when he could dare to address her as a being born to 
 love, and to be loved with human tenderness, it was the pre 
 sent. He began with faltering lips, but in the intensity of 
 his feelings he soon forgot everything, but the object for which 
 he was pleading, with an ardour and a vehemence that made 
 the unsophisticated Lois tremble. She trembled and wept
 
 THE PARLOUR SERPENT. 101 
 
 Her heart melted before his impassioned declaration, but she 
 feared to yield immediately to its dictates. 
 
 Their course of life had hitherto been so different, their 
 early associations, their pursuits and habits she dreaded lest 
 he should mistake the fervour of his attachment for her, for 
 the warmth of religious sentiment, and that the temptations 
 of the world would resume their influence over his heart. 
 <( Let us still be friends," said she, smiling through her tears, 
 " till time has more fully unfolded our characters to each other. 
 We are as yet but acquaintances of a day, as it were, and if we 
 hope to pass an eternity together, we should pause a little 
 before we become fellow-travellers in our pilgrimage. The love 
 of a Christian/' continued she, a holy enthusiasm illuminating 
 her face, " cannot be limited to the transient union of this 
 world it soars far, far beyond it, illimitable as space, and 
 everlasting as the soul's existence." Henry felt, while listen 
 ing to this burst of hallowed feeling, that to possess the love 
 of Lois Carroll here, without a hope of reunion beyond the 
 grave, would be a dark and cheerless destiny, compared to the 
 glorious hopes that now animated his being. 
 
 It was about two years after this, Miss Hart took passage 
 in the stage, and started for the habitation of some obscure 
 relative who lived in a distant town. She had gone from 
 family to family, indulging her odious propensity, flattering 
 the present, and slandering the absent, till, her character be 
 coming fully known, all doors were closed against her, and she 
 was compelled to seek a home, among kindred she was ashamed 
 to acknowledge. "Whose beautiful country-seats are those?" 
 asked a fellow-passenger, pointing to two elegant mansions, 
 that stood side by side as if claiming consanguinity with each 
 other. " The first belongs to Captain Wentworth, and the 
 other to Mr. Henry More, his brother-in-law," answered Miss 
 Hart, putting her head from the window, as they passed 
 " you must have heard of them." "No," said the stranger ; 
 " is there anything remarkable connected with them ?" " No 
 thing," replied she, with one of her significant shrugs, "only 
 the captain is one of your dark Spanish Knights, who lock up 
 their wives, and fight everybody who looks at them ; and his 
 lady likes every other gentleman better than her husband 
 and they could not agree, and the whole city were talking about 
 them, so he took her into the country, and makes her fast and 
 pray, and do penance for her sins. The other gentleman, Mr. 
 More, married a low, ignorant girl, who had never been accus-
 
 102 THE PARLOUR SERPENT. 
 
 tomed to good society; so, being ashamed to introduce her 
 among his friends, he immured himself in the country also. 
 They say he is so wretched in his choice, he has turned a fana 
 tic, and there is some danger of his losing his reason." At 
 this moment one of the horses took fright, and springing from 
 the road, the stage was upset, with a terrible crash. Miss 
 Hart, whose head was projecting from the window, was the 
 only one who was seriously injured. She was dreadfully bruised 
 and mangled, and carried insensible into Captain Wentworth's 
 house. The stranger, whose curiosity was excited by the 
 description he had just heard, and seeing the inhabitants of 
 both dwellings were gathering together in consequence of the 
 accident, assisted in carrying her, and lingered as long as he 
 could find a reasonable excuse for doing so. " I believe that 
 young woman's jaw is broken," said he, when he rejoined his 
 fellow-passengers; "and it is a judgment upon her I know 
 there is not a word of truth in what she has been saying. If 
 ever domestic happiness, as well as benevolence, dwelt on 
 earth, I verily believe it is in those two families." 
 
 It was long before Miss Hart recovered her consciousness, 
 and when she did, and endeavoured to speak, she felt such an 
 excruciating pain in her jaw, as prevented her utterance. It 
 seemed a remarkable instance of the retribution of Providence, 
 that she should be afflicted in the very part which she had 
 made an instrument of so much evil to others. Her jawbone 
 was indeed broken, and there she lay, writhing in agony, inca 
 pable of speech, indebted to the beings she hated because she 
 had injured, for the cares that prolonged her miserable exist 
 ence. She could not speak, but she could see and hear, and 
 her senses seemed sharpened by the bondage of her tongue. 
 Mrs. Wentworth, and Lois too, hovered round her, with gentle 
 steps aad pitying looks, and the tenderest alleviations; and 
 for this she might have been prepared. But when, through 
 the shades of evening, she heard the deep voice of the once 
 haughty and ungovernable Captain Wentworth, breathing forth 
 humble and heartfelt prayers, while his wife knelt meek and 
 lowly by his side, when she heard the gay and gallant Henry 
 More, reading with reverence God's holy word, and joining 
 with Lois in hymns to the Redeemer's praise, she rolled her 
 eyes in wild amazement, and her dark spirit was troubled with 
 in her. " There seems a reality in this," thought she. " The 
 worldling become the saint, and the lion transformed into the 
 lamb ! How happy they look, while I poor, wretched, man-
 
 THE PARLOUR SERPENT. 103 
 
 glcd creature that I am !" Paroxysms of agony followed theao 
 reflections, for which there seemed no mitigation. 
 
 She lingered for a long time speechless and in great suffering, 
 but at length recovered with a frightful distortion in the lower 
 part of the face. When she first beheld herself in a mirror, 
 the shock was so great as to produce delirium, and when that 
 subsided, a gloom and despair succeeded, from which they vainly 
 endeavoured to rouse her by the soothings of sympathy and 
 the consolations of religion. She felt that, like Cain, she must 
 carry about an indelible brand upon her face, and cried like 
 him, in bitterness of spirit, " My punishment is greater than I 
 can bear." It was intolerable to her to look upon the fair, serene 
 countenances of Mrs. Wentworth and Lois, and to see too the 
 eyes of their husbands follow them with such love and delight, 
 and then to draw the contrast between them and her own dis 
 figured beauty and desoiate lot. She expressed a wish to be 
 sent to Her relatives, and the wish was not opposed. She 
 received from them a grudging welcome, for they had felt her 
 sting, and feared that serpent tongue of slander, whose ancestral 
 venom is derived from the arch reptile that lurked in the 
 bowers of Eden. 
 
 Woe to the slanderer ! To use the language of the wise 
 man, " her end is bitter as wormwood, and sharp as a two- 
 edged sword Her feet go down to death, her steps take hold 
 on hell 1"
 
 THE SHAKER GIRL. 
 
 IT was on a Sunday morning, when Roland Gray entered 
 
 the village of . Though his mind was intent on the 
 
 object of his journey, he could not but admire the singu 
 lar neatness and uniformity of the houses, the velvet smooth 
 ness of the grass on the wayside, and the even surlaoc of the 
 street, from which every pebble seemed to have been removed. 
 An air of perfect tranquillity reigned over the whole not a 
 being was seen moving abroad, not a human face beaming 
 through the windows; yet far as the eye could reach, it roamed 
 over a vast, cultivated plain, covered with all the animated 
 hues of vegetation, giving evidence that the spirit of life was 
 there, or had been recently active. " Surely," thought Ro 
 land, "I have entered one of those cities, described in the 
 Arabian Nights, where some magician has suddenly converted 
 the inhabitants into stone. I will dismount and explore some 
 of these buildings perchance I shall find some man, who is 
 only half marble, who can explain this enchantment of silence." 
 He had scarcely dismounted, and fastened his horse to a part 
 of the snow-white railing which guarded every avenue to the 
 dwellings, when he saw a most singular figure emerging from 
 one, and approaching the spot where he stood. It was a boy 
 of about twelve years old, clad in the ancient costume of our 
 forefathers with large breeches, fastened at the knees with 
 square shining buckles a coat, whose skirts were of surprising 
 breadth, and a low-crowned hat, whose enormous brim shaded 
 his round and ruddy visage. Roland could not forbear smiling 
 at this extraordinary figure, but habitual politeness checked 
 his mirth. He inquired the name of the village, and found 
 to his surprise he was in the midst of one of those Shaker 
 (104)
 
 THE SHAKER GIRL. 105 
 
 establishments, of whose existence, and of whose singular 
 doctrines, he was well aware, but which, his own home being 
 remote, he had never had an opportunity of witnessing. De 
 lighted with the circumstance, for the love of novelty and 
 excitement was predominant in his character, he determined 
 to avail himself of it to its fullest extent. An old man, 
 dressed in the same obsolete fashion, came up the path and 
 accosted him : 
 
 " Are you a traveller," said he, " and seeking refreshments ? 
 If so, I am sorry you have chosen this day, but nevertheless 
 we never refuse to perform the rites of hospitality." 
 
 Roland confessed he had no claims upon their hospitality, 
 having partaken of a hearty breakfast two hours before in a 
 town not far distant, and he wondered within himself why 
 they had not mentioned the vicinity of this interesting es 
 tablishment ] forgetting that to those who live within the reach 
 of any object of curiosity, it loses its interest. It is said there 
 are some, who live where the echo of Niagara's eternal thun 
 ders are ringing in their ears, who have never gazed upon its 
 foam. " If you come to witness our manner of worship, 
 young man," said the elder, "and come in a sober, godly 
 spirit, I give you welcome. The world's people often visit us, 
 some, I am sorry to say, to scoff and to jest ; but you have an 
 honest, comely countenance, and I trust are led by better mo 
 tives." 
 
 Roland was no hypocrite, but the good Shaker opened for 
 him so fair a door of excuse for his intrusion, he was unwilling 
 to deny that he was moved by a laudable desire to behold their 
 peculiar form of worship. Pleased by the sunny openness of 
 his countenance, the elder led the way to the house set apart 
 for the service of the Most High, exhorting him at the same 
 time to renounce the pomps and vanities of the world, and 
 unite with them in that oneness of spirit, which distinguished 
 their society from the children of mankind. No lofty spire 
 marked out the temple of the Lord, nor did its form differ 
 from that of a common dwelling-place. They entered a spa 
 cious hall, the floor of which presented such a dazzling 
 expanse of white, the foot of the traveller hesitated before 
 pressing its polished surface. The walls were of the same 
 shining whiteness, chilling the eye by their cold uniformity 
 and benches arranged with the most exact precision on each 
 side of the building, marked the boundaries of either sex 
 Roland seated himself at some distance from .the prescribed
 
 106 THE SHAKER GIRL. 
 
 limits, and waited with proper solemnity the entrance of the 
 worshippers. He observed that the men invariably entered at 
 one door, the women at another, and that they had as little 
 intercourse as if they belonged to different worlds. The men 
 were all clothed in the ancient costume we have just descril od, 
 and the women were dressed in garments as peculiar and uu- 
 )ccoming. A shirt of the purest white, short gown of the 
 game texture, a 'kerchief folded in stiff unbending plaits, a 
 mob cap of linen fastened close around the face, from which 
 every tress of hair was combed carefully back, constituted 
 their chill and ghost-like attire. As one by one these pallid 
 figures glided in, and took their appointed seat, Roland felt as 
 if he were gazing on the phantasmagoria of a dream, so pale 
 and unearthly did they seem. The countenances of the males 
 were generally suffused with a ruddy glow, but cold and colour 
 less as marble were the cheeks of that sex he had been wont 
 to see adorned with the roses of beauty and health. They 
 arose and arranged themselves in a triangular form, while 
 several of the aged stood in the centre, commencing the wor 
 ship by a hymn of praise. Their voices were harsh and broken, 
 but the devotion of their manner sanctified the strains, and. 
 Roland felt not, as he feared he should, a disposition for mirth. 
 But when they gradually formed into a procession, marching 
 two and two in a regular line, all joining in the wild and disso 
 nant notes, then warming as they continued, changing the 
 solemn march into the liveliest dance, clapping their hands 
 simultaneously and shouting till the cold white walls resounded 
 with the strange hosannas ; all the while, those hueleas, pas 
 sionless faces gleaming by him, so still and ghastly mid their 
 ghroud-like garments, his brain began to reel, and he almost 
 imagined himself attending the orgies of the dead, of resuscita 
 ted bodies, with the motions of life, but without the living 
 soul. . Still, over the whole group there was a pervading 
 solemnity and devotion, an apparent abandonment of the whole 
 world an anticipation of the loneliness and lifelessness of the 
 tomb, that redeemed it from ridicule, and inspired emotions 
 kindred to awe. This awe, however, soon melted away in 
 pity at such delusion, and this sensation became at length con 
 verted into admiration for an object, at first unnoticed in the 
 general uniformity of the scene, but which grew upon his eye, 
 like the outline of the landscape through the morning mist. 
 There was one young girl moving in this throng of worship 
 pers, whose superior bearing could not long elude the stranger's
 
 THE SHAKER GIRL. 107 
 
 scrutiny. Her age might be fourteen or fifteen, perhaps 
 younger ; it was difficult to decide through the muffling folds 
 of a dress which levelled every distinction of form and comeli 
 ness. As she passed and repassed him, in the evolutions of 
 their dance, he caught occasional glimpses of a face, which, 
 though pale, betrayed the flitting colour through the transpa 
 rent skin; and once or twice the soft, thoughtful gray eyes 
 were turned towards him, with a wistful and earnest expres 
 sion, as if claiming sympathy and kindness from some con 
 genial being. Fixing his gaze upon the spot where he first 
 beheld her, he watched her returning figure with an intensity 
 that at last became visible to the object of it, for the pale rose 
 of her cheek grew deeper and deeper, and her beautiful gray 
 eyes were bent upon the floor. Roland leaned from the window 
 near which he was seated, to see if it was actually the same 
 world he had inhabited that morning, so strangely were hia 
 senses affected by the shrill music, growing louder and louder, 
 the shuffling, gliding motions, increasing in velocity, and .this 
 sweet apparition so unexpectedly mingling in such an incongru 
 ous scene. The breath of summer redolent with a thousand 
 perfumes stole over his brow the blue sky was arching over 
 his head; never had creation seemed more lovely or glowing; 
 yet the worshippers within deemed they were offering an ac 
 ceptable sacrifice on the altar of God, the sacrifice of those 
 social affections, which find such beautiful emblems in the 
 works of nature. Roland became so lost in these reflections, 
 he hardly noticed the closing of the exercise, or heard the mo 
 notonous tones of one of the elders, who was exhorting in the 
 peculiar dialect of his sect. When the services were con 
 cluded, he left the hall, still watching the motions of the gray- 
 eyed damsel, in the bold resolution of accosting her, and 
 discovering if she were a willing devotee. As she walked 
 along with a light step, in spite of her clumsy high-heeled 
 shoes, by the side of an ancient dame, Roland, unconscious of 
 the extreme audacity of the act, and hardly knowing himseJf 
 in what manner to address her, crossed her path, and was in 
 the very act of apologizing for the intrusion, when his arui 
 was seized with a sturdy grasp, and he saw the old Shaker who 
 had introduced him into the assembly, standing by his side. 
 " Young man," said he, in a stern voice " do you come here, 
 a wolf in sheep's clothing, in the very midst of the fleck'/ 
 what is your bu. iness with this child, whom our rules forbid 
 you to address ?" Roland felt at first very indignant, but a
 
 108 THE SHAKER GIRL. 
 
 moment's reflection convinced him he had erred, and trans 
 gressed their rigid rules. He felt too that he had placed him 
 self in rather a ridiculous situation, and he stood before the re 
 buking elder with a blush of ingenuous shame, that completely 
 disarmed his wrath. " You are young, very young," said the 
 old man "and I forgive you you have been brought up in 
 the midst of the vanities of the world, and I pity you ; yet my 
 heart' cleaves to you, young man, and when you become weary 
 of those vanities, as you shortly will, come to us, and you will 
 find that peace which the world can neither give nor take 
 away." 
 
 He shook hands with Roland after he had spoken, who ac 
 knowledged his offence, thanked him for his counsel and kind 
 ness, and, mounting his horse, left him with a sentiment of 
 unfeigned respect; so true it is, that sincerity of faith gives 
 dignity to the professor of many a creed revolting to human 
 reason. Roland looked back upon the beautiful village, and 
 wondered at what he had just witnessed. He felt a strong 
 disposition to linger, that he might discover something more 
 of the peculiarities of this singular and isolated people. Had 
 he known their incorruptible honesty, their unwearied industry, 
 their trusting hospitality, their kindness and charity had he 
 seen the pale sisterhood extending their cherishing cares to the 
 children of orphanage and want, he would have been con 
 vinced that warm streams of living tenderness were flowing 
 beneath the cold forms of their austere religion. 
 
 Roland Gray was very young, and had seen but little of the 
 world. He had led the secluded life of a student, and, but 
 lately freed from collegiate restraints, he had been trying his 
 wings, preparatory to a bolder flight across the Atlantic. He 
 was now on the way to his sister, who, with himself, was placed 
 under the guardianship of the excellent Mr. Worthington, for 
 they were orphans, left with an independent fortune, but singu 
 larly destitute of kindred, being the last of their race. An 
 invalid gentleman, one of his father's early friends, was about 
 to travel in foreign climes to try the benefit of a milder atmo 
 sphere, and he urged Roland to be his companion. Such a 
 proposal was accepted with gratitude, and Roland, with buoyant 
 spirits, returned to his sister, to bid her farewell, before launch 
 ing on the "deep blue sea." Lucy Gray was older than her 
 brother, and from childhood had exercised over him the influ 
 ence with which a few additional years, joined to a strength 
 of mind far beyond her years, invested her. He was the ob-
 
 THE SHAKER GIRL. 109 
 
 ject no less of her love than her pride. She looked upon him 
 as the last representative of a family, honoured among the 
 most honourable, and destined to transmit to posterity his 
 ancestral name, with unblemished and still more exalted lustre. 
 She resolved he should ennoble himself by marriage, and 
 would have scorned, as degrading, the thought that love might 
 make the youth a rebel to her will. She believed the affections 
 entirely under the control of the reason, and looked upon the 
 passions as vassals to be dragged at its chariot wheels. Lucy 
 was not loved by her friends, but she was respected and es 
 teemed for the firmness of her principles, and the strength of 
 her mind. But Roland loved as much as he revered her. His 
 heart was a fountain of warm and generous affections, and it 
 flowed out towards her, his only sister, in the fulness of a cur 
 rent, that found no other legitimate channel. Accustomed to 
 'yield his rash and ardent impulses to the direction of her 
 cooler judgment, he looked up to her as the mentor of his 
 follies, rather than as the companion of his youthful amuse 
 ments, and now, after an absence of several months, partly 
 from pleasure and partly from business, he looked forward to 
 meeting her with something of the feelings of a son, blended 
 with the affection of a brother. His arrival at Mr. Worthing- 
 ton's was hailed with a burst of joy, for Roland had a face of 
 sunshine and a voice of melody, that shed light and music 
 wherever he went. In relating his adventures, he failed not 
 to give due interest to his interview with the Shakers, and 
 laughed over the Quixotism that exposed him to so stern a 
 rebuke. The pretty little Shakeress did not lose any of her 
 attractions in his romantic description, and he dwelt upon her 
 dovelike eyes, melting beneath the snows of her antiquated 
 cap, her sweet, appealing countenance and spiritual air, till 
 Mr. Worthington's childless heart warmed within him, and 
 Lucy listened with apprehensive pride lest her brother's excited 
 imagination should convert this obscure unknown into a heroine 
 of romance. It was but a transient alarm, for she knew that 
 the waves of the Atlantic would soon roll between them, and 
 Roland, surrounded by all the glorious associations of an elder 
 world, would cast aside every light and ignoble fancy, and fit 
 himself for the high station in society she felt he was born to 
 fill. 
 
 After an absence of four years Roland Gray appeared once 
 
 108
 
 110 THE SHAKER GIRL. 
 
 more in the family circle of Mr. Worthington. His hair had 
 assumed a darker shade, and his check a darker glow, but the 
 same sunshiny spirit lighted up his brow and animated his 
 lips; it was Roland Gray still, only the bloom of boyhood 
 was lost in the sunniness of manhood. Lucy's handsome, but 
 severe countenance was so irradiated with joy, it was almost 
 dazzling from the effect of contrast : and as she sat by his side, 
 and gazed in his face, she felt that all her affections and her 
 hopes were so completely centered in him, they could be 
 separated only with the breaking of her heart. Happy as 
 Roland was in being reunited to his sister, his attention was 
 not so engrossed as to forget the kindly greetings due to the 
 other members of Mr. Worthington's household. 
 
 " I have an adopted daughter to introduce you to," said Mr. 
 Worthington, drawing forward a young girl who, on the en 
 trance of Roland, had retreated behind a stand of geraniums, 
 and busied herself in picking off the faded leaves. Roland 
 had become too familiar with beauty in foreign climes, to be 
 surprised into admiration of a face however fair, but there 
 was a sweetness, a modesty and simplicity diffused over the 
 young face before him, that interested his feelings and dis 
 armed his judgment. He could scarcely tell the colour of her 
 eyes, for they were downcast, but there was something in the 
 play of her features, that implied she sympathized in the 
 pleasure his coming had excited. " Roland," continued Mr. 
 Worthington, evidently delighted with the reception he had 
 given his favourite, " this is my daughter Grace, whom Provi 
 dence has kindly given to cheer a widowed and childless heart. 
 You know I look upon you almost as my son, so you will find 
 in her, I trust, another sister to love." Roland held out his 
 hand with great alacrity to seal this new compact, but the 
 pretty Grace drew back with an embarrassment he was un 
 willing to increase, seeing it was entirely unaffected; and 
 there was something in Lucy's glance that told him she re 
 sented the idea of such a partnership in his affections. He 
 could not but marvel where good old Mr. Worthington had 
 found such a fairy gift, but believing the mystery would be ex 
 plained in due time, he promised himself no slight gratification 
 in studying a character, concealed under such a veil of bash- 
 fulness and reserve. The twilight hour found the brother and 
 sister walking together towards their accustomed seat under 
 the sycamore boughs, the scene of many of Lucy's former 
 s, and RoLmd's high resolves. She wanted to be alone
 
 THE SHAKER GIRL. Ill 
 
 with him to guard him against a thousand dangers and 
 snares, visible only to her proud and jealous eye. " Oh ! Ro 
 land/' said she, taking his hand and looking earnestly in his 
 face " do you return unchanged ? may I still, as wont, pre 
 sume to counsel, to direct, and to sustain ?" " Unchanged in 
 everything as regards my affection for you, my dear sister," 
 replied he " be still my mentor and my guide, for I fear, with 
 all the worldly wisdom I have acquired, I am often the sum 
 impulsive being you have so long tried in vain to bring under 
 the square and compass of reason and right. Now, I feel at 
 this moment an irresistible impulse to know who is this pretty 
 God-send of Mr. Worthington' s ; did she drop down from the 
 skies, or did she come on the wings of the wind ?" 
 
 "I am glad you have opened the subject, Roland, for I 
 brought you here to warn you of that girl's influence. Do not 
 laugh, for, knowing you so well, I feel bound to prevent any 
 imposition on your open, generous nature. I do not know who 
 she is, probably some poor child of shame and desertion, whom 
 Mr. Worthington discovered and educated, for it is but a year 
 since he brought her from school, and introduced her as his 
 adopted daughter. He made a long visit to his relatives, since 
 you left us, and found her, I believe, in the family of his 
 brother, in a dependent and perhaps menial situation. Charmed 
 by her beauty and beguiled by her arts, the good man con 
 ceived the romantic design of educating her as his own, and 
 now he is felicitating himself with another project, that of se 
 curing for this nameless foundling the heart and the fortune 
 of Roland Gray." Roland had heard too much about gentle 
 blood and honourable parentage, and been too much under the 
 influence of his aristocratic sister, not to shrink from the sup 
 position of such an union, but he protested against the word 
 arts, which Lucy had used in reference to Grace, for she looked 
 the most artless of human beings; and he accused her of 
 injustice towards Mr. Worthington, who in his singleness of 
 heart was incapable of making a project of any kind. " Yoi 
 must not think it strange," said Lucy, " that I, a woman 
 should not be blinded by the beauty of one of my own sex, 
 and I know I am superior to the weakness of envy. With an. 
 insight into character which has never deceived me, I know 
 that girl to be vain, selfish, and calculating. Mr. Worthiugton 
 may claim her as his daughter, but he shall never impose her 
 on me, by the name of sister." Those who have witnessed the 
 empire an elder sister of commanding mind and manners is
 
 .112 THE SHAKER GIRL. 
 
 capable of obtaining over a younger brother's judgment, will 
 not be surprised that Roland learned to look upon Grace with 
 distrustful eyes, though he could not believe in the duplicity 
 Lucy ascribed to her character, and he invariably treated her 
 with that consideration due to the situation she held in Mr. 
 Worthington's family. It was impossible, however, to be do 
 mesticated with her, to be seated at the same table, parties in 
 the same amusements, near each other in the evening circle, 
 and the moonlight walks, notwithstanding the unsleeping vigi 
 lance of Lucy, not to feel the reality of her loveliness, her sim 
 plicity and truth. There was something about her that haunted 
 him like a dream, and whenever she turned her eyes towards 
 him, he experienced a sudden thrill of recollection, as if he 
 had seen that fair face before. In the evening Mr. Worthing- 
 ton often challenged Lucy to a game of chess, for though not 
 a skilful performer, he was extravagantly fond of the game, 
 and Lucy had no rival in the art. She now regretted this ac 
 complishment, as it threw her brother more immediately into 
 companionship with Grace, whose conversation, when unre 
 strained, was perfectly bewitching, from a mixture of bright 
 intelligence, quick sensibility, and profound ignorance of the 
 vices and customs of the world. It was evident she felt op 
 pressed by Lucy v s scrutinizing gaze, for when she was con 
 scious of its withdrawal, her spirits rebounded with an unob 
 trusive gaycty, that harmonized admirably with the life and 
 vivacity of Roland's disposition. 
 
 One evening, as Lucy was absorbed in the crisis of the 
 game, Grace was busily plying her needle, making some gar 
 ments for a poor woman, whose house and wardrobe were com 
 pletely consumed by fire, the previous night; all the ladies in 
 the neighbourhood were contributing their part towards reliev 
 ing her wants, and a very pretty little girl, with a basket half- 
 filled with her mother's offerings, was waiting till Grace had 
 put the last stitches into a cap, whose fashion seemed to fix the 
 particular attention of Roland. The child, who was a petted 
 favourite in the family, caught up the cap the moment it was 
 completed, and drawing it over the soft brown locks of Grace, 
 laughingly fastened the linen bands. Roland uttered so sudden 
 an exclamation, it made Lucy start from her seat, upsetting 
 bishop, knight, and royalty itself. The mystery was revealed, 
 the pretty little Shakeress stood before him. The close lin^n 
 border, under which every lock of hair was, concealed, trans 
 formed at once the fashionable and elegant ynung lady into
 
 THE SHAKER GIRL. 113 
 
 the simple and humble Shaker girl. A scene, which the lapse 
 of years and the crowding events of a transatlantic tour had 
 effaced from his memory, returned vividly to his recollection. 
 He wondered he had not recognised her earlier, but the hue 
 of the soft gray eye was darkened, and its light more warm 
 and shifting, her complexion had a richer colouring, and 
 shadows of bright hair relieved the fairness of a brow where 
 ntelligence and sensibility now sat enthroned. Then her 
 figure now revealed in all the graces of womanhood, was it 
 the same he had seen muffled in the stiff starched shirt and 'ker 
 chief, moving on high-heeled shoes with large shining buckles? 
 Grace blushed deeply beneath his riveted gaze, and hastily 
 snatching the cap from her head, folded it with the other gar 
 ments she had made into the basket, and bade the little girl 
 hasten to her mother. " What is the meaning of all this 
 bustle ?" said Lucy, looking at Grace with so much asperity it 
 made her involuntarily draw closer to Mr. Worthington. " It 
 means," said Roland, delighted and excited by the discovery 
 he had made, and forgetting his sister's daily cautions " it 
 means that I have found my pretty Shakeress at last. Ah ! 
 Mr. Worthington, why did not you tell me that your adopted 
 daughter and my fair unknown were one ?" Mr. Worthington 
 laughed, and taking the hand of Grace drew her upon his 
 knee. "Because the world is full of prejudice, and I did uot 
 like to expose my girl to its influence. I always wanted to 
 tell you, but Grace insisted I should allow you to find it out 
 yourself, for she told me about the bold youth, who almost- 
 stared her out of her devotion and her wits. Nay, Grace, I 
 owe him a thousand thanks, for had he not warmed my old 
 heart by a description of your loveliness, I never should have 
 gone so far out of my journey to visit your village, begged 
 you of the good people for my own, nor would I now haxe 
 such a sweet blossom to shed fragrance over my declining 
 years." 
 
 "And how," exclaimed Roland with irresistible curiosity, 
 " how came she amongst them ?" Before Mr. Worthington. 
 could reply, Grace clasped her hands earnestly together, and 
 cried, " I was a stranger, and they took me in ; I was an or. 
 phan and they clothed me, sheltered and " Previously much 
 agitated, Grace here entirely lost her self-command, and lean 
 ing her head on the shoulder of Mr. Worthington, she wept 
 audibly. Lucy actually trembled and turned pale. She saw 
 that her empire was tottering from its foundation. Accustomed
 
 114 THE SHAKER GIRL. 
 
 to interpret every change of her brother's countenance, she 
 read with terror the intense expression with which his eyes 
 were fixed on Grace. She was willing he should marry from 
 ambition, but not for love. She had never for a moment 
 admitted the idea that another should supplant her in his affec 
 tions a jealousy far more dark and vindictive than that 
 excited by love, the jealousy of power, took possession of her 
 soul, mingled with a bitter hatred towards the innocent cause 
 of these emotions. Through life she had bowed the will 
 of others to her own, and as long as no opposition roused 
 the strength of her passions, she maintained a character of 
 integrity and virtue, that bid defiance to scandal and reproach. 
 She did not know herself the evil of which she was capable, 
 but now the lion was unchained in her bosom, and chafed and 
 wrestled for its prey. Too politic to attempt checking too 
 suddenly the tide of feeling, yet too angry to hide her own 
 chagrin, she left the room, and meditated in what manner she 
 could best arrest the evil she dreaded. She failed not, how 
 ever, to breathe a warning whisper into her brother's ear as 
 she passed out. Here Mr. Worthington entreated Grace to 
 tell Roland all she knew of herself, assuring her, in his sim 
 plicity, that no one, next to himself, felt so deep an interest in 
 her, as he did. Roland felt no disposition to contradict this 
 assertion, and joined his own entreaties so earnestly to Mr. 
 Worthington' s, Grace hesitated not to relate her simple his 
 tory. It could be comprised in a few words. She told of 
 her sad and almost desolate childhood, of her dwelling in a 
 little cottage deep in the woods, remote from neighbours or 
 friends; of a dark and cruel man she called father here 
 Grace's voice grew low and husky of a pale, sick, and dying 
 mother, who was found by a good Shaker, on the bed of death, 
 and who committed her orphan child to the care of the kind 1 
 Samaritan. The man who had deserted her mother, in the 
 extremity of her wants, never appeared to claim his child. 
 She was cherished in the bosom of that benevolent society, 
 where Roland first beheld her, grateful for their kindness, 
 though yearning after freedom and the fellowship of youth, 
 till Mr. Worthington came, and offered her the love and 
 guardianship of a father, if she would occupy a daughter's 
 place in his heart and home. Her father's name was Gold 
 man, which she had willingly resigned for that of Worthing 
 ton, for the memory she had of him, was like a dark and 
 terrible dream fearful to remember. The dread that he might
 
 THE SHAKER GIRL. 115 
 
 appear some day to claim her, often made her shudder in the 
 midst of her happiness ; but as so many years had passed 
 away, it was more natural to suppose he had expiated his 
 cruelty with his life. 
 
 Had Mr. Worthington conceived the project that Lucy had 
 suggested, and been aware at the same time of Roland's family 
 pride, it is not probable he would have induced her to revea 
 to him the sad events of her childhood ; and had Grace been 
 the artful being described, she would never have told with such 
 straightforward simplicity and deep sensibility of her father's 
 brutality and vices, nor expressed the startling fear, that he 
 might still assert the forfeited rights of nature, and tear her 
 from the arms of her benefactor. Such thoughts as these 
 filled the breast of Roland, as Grace continued her affecting 
 recital, where truth was attested by her blushes and her tears. 
 She unclasped from her neck a golden chain, from which a 
 miniature was suspended, the sole relic of her mother. The 
 chain was beautifully wrought, and indicated that however 
 abject was the condition to which the owner had been reduced, 
 she had once been accustomed to the decorations of wealth. 
 The miniature was that of a gentleman in the prime of life, 
 with a dark, but interesting countenance, and dignified bearing. 
 Grace knew not whether it was her father's picture, for she had 
 but a faint recollection of his features, and the Shaker who 
 discovered it around her mother's neck, after she was speech 
 less in death, could give her no information. 
 
 Here was mystery and romance, innocence, beauty, and 
 youth ; and Roland felt as if he would gladly twine them 
 together, and bind them around his heart, as all " he guessed 
 of heaven." But while his imagination was weaving the gar 
 land and revelling in its fragrance, the vision of 
 
 " A sister's jealous care, 
 A cruel sister she," 
 
 rose before him, and the wreath faded and the blossoms fell. 
 With a stinging sensation of shame, he admitted the convic 
 tion, that he feared his sister. He had long worn her fetters 
 unconsciously, but now, when for the first time they galled 
 and restrained him, his pride and his heart rebelled against 
 the hand that bound him in thraldom. Grace retired that 
 night, with a thousand bright hopes hovering round her pillow 
 Roland then was her first benefactor. It was he, who had 
 awakened the interest of Mr. Worthington, and directed him
 
 116 THE SHAKER GIRL. 
 
 to her retreat. He, the handsome and noble-lookmg youth, 
 whose dark piercing eyes had kindled in her such yearnings 
 after the world from which she was excluded, and who for 
 four years had been the morning and evening star on the 
 horizon of her memory. She knew something of this before, 
 but she had never realized it so fully as now ; for he had 
 iniself confirmed it, by words, which, though simple in them- 
 elves, were unutterably eloquent, accompanied by such looks 
 she blushed even in the darkness, as she caught herself in 
 voluntarily repeating, " and have I found my pretty Shakeress 
 at last ?" For two or three days, Roland avoided being alone 
 with Lucy, but to his surprise, she did not seem to desire an 
 opportunity to renew her warnings. On the contrary, she 
 was more kind and affectionate towards Grace than she had 
 ever been before, who, in the confidingness of innocence, relied 
 on her unwonted testimonies of favour, as the harbingers of 
 her dearest wishes. " Grace," said Lucy they were alone 
 and secure of interruption, for Mr. Worthington and Roland 
 were both absent on business "Grace, are you willing to tell 
 me of what you are now thinking?" Grace started she had 
 fallen into an unconscious revery, and her work lay idly in 
 her lap ; her cheeks glowed painfully, but with that habitual 
 reverence for truth which always distinguished her, she an 
 swered, "1 was thinking of Roland." Unprepared for such 
 perfect ingenuousness, Lucy hesitated a moment, and con 
 science upbraided her for the part she was about to act, but 
 again fixing her keeu eye on a countenance as transparent as 
 crystal, she continued : " Has Roland ever told you that he 
 loved you ?" Grace crimsoned still more deeply from wounded 
 modesty and shame, while she answered in a low voice, 
 "Never!" "Then," said the inquisitor, drawing a relieving 
 oreath, " Grace, your task is easy, and I rejoice that he has 
 made it so j you must not think of Roland, you must not love 
 him, for he never can be to you anything more than he now 
 is." Grace turned deadly pale, but she did not speak, and 
 Lucy went on " My brother was my father's only son, and 
 is sole heir of a name long conspicuous for its honours. Our 
 parents died when we were both young; but I, as the elder, 
 became the guardian and guide. To me, on his death-bed, 
 my father committed my young brother, charging me with 
 the solemnity of that awful hour, to guard his honour from 
 stain, and his name from degradation. My father was a proud 
 and haughty man, and he has transmitted to his children a
 
 THE SHAKER GIRL. 117 
 
 portion of his own spirit. Grace, you have told me all the 
 circumstances of your life; you know there is mystery, but 
 you may not know in your extreme simplicity, that there may 
 be disgrace in your birth. The golden chain that wreathes 
 your neck, shows that your mother was not born to poverty. 
 Why then did she flee from her friends, to bury herself in 
 solitude with the dark and cruel man you called father; and 
 why are you an alien from your kindred ? You ought to 
 know these truths, which the mistaken kindness of your 
 friends conceals from you, and I reveal them to you, that you 
 may not encourage hopes that never can be realized ; to con 
 vince you, you can never be the wife of Roland. For myself, 
 hear me, Grace, to the end if Roland could forget himself so 
 far as to think of such an union, I would forever disown him 
 as a brother, and load with maledictions the being who had 
 brought such misery on us both." All the strong passions 
 at work in Lucy's bosom, sent their baleful lustre to her eyes, 
 and poor Grace shrunk from their beams as if they were with 
 ering her very heart. Brought up in the midst of that gentle 
 and subdued sisterhood, in whose uniform existence the pas 
 sions seemed cradled into unbroken slumber, she had almost 
 forgotten their existence. The terrible dreams of her child 
 hood were brought back to her. The curses of her father again 
 rung in her ears the helpless cries of her mother. She 
 clasped her hands despairingly over her eyes she knew she 
 had been poor and wretched ; but benevolence and charity had 
 administered to her wants, and the very remembrance of po 
 verty had faded from her mind ; but disgrace that there was 
 a disgrace attached to her that made it sinful in her to love 
 Roland Gray, that debarred her from an union with the 
 honourable and good that was the thought that crushed her, 
 that chilled her blood, and turned her cheeks to marble and 
 her lips to ashes. Lucy paused, and attempted to soothe the 
 agony she had excited. Cold herself to the softer emotions, 
 she had no faith in the eternity of love. Grace, like a child 
 robbed of its plaything, now wept and refused to be comforted, 
 but she would soon smile animated by some new-born hope. 
 Thus Lucy tried to reason, while she held her chill grasp on 
 the heart of Grace, and bound her still more closely to her 
 will. " Promise me," said she, " that you will not reveal to 
 any one the conversation of this morning Mr. Worth! ngton 
 has deceived you, and you would not meanly appeal to the 
 compassion of Roland promise this, and you shall find in ma
 
 118 THE SHAKER GIRL. 
 
 a friend who will never forsake you in weal or woe. Deny it, 
 and you will create an enemy whose power can make you 
 tremble." Grace, with all her woman's pride rising to her 
 relief, at the idea of appealing to the compassion of Roland, 
 gave the desired promise, and still more she voluntarily de 
 clared she would rather die than think of Roland, after what 
 Lucy had just uttered. Lucy, satisfied with her promise, for 
 he knew her truth, embraced her with commendations which 
 fell heedlessly on poor Grace's paralyzed ears she withdrew 
 to her chamber, " for her whole head was pained and her 
 whole heart sick ;" and when Mr. Worthington and Roland 
 returned, Grace was said to be unable, from indisposition, to 
 join the circle, where she was wont to preside an angel of light 
 and joy. The sympathy and sorrow excited by so common an 
 event, reconciled Lucy more than anything else, to her sel 
 fishness and cruelty. But was she happy in the success of her 
 operations ! She had planted thorns in the bosom of another 
 but were there none rankling in her own ! Could she, a 
 daughter of this land of republicanism, shelter herself under 
 the cold shadow of family pride, from the reproaches of her 
 own conscience ? Ah ! no ! the heart is its own avenger, and 
 for every drop of sorrow wilfully wrung from the eyes of 
 another, shall be doomed to give only tears of blood. 
 
 Roland wondered at the change that had come over Grace, 
 and sought by every means to ascertain the cause, but she 
 seemed wrapped in a cloud of impenetrable reserve. She 
 avoided him, but in so quiet a manner, it appeared to him 
 more the result of sudden indifference or aversion, than unex 
 plained resentment. The sunshine of her smile was gone, and 
 an expression of calm apathy settled on her brow, where the 
 alternations of feeling had lately flitted, like the lights and 
 shadows of a moonlight landscape. Roland sometimes had a 
 painful suspicion of his sister, but she had always been so open 
 in all her actions, so undisguised in her least amiable traits, 
 that notwithstanding all the prejudice she had manifested to 
 wards Grace, he believed her incapable of any mean or dark 
 designings. Mr. Worthington was anxious and alarmed. He 
 was sure some incipient and insidious disease was the cause of 
 her pale and dispirited appearance. He was constantly feel- 
 iug her pulse, and inquiring her symptoms, and insisting upon 
 calling in a physician, till poor Grace, really glad to shelter 
 herself from observation, under the pretext held out, acknow 
 ledged herself ill, and passively submitted to a course of
 
 THE SHAKER GIRL. 119 
 
 medicine, which reduced her soon to a state of real debility 
 and suffering. They applied blisters to her forehead to still 
 its hot throbbings ; they drew blood from her veins to reduce 
 her feverish pulse, and Lucy sat by her bedside and adminis 
 tered to her unweariedly, and discussed the nature of her 
 malady, and talked of its different stages ; while all the time 
 she knew it was herself who had coldly and deliberately dried 
 Tip the fountain of hope and joy, and love, which had sent such 
 roses to her cheek and sunbeams to her eye. She sometimes 
 trembled in the darkness of night, at the possibility thai 
 Grace might die, under the regimen of this imaginary disease ; 
 and then a voice whispered in hollow murmurs, in her ears, 
 "Thou shalt sleep no more, for thou hast murdered sleep." 
 But in day's broad light a witness to Roland's abstraction, 
 anxiety and gloom, she steeled her conscience, in reflecting ou 
 the necessity of the act. Let not Grace be condemned, as too 
 weak and yielding, as too blind an instrument in the hands of 
 another. Her education had been peculiar, and her natural 
 disposition was extremely sensitive and timid. The first years 
 of her life had been passed in terror and sorrow terror for 
 her father's cruelty, and sorrow for her mother's woe. Every 
 thing around her was tumultuous and fearful, and she learned 
 to shudder at the awful manifestations of evil passions, before 
 she knew them by name. Transplanted to a- scene, where 
 everything breathed of peace and silence, where industry, 
 neatness, and order were heaven's first laws, where the voice 
 of dissension was unheard, and the storms of passion unfelt, 
 her spirit had been so hushed and subdued, her sensibilities so 
 repressed, and her energies held down, she moved along her 
 daily path a piece of beautiful and exquisite mechanism, but 
 whose most powerful springs had never been touched. It is 
 true she loved the kind and gentle Shakers, but it was with a 
 tranquil feeling of gratitude and trust. The visit of Roland 
 Gray acted as an electrical communication between her and the 
 world to which he belonged. It seemed to her it must be 
 inhabited by angels ; and when Mr. Worthington came and 
 induced her benefactor to resign her to his care, she welcomed 
 the change as into the garden of Eden. In the seclusion of a 
 school, her timidity still induced her to shrink within herself; 
 in the companionship of Lucy, she felt awe-struck and abashed ; 
 but Roland came, and then she realized the paradise of her 
 imagination. Everything around her was music and beauty 
 and love flowers sprang up in the waste places, water gushed
 
 120 THE SHAKER GIRL. 
 
 from the rock, and melody filled the air. To be forbidden to 
 think of him, to be commanded to wrench him from her heart, 
 to be made to think of herself as a low and disgraced being 
 Grace would have shuddered at the idea of impiety, but when 
 she laid her head on her pillow, willing to be thought sick, 
 rather than wretched, she certainly wished to die. But the 
 strength of youth, though prostrated, rebounded from the 
 pressure. She was not doomed to the curse of a granted 
 prayer. The Providence that had so long watched over her 
 destiny, still kept its unseen but slumbering vigils. Grace 
 remembered her old friends, the Shakers, and yearned once 
 more for their still and passionless existence. She prayed Mr. 
 Worthington to take her there so earnestly, he did not hesitate 
 to grant her request, believing the journey would invigorate 
 her constitution and change of scene animate her mind. She 
 spoke not of remaining, and the wish was so natural and grate 
 ful, it could not excite surprise or censure. 
 
 "You see," said Lucy to her brother, the night before 
 Grace's departure, "the influence of early habits. Perhaps 
 all this time Grace has been pining after the Shakers. Sho 
 has been suffering from a kind of calenture, and when she 
 sees their green plain, and quiet village, she will be happy " 
 " Impossible !" cried Roland, completely thrown off his guard 
 by Lucy's sudden insinuation. " She is strange and unac 
 countable, but I never will believe anything so preposterous. 
 She, that sweet, lovely, spiritual creature, to be immured again 
 in their cold walls, and to wish it, and pine after it ! By 
 heavens ! Lucy, if I could believe such a thing, I would go 
 this moment and prevent the immolation. I will not deceive 
 you ; I do not care any longer for pride and empty sounding 
 names, and birth and parentage. It is ridiculous to think of 
 such things in this republican country. Grace is equal to the 
 highest; for she claims her birthright from the Almighty him 
 self, and carries on her brow the signet of heaven." " Stop, 
 Roland, for heaven's sake, and hear me." " I will not stop," 
 continued Roland, a spirit of determination flashing from his 
 eyes she had never seen in them before ; " shall I sacrifice my 
 happiness to a shadow, a bubble ? No ! I have hesitated too 
 long ; I love Grace ; I love her with all my heart and soul, 
 and I will go this moment and tell her so." He laid his hand 
 upon the latch, but Lucy sprang forward like lightning, and 
 seized it in her own. " One moment, Roland, only one mo 
 ment ; I, your only sister, ask it." Roland saw she was very
 
 THE SHAKER GIRL. 121 
 
 pale, and he felt her hand tremble as it grasped him. She 
 was indeed his only sister, whom he had so much loved, and 
 he felt he had met her prejudices with too much impetuosity ; 
 they might yield, perhaps, to softer measures. " What is it 
 you would say, Lucy ? you asked for one moment, and I have 
 given you more." "Only promise to wait till her return; 
 that is all I ask ; I spoke in jest ; you knew she would not re 
 main ; Mr. Worthington will never leave her. Promise me 
 this, dear Roland, and I will not oppose my pride to your 
 happiness." Lucy knew that she was uttering a falsehood, for 
 she herself had confirmed Grace in her resolution to remain ; 
 but she had begun to weave the tangled web of deceit, and 
 she wound herself deeper and deeper in its folds. All she 
 wanted now was to gain time, and she then felt she should be 
 safe. Roland promised, for delay was not sacrifice, and he 
 was surprised and grateful for Lucy's concession. 
 
 "Grace," whispered Lucy, as she embraced and bid her 
 farewell, " you are acting right ; you will find peace and happi 
 ness in the path you seek. Be assured of my friendship and 
 also my gratitude." Grace was mute, but she gave Lucy a 
 look that might have melted a heart of stone. 
 
 " Grace," said Roland, " come back to us soon." He kept 
 his promise to his sister, but his voice trembled, his hand 
 lingered as it pressed hers in parting, and his eyes spoke a 
 language she must have understood, had not her own been 
 blinded with tears. She met a warm reception from the friends 
 of her early days. The kind Susan, who had taken the first 
 charge of her, and acted toward her a mother's part, opened 
 her arms to receive her, and when she saw her faded colour 
 and drooping eyes, she felt as the patriarch did when he took 
 in his weary dove to the ark, for she knew the wanderer 
 brought back no green olive branch of hope and joy. Susan 
 had once known the gayeties of the world, and tasted its plea 
 sures, but her heart had been blighted and her hopes 6etrayed / 
 and finding all was vanity, to use her own expressive language 
 she had " taken up her cross and followed her Saviour." Th 
 seal of silence was placed on the history of her heart, ana 
 Grace dreamed not that one of that tranquil tribe had ever 
 known the tumult of human passions. By some mysterious 
 communion, however, between soul and soul, Grace felt an as 
 surance of Susan's sympathy, and clung to her with increased 
 affection. It was long before Mr. Worthington would consent 
 to leave her behind. " Only a few months," pleaded she, " and
 
 122 THE SHAKER GIRL. 
 
 then I shall be well and strong again ; all I need is quiet." 
 "The child is right," added Susan; "she is weary of the 
 world, and wants rest. She shall dwell in my tabernacle, and 
 share my pillow, and I will nourish and cherish her as my own 
 flesh and blood. She will not be compelled to join our wor 
 ship, or follow our rites, for we now look upon her as our guest, 
 Dur daughter in love, but not our sister in the spirit of the 
 jord." Satisfied with this promise, Mr. Worthington blessed 
 Grace, embraced her, and left her, bidding her be ready to re 
 turn when the first leaf of autumn fell. She did not sit down 
 and brood over the blighted hopes of her youth. She interested 
 herself in all their neat and regular occupations, assisted them 
 in gathering the leaves of the medicinal plants, in spreading them 
 on pieces of pure white linen to dry; in collecting the garden 
 seeds and shelling them out of their shrunken capsules, with 
 as much readiness and grace as if she had never learned to 
 touch the keys of the piano, or to school her steps by the danc 
 ing master's rule. Dressed in the plainest robes the fashions of 
 the world allow, so as not to offend the austerity of their taste, 
 with no other ornament than her shining hair, simply parted 
 on her brow, she looked the incarnation of sweetness and hu 
 mility ; and Susan, seeing her dawning colour, believed she 
 had found peace. "Thus will I live," thought Grace, "till 
 Roland marries, and then if my adopted father claims me, I 
 will try to find happiness in administering to his." 
 
 One evening, just as the sun had set, she returned from the 
 garden, her white apron gathered up before her, full of damask 
 rose leaves, while exercise and a bending position had given 
 Ver cheeks a hue, warm as the twilight's glow, and calling 
 eagerly to Susan, to present her offering for distillation, she 
 crossed the threshold and stood before Roland Gray. Elec 
 trified at the sight, she let go her apron, and the leaves fell in 
 a rosy shower around her. " Grace, dear Grace !" exclaimed 
 Roland, and both hands were clasped in his own. Now she 
 had been called dear Grace, and sweet Grace, and pretty Grace, 
 thousand times iu her life, but never in such a tone, and 
 with such eyes looking down into her heart. It is easy to 
 imagine why Roland came, and how eloquently he proved to 
 Grace that he loved her better than all the world beside, and 
 that he could not, and would not live without her. For a mo 
 ment a flood of rapture, deep and overwhelming, flowed in upon 
 her heart from the conviction that she was thus beloved ; the 
 next, a cold and freezing thought shot through it and turned
 
 THE SHAKER GIRL. 123 
 
 the current to ice. Lucy her threatened curse, her withering 
 enmity, her own promise of never thinking of Roland, and of 
 never revealing what had passed between Lucy and herself 
 all was remembered, and suddenly withdrawing her hand from 
 his, she turned away and wept, without the power of self- 
 control. 
 
 Roland was amazed. She had met his avowal with such a 
 radiant blush and smile such love and joy had just lighted 
 up her modest eye, and now he witnessed every demonstration 
 of the most passionate grief. " Oh, no I" she cried, " it never 
 can be I had forgotten it all ; but I must not listen to you 
 oh, no !" and she repeated the interjection in such a plaintive 
 accent, Roland was convinced there was no deception in her 
 woe. In vain he entreated her for an explanation. She could 
 not give any consistent with her promise to Lucy; she could 
 only declare her un worthiness, her poor and perhaps disgrace 
 ful origin; and this only called forth a more impassioned assur 
 ance of his disinterested love, and his disdain of such scruples. 
 He endeavoured to soothe and caress, till Grace felt her resolu 
 tion and her truth fast yielding before his influence. If she 
 could see Lucy, and be released from her rash promise, all 
 might yet be well. Perhaps Lucy herself, finding her brother's 
 pride had yielded to his love, would sanction the union. This 
 idea once admitted, changed despair into hope. " Wait," said 
 she, " till I return, and then, if the obstacle I fear no longer 
 exists," she paused a moment, and her truth-telling lips con 
 strained her to utter " I shall be the happiest of human, 
 beings." Roland, now believing the obstacle to be Lucy, re 
 solved she should not stand any longer in the way of their 
 happiness, pressed for no further explanation. He had departed 
 unknown to her, for he dreaded her violence. When Mr 
 Worthington returned alone, he dreaded Grace might sacrifice 
 herself, as Lucy insinuated, and determined to bear her away 
 ere it was too late. Grace poured into Susan's calm but 
 sympathizing ear the story of her love and the obstacles that 
 opposed it. Her single heart was too narrow to contain tho 
 fulness of her emotions. Susan applauded her integrity, but 
 trembled at her idolatry. She reminded her of the mutability 
 and uncertainty of all earthly things, and strengthened her in 
 the resolution never to accept the vows of Roland, with tho 
 threatened vengeance of Lucy hanging over her love. " Ob, 
 she will relent !" cried Grace ; " Roland's sister cannot be such 
 a monster " Had the chastened Susan witnessed her parting
 
 124 THE SHAKER GIRL. 
 
 with Roland, she would have read a still more solemn lesson 
 on the sinfulness of earthly affections; but she only saw the 
 consequent sorrow, which she was too gentle to reprove. 
 
 The leaves of autumn soon fell, and then everything was 
 changed in the destiny of Grace. Mr. Worthington claimed 
 his child, and when Susan resigned her, her last words bid her 
 pray for strength to keep her virtuous resolution. 
 
 It would be difficult to describe the passions that struggled 
 for mastery in Lucy's breast, when she learned from her brother 
 the part he had acted. Incapable of concealing them at first, 
 and believing she had lost the affection of Roland, she no 
 longer disguised the bitterness of her heart. She hated Grace 
 still more, since she was conscious she had injured her, and 
 when she, appealing in behalf of Roland's happiness as well 
 as her own, entreated her to free her from her promise, she 
 turned a deaf ear to the prayer, and claimed the fulfilment of 
 her word, renewing the same fearful penalty " Unless," she 
 added, with a scornful smile, "you can prove your family 
 equal to ours, and that your alliance will bring no disgrace." 
 
 Strange paradox of the human heart ! Had Lucy taken 
 scorpions into her bosom, she could not have suffered keener 
 pangs than the consciousness of Roland's alienated affection 
 caused her; yet she refused to bend her stubborn pride, and 
 wrapped herself up in the sulliuess of self-will, feeling a kind 
 of stern joy that she had made others as wretched as herself. 
 
 Grace was standing in a lighted saloon, leaning on the arm 
 of Mr. Worthington, and an unwilling partaker of the gay 
 scene. A tall and majestic-looking man passed the spot where 
 she stood, whose appearance excited her interest and curiosity, 
 for he was evidently a stranger in the throng of fashion and 
 wealth, then gathered together. The suns of warmer climes 
 had darkened his face, and added gloom to features of a fine 
 and noble expression. As Grace lifted her mild gray eyes 
 his somewhat stern countenance relaxed, and turning round h 
 gazed earnestly in her face. Abashed by his scrutiny, she 
 moved into another part of the room ; still the tall stranger 
 followed, with his melancholy eyes, pursuing her figure. Ro 
 land, never far from the object of his apparently hopeless 
 devotion, now jealous and irritated, drew to her side. " Oh, 
 Roland," said she, suddenly agitated by a new emotion, " there 
 ia something in that stranger's face, resembling this!" and
 
 THE SHAKER GIRL. 125 
 
 ehe drew from her bosom the miniature suspended from the 
 golden chain. There was indeed a resemblance, only the face 
 of the picture was younger, and the sable locks unbleached. 
 The stranger observed the motions of Grace, and pressed for 
 ward, while the miniature was still open in her hand. " Par 
 don me, madam," said he, earnestly, " I must be pardoned 
 but allow me to look at that picture." Grace with trem 
 bling fingers unloosed the chain, and gave it into the stranger's 
 hand. " It was once my mother's," said she, in a faltering 
 voice, " and her name was Grace Goldman." " Was" said 
 the stranger " and yet how could it be otherwise? she was 
 my sister my only sister and you" he became too much 
 agitated to finish the sentence, and entirely forgetting the 
 throng that surrounded them, he clasped Grace to his bosom, 
 as the living representative of his lost and lamented sister. 
 Yes ! in Mr. Maitland, the rich merchant, just returned from 
 the East Indies, Grace had found an uncle, which proved her 
 lineage to be such, that even the proud Lucy must acknowledge 
 to be equal to her own. His sister, the mother of Grace, had 
 eloped, when very young, with a handsome but profligate man, 
 and being cast off by her parents, she was soon doomed to eat 
 the bread of poverty, in consequence of her husband's ex 
 cesses. Her brother, as soon as he learned her situation, offered 
 to support her through life, declaring his intention never to 
 marry, if she would leave her unprincipled husband. But 
 she, in the strength of that passion which hopes all, believes 
 all, and endures all, refused to leave the man she still loved, 
 and whom she still trusted she might reclaim. Her brother, 
 finding her wedded to her fate, left her with a purse of gold 
 and his own miniature as a parting pledge of love, and depart 
 ed for a foreign land. Forced to fly from the clamours of his 
 creditors, Goldman removed his wife from place to place, till 
 she was far out of the reach of former friends, when, plunging 
 deeper and deeper in the gulf of inebriation, he left her to 
 die, as we have described, of a broken heart. For himself, he 
 died a drunkard's death by the wayside, and was buried by 
 the same humane society that protected his orphan child. This 
 circumstance had been concealed from Grace, nor did she learn 
 it, till her subsequent visit to the Shaker village. Mr. Mait 
 land, who had dwelt long in other lands, accumulating wealth, 
 which his generous heart longed to share with the friends of his 
 early youth, returned to mourn over the graves of his parents, 
 and to seek in vain intelligence of his lost sister, till he saw 
 109
 
 126 THE SHAKER GIRL. 
 
 in the crowd the lovely form of Grace, such as her ill-fater] 
 mother was in the days of her beauty and youth. Lucy could 
 with sincerity offer her congratulations and welcome as a sister 
 the niece of Mr. Maitland, though she had scorned the alliance 
 of the humble Shaker girl. But she felt she was degraded in 
 her eyes, and this was a punishment to her proud spirit, keener 
 than the task-master's lash. Mr. Maitland's gratitude to Mr. 
 Worthington was boundless as it was warm ; but he longed to 
 see the kind Samaritans, who had soothed his sister's dying 
 hours and guarded her orphan child. 
 
 It was a happy day for Grace, when, as the bride of Roland, 
 she accompanied her husband and her uncle to the home of 
 her early youth. She introduced with pride the noble-looking 
 stranger to all her true and single-hearted friends. " But 
 here," said she, throwing her arms round Susan, " here is my 
 mother and my mother's friend." Mr. Maitland would gladly 
 have lavished wealth upon them, in remuneration for their 
 cares, but they steadfastly refused his gifts, asserting they had 
 only done their duty, and merited no reward. " Do uuto 
 others, as we have done towards yours," replied these follow 
 ers of our Saviour's golden rule. " When you hear us reviled 
 by the world, and our worship scorned, and our rites ridi 
 culed, defend us if you can ; and if one of the disciples of our 
 creed should be in need of succour, be unto him as a brother, 
 and we ask no more." " Dear Susan," said Grace, when the 
 parting hour arrived, as she lingered behind to bid her fare 
 well, " am I not the happiest of human beings ?" " I bless 
 God that you are happy, my child," answered Susan, laying 
 her hand solemnly on her head " and long, long may you 
 remain so ; but forget not, days of darkness may come, that 
 the bridal garments may be changed for sackcloth, and ashes 
 be scattered over the garlands of love. Remember then, 
 Grace, there is a refuge from the woes and vanities of the 
 world, where the spirit may wait in peace for its everlasting 
 home." Grace wept, but she smiled through her tears, and, 
 seated once more at Roland's side, she felt as if darkness and 
 sorrow could never be her portion.
 
 A RAINY EVENING. 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 A PLEASANT little group was gathered round Uncle Ned'a 
 domestic hearth. He sat on one side of the fire-place, oppo 
 site Aunt Mary, who, with her book in her hand, watched the 
 children seated at the table, some reading, others sewing, all 
 occupied, but one, a child " of larger growth," a young lady, 
 who, being a guest of the family, was suffered to indulge in 
 the pleasure of idleness without reproof. 
 
 " Oh ! I love a rainy evening," said little Ann, looking up 
 from her book, and meeting her mother's smiling glance, " it 
 is so nice to sit by a good fire and hear the rain pattering 
 against the windows. Only I pity the poor people who have 
 no house to cover them, to keep off the rain and the cold." 
 
 " And I love a rainy evening, too," cried George, a boy of 
 about twelve. " I can study so much better. My thoughts 
 stay at home, and don't keep rambling out after the bright 
 moon and stars. My heart feels warmer, and I really believe 
 I love everybody better than I do when the weather is fair." 
 
 Uncle Ned smiled, and gave the boy an approving pat on 
 the shoulder. Every one smiled but the young lady, who 
 with a languid, discontented air, now played with a pair of scis 
 sors, now turned over the leaves of a book, then, with an ill- 
 suppressed yawn, leaned idly on her elbow, and looked into 
 the fire. 
 
 " And what do you think of a rainy evening, Elizabeth ?'* 
 asked Uncle Ned. " I should like to hear your opinion also/' 
 
 " I think it over dull and uninteresting, indeed," answered 
 
 (127)
 
 128 A RAINY EVENING. 
 
 she. " I always feel so stupid, I can hardly keep myself awak* 
 one cannot go abroad, or hope to see company at home; and 
 one gets so tired of seeing the same faces all the time. I can 
 not imagine what George and Ann see to admire so much in a 
 disagreeable rainy evening like this." 
 
 " Supposing I tell you a story, to enliven you ?" said Uncle 
 Ned. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, father, please tell us a story," exclaimed the 
 children, simultaneously. 
 
 Little Ann was perched upon his knee as if by magic, and 
 even Elizabeth moved her chair, as if excited to some degree 
 of interest. George still held his book in his hand, but his 
 bright eyes, sparkling with unusual animation, were riveted 
 upon his uncle's face. 
 
 " I am going to tell you a story about a rainy evening," 
 said Uncle Ned. 
 
 " Oh ! that will be so pretty !" cried Ann, clapping her 
 hands ; but Elizabeth's countenance fell below zero. It was 
 an ominous annunciation. 
 
 " Yes," continued Uncle Ned, " a rainy evening. But 
 though clouds darker than those which now mantle the sky 
 were lowering abroad, and the rain fell heavier and faster, the 
 rainbow of my life was drawn most beautifully on those dark 
 clouds, and its fair colours still shine most lovely on the sight. 
 It is no longer, however, the bow of promise, but the realiza 
 tion of my fondest dreams." 
 
 George saw his uncle cast an expressive glance towards the 
 handsome matron in the opposite corner, whose colour per 
 ceptibly heightened, and he could not forbear exclaiming 
 
 u Ah ! Aunt Mary is blushing. I understand uncle's meta 
 phor. She is his rainbow, and he thinks life one long rainy 
 day." 
 
 " Not exactly so. I mean your last conclusion. But don't 
 interrupt me, my boy, and you shall hear a lesson, which, 
 young as you are, I trust you will never forget. When I was 
 a young man I was thought quite handsome " 
 
 " Pa is as pretty as he can be, now," interrupted little Ann, 
 passing her hand fondly over his manly cheek. 
 
 Uncle Ned was not displeased with the compliment, for he 
 pressed her closer to him, while he continued 
 
 " Well, when I was young I was of a gay spirit, and a great 
 favourite in society. The young ladies liked me for a partner 
 in the dance, at the chess-board, or the evening walk, and I
 
 A RAINY EVENING. 129 
 
 Lad reason to think several of them would have made no ob 
 jection to take me as a partner for life. Among all my young 
 acquaintances, there was no one whose companionship was so 
 pleasing as that of a maiden whose name was Mary. Now, 
 there are a great many Marys in the world, so you must not 
 take it for granted I mean your mother or aunt. At any rate, 
 you must not look so significant till I have finished my story. 
 Mary was a sweet and lovely girl with a current of cheerful 
 ness running through her disposition that made music as it 
 flowed. It was an under current, however, always gentle, and 
 kept within its legitimate channel; never overflowing into 
 boisterous mirth or unmeaning levity. She was the only 
 daughter of her mother, and she a widow. Mrs. Carlton, 
 such was her mother's name, was in lowly circumstances, and 
 Mary had none of the appliances of wealth and fashion to 
 decorate her person, or gild her home. A very modest com 
 petency was all her portion, and she wished for nothing more. 
 I have seen her, in a simple white dress, without a single orna 
 ment, unless it was a natural rose, transcend all the gaudy 
 belles, who sought by the attractions of dress to win the admi 
 ration of the multitude. But, alas ! for poor human nature. 
 One of these dashing belles so fascinated my attention, that 
 the gentle Mary was for a while forgotten. Theresa Vane was, 
 indeed, a rare piece of mortal mechanism. Her figure was 
 the perfection of beauty, and she moved as if strung upon 
 wires, so elastic and springing were her gestures. I never 
 saw such lustrous hair it was perfectly black, and shone like 
 burnished steel; and then such ringlets ! How they waved 
 and rippled down her beautiful neck ! She dressed with the 
 most exquisite taste, delicacy, and neatness, and whatever she 
 wore assumed a peculiar grace and fitness, as if art loved to 
 adorn what nature made so fair. But what charmed me most 
 was, the sunshiny smile that was always waiting to light up 
 her countenance. To be sure, she sometimes laughed a little 
 too loud, but then her laugh was so musical, and her teeth so 
 white, it was impossible to believe her guilty of rudeness, 01 
 want of grace. Often, when I saw her in the social circle, so 
 brilliant and smiling, the life and charm of everything around 
 her, I thought how happy the constant companionship of such 
 a being would make me what brightness she would impart 
 to the fireside of home what light, what joy, to the darkest 
 scenes of existence I" 
 
 " Oh ! uncle," interrupted George, laughing, " if I were
 
 130 A RAINY EVENING. 
 
 Aunt Mary, I would not let you praise any other lady so 
 warmly. You are so taken up with her beauty, you have for 
 gotten all about the rainy evening." 
 
 Aunt Mary smiled, but it is more than probable that George 
 really touched one of the hidden springs of her woman's heart, 
 for she looked down, and said nothing. 
 
 " Don't be impatient," said Uncle Ned, " and you shall not 
 be cheated out of your story. I began it for Elizabeth's sake, 
 rather than yours, and I see she is wide awake. She thinks 
 I was by this time more than half in love with Theresa Vane, 
 and she thinks more than half right. There had been a great 
 many parties of pleasure, riding parties, sailing parties, and 
 talking parties; and summer slipped by, almost unconsciously. 
 At length the autumnal equinox approached, and gathering 
 clouds, north-eastern gales, and drizzling rains, succeeded to 
 the soft breezes, mellow skies, and glowing sunsets, peculiar 
 to that beautiful season. For two or three days I was con 
 fined within doors by the continuous rains, and I am sorry to 
 confess it, but the blue devils actually got complete possession 
 of me one strided upon my nose, another danced on the top 
 of my head, one pinched my ear, and another turned somersets 
 on my chin. You laugh, little Nanny; but they are terrible 
 creatures, these blue gentlemen, and I could not endure them 
 any longer. So the third rainy evening, I put on my over 
 coat, buttoned it up to my chin, and taking my umbrella in 
 my hand, set out in the direction of Mrs. Vane's. ' Here/ 
 thought I, as my fingers pressed the latch, ' I shall find the 
 moonlight smile, that will illumine the darkness of my night 
 the dull vapours will disperse before her radiant glance, and 
 this interminable equinoctial storm be transformed into a mere 
 vernal shower, melting away in sunbeams in her presence.' 
 My gentle knock not being apparently heard, I stepped into 
 the ante-room, set down my umbrella, took off my drenched 
 overcoat, arranged my hair in the most graceful manner, and, 
 claiming a privilege to which, perhaps, I had no legitimate 
 right, opened the door of the family sitting-room, and found 
 myself in the presence of the beautiful Theresa " 
 
 Here Uncle Ned made a provoking pause. 
 
 "Pray, go on." "How was she dressed?" "And was 
 she glad to see you ?*' assailed him on every side. 
 
 " How was she dressed?" repeated he. "I am not very 
 well skilled in the technicalities of a lady's wardrobe, but I 
 can give you the general impression of her personal appear-
 
 A RAINY EVENING. IS] 
 
 ance. In the first place, there was a jumping up and an off 
 hand sliding step towards an opposite door, as I entered ; but 
 a disobliging chair was in the way, and I was making my 
 lowest bow, before she found an opportunity of disappearing. 
 Confused and mortified, she scarcely returned my salutation, 
 while Mrs. Vane offered me a chair, and expressed, in some 
 what dubious terms, their gratification at such an unexpected 
 pleasure. I have no doubt Theresa wished me at the bottom 
 of the Frozen Ocean, if I might judge by the freezing glances 
 she shot at me through her long lashes. She sat uneasily in 
 her chair, trying to conceal her slipshod shoes, and furtively 
 arranging her dress about the shoulders and waist. It was a 
 most rebellious subject, for the body and skirt were at open 
 warfare, refusing to have any communion with each other. 
 Where was the graceful shape I had so much admired ? In vain I 
 sought its exquisite outlines in the folds of that loose, slovenly 
 robe. Where were those glistening ringlets and burnished 
 locks that had so lately rivalled the tresses of Medusa ? Her 
 hair was put in tangled bunches behind her ears, and tucked up 
 behind in a kind of Gordian knot, which would have required 
 the sword of an Alexander to untie. Her frock was a soiled 
 and dingy silk, with trimmings of sallow blonde, and a faded 
 fancy handkerchief was thrown over one shoulder. 
 
 " ' You have caught me completely en deshabille,' said she, 
 recovering partially from her embarrassment ; ' but the even 
 ing was so rainy, and no one but mother and myself, I never 
 dreamed of such an exhibition of gallantry as this.' 
 
 " She could not disguise her vexation, with all her efforts to 
 conceal it, and Mrs. Vane evidently shared her daughter's 
 chagrin. I was wicked enough to enjoy their confusion, and 
 never appeared more at my ease, or played the agreeable with 
 more signal success. I was disenchanted at once, and my 
 mind revelled in its recovered freedom. My goddess had 
 fallen from the pedestal on which my imagination had en 
 throned her, despoiled of the beautiful drapery which had 
 imparted to her such ideal loveliness. I knew that I was a 
 favourite in the family, for I was wealthy and independent, 
 and perhaps of all Theresa's admirers what the world would 
 call the best match. I maliciously asked her to play on the 
 piano, but she made a thousand excuses, studiously keeping 
 back the true reason, her disordered attire. I asked her to 
 play a game of chess, but ' she had a headache j she was too 
 stupid ; she never could do anything on a rainy evening.'
 
 132 A RAINY EVENING. 
 
 " At length I took my leave, inwardly blessing the moving 
 spirit which had led me abroad that night, that the spell which 
 had so long enthralled my senses might be broken. Theresa 
 called up one of her lambent smiles as I bade her adieu. 
 
 " ' Never call again on a rainy evening/ said she, sport 
 ively ; ' I am always so wretchedly dull. I believe I was bora 
 to live among the sunbeams, the moonlight, and the stars. 
 Clouds will never do for me.' 
 
 " ' Amen/ I silently responded, as I closed the door. While 
 I was putting on my coat, I overheard, without the smallest 
 intention of listening, a passionate exclamation from Theresa. 
 
 " ' Good heavens, mother ! was there ever anything so un 
 lucky ? I never thought of seeing my neighbour's dog to-night. 
 If I have not been completely caught !' 
 
 " f I hope you will mind my advice next time/ replied her 
 mother, in a grieved tone. ' I told you not to sit down in 
 that slovenly dress. I have no doubt you have lost him for 
 ever.' 
 
 " Here I made good my retreat, not wishing to enter the 
 penetralia of family secrets. 
 
 " The rain still continued unabated, but my social feelings 
 were very far from being damped. I had the curiosity to make 
 another experiment. The evening was not very far advanced, 
 and as I turned from Mrs. Vane's fashionable mansion, I saw 
 a modest light glimmering in the distance, and I hailed it as 
 the shipwrecked mariner hails the star that guides him o'er 
 ocean's foam to the home he has left behind. Though I was 
 gay and young, and a passionate admirer of beauty, I had very 
 exalted ideas of domestic felicity. I knew that there was 
 many a rainy day in life, and I thought the companion who 
 was born alone for sunbeams and moonlight, would not aid me 
 to dissipate their gloom. I had, moreover, a shrewd suspi 
 cion that the daughter who thought it a sufficient excuse for 
 shameful personal neglect, that there was no one present but 
 her mother, would, as a wife, be equally regardless of a hus 
 band's presence. While I pursued these reflections, my feet 
 involuntarily drew nearer and more near to the light, which 
 had been the loadstone of my opening manhood. I had con 
 tinued to meet Mary in the gay circles I frequented, but I had 
 lately become almost a stranger to her home. ' Shall I be a 
 welcome guest ?' said I to myself, as I crossed the threshold. 
 ' Shall I find her en deshabille, likewise, and discover that 
 feminine beauty and grace are incompatible with a rainy even-
 
 A RAINY EVENING. 133 
 
 ing ?' I heard a sweet voice reading aloud as I opened the 
 door, and I knew it was the voice which was once music to my 
 ears. Mary rose at my entrance, laying her book quietly on 
 the table, and greeted me with a modest grace and self-posses 
 sion peculiar to herself. She looked surprised, a little embar 
 rassed, but very far from being displeased. She made no 
 allusion to my estrangement or neglect; expressed no astonish 
 ment at my untimely visit, nor once hinted that, being along 
 with her mother, and not anticipating visiters, she thought it 
 unnecessary to wear the habiliments of a lady. Never, in iny 
 life, had I seen her look so lovely. Her dress was perfectly 
 plain, but every fold was arranged by the hand of the Graces. 
 Her dark-brown hair, which had a natural wave in it, now 
 uncurled by the dampness, was put back in smooth ringlets 
 from her brow, revealing a face which did not consider its 
 beauty wasted because a mother's eye alone rested on its bloom. 
 A beautiful cluster of autumnal roses, placed in a glass vase 
 on the table, perfumed the apartment, and a bright blaze on 
 the hearth diffused a spirit of cheerfulness around, while it 
 relieved the atmosphere of its excessive moisture. Mrs. Carl- 
 ton was an invalid, and suffered also from an inflammation of 
 the eyes. Mary had been reading aloud to her from her favour 
 ite book. What do you think it was ? It was a very old-fash 
 ioned one, indeed. No other than the Bible. And Mary was 
 not ashamed to have such a fashionable young gentleman as 1 
 then was to see what her occupation had been. What a con 
 trast to the scene I had just quitted ! How I loathed myself 
 for the infatuation which had led me to prefer the artificial 
 graces of a belle to this pure child of nature ! I drew my 
 chair to the table, and entreated that they would not look upon 
 me as a stranger, but as a friend, anxious to be restored to the 
 forfeited privileges of an old acquaintance. I was understood 
 in a moment, and, without a single reproach, was admitted 
 again to confidence and familiarity. The hours I had wasted 
 with Theresa seemed a kind of mesmeric slumber, a blank in 
 my existence, or, at least, a feverish dream. ' What do you 
 think of a rainy evening, Mary ?' asked I, before I left her. 
 
 " ' I love it of all things,' replied she, with animation. 
 'There is something so home-drawing, so heart-knitting, in its 
 influence. The dependencies which bind us to the world seem 
 withdrawn ; and, retiring within ourselves, we learn more of 
 the deep mysteries of our own being.' 
 
 " Mary's soul beamed from her eye as it turned, with a tran-
 
 134- A RAINY EVENING. 
 
 eient obliquity, towards heaven. She paused, as if fearful of 
 unsealing the fountains of her heart. I said that Mrs. Carl- 
 ton was an invalid, and consequently retired early to her cham 
 ber; but I lingered till a late hour, nor did 1 go till I hud 
 made a full confession of my folly, repentance, and awakened 
 love ; and, as Mary did not shut the door iu my face, you may 
 magine she was not sorely displeased." 
 
 " Ah ! I know who Mary was. I knew all the time," ex 
 claimed G-eorge, looking archly at Aunt Mary. A bright tear, 
 which at that moment fell into her lap, showed that though a 
 silent, she was no uninterested auditor. 
 
 "You haven't done, father?" said little Ann, in a disappoint 
 ed tone ; " I thought you were going to tell a story. You 
 have been talking about yourself all the time." 
 
 " I have been something of an egotist, to be sure, my little 
 girl, but I wanted to show my dear young friend here how 
 much might depend upon a rainy evening. Life is not made 
 all of sunshine. The happiest and most prosperous must have 
 their seasons of gloom and darkness, and woe be to those from, 
 whose souls no rays of brightness emanate to gild those dark 
 ened hours. I bless the God of the rain as well as the sun 
 shine. I can read His mercy and His love as well in the 
 tempest, whose wings obscure the visible glories of His crea 
 tion, as in the splendour of the rising sun, or the soft dews 
 that descend after his setting radiance. I began with a meta 
 phor. I said a rainbow was drawn on the clouds that lowered 
 on that eventful day, and that it still continued to shine with 
 undiminished beauty. Woman, my children, was sent by God 
 to be the rainbow of man's darker destiny. From the glowing 
 red, emblematic of that love which warms and gladdens his 
 existence, to the violet melting into the blue of heaven, sym 
 bolical of the faith which links him to a purer world, her 
 blending virtues, mingling with each other in beautiful har 
 mony, are a token of God's mercy here, and an earnest of 
 future blessings in those regions where no rainy evenings ever 
 come to obscure the brightness of eternal day."
 
 THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A BELLE. 
 
 THERE was a rushing to and fro in the chamber of Ellen 
 Loring, a tread of hurrying feet, a mingled hum of voices, au 
 opening and shutting of doors, as if some event of overwhelm 
 ing importance agitated the feelings, and moved the frames of 
 every individual in the house. A stranger, in the apartment 
 below, might have imagined an individual was dying, and that 
 all were gathering round to offer the appliances of love and 
 sympathy. But Ellen Loring, the object of all this commo 
 tion, was in all the bloom and beauty of health. She sat in 
 a low chair and in front of a large mirror, half-arrayed in the 
 habiliments of the ball-room, her head glowmg with flowers, 
 and streaming with ringlets, her feet encased in silk cobweb 
 and white satin, her face flushed with excitement, her waist 
 compressed into the smallest possible compass, while the 
 strongest fingers the household could supply, were drawing to 
 gether the last reluctant hook and eye, which fastened the rich 
 and airy mixture of satin blonde, that fell in redundant folds 
 round her slender person. " I am afraid, Ellen, your dress is 
 rather too tight," said Mrs. Loring, who was superintending 
 the process with a keen and experienced eye; "you had better 
 not wear it, it may give you a consumption." " Ridiculous I" 
 exclaimed Ellen, " it feels perfectly loose and comfortable ; 1 , 
 am sure it fits delightfully. Look, Agnes," addressing a weary- ' 
 looking girl who had been standing more than half an hour 
 over her, arranging her hair in the most fashionable style. 
 "Look, Agnes, is it not beautiful?" 
 
 "Very beautiful," answered Agnes; "but I think it would 
 look much better if it were not so very low, and the night is so 
 cold, I am sure you will suffer without something thrown 
 
 (135)
 
 136 THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OP A BELLE. 
 
 over your shoulders. These pearl beads are very ornamental, 
 but they will not give warmth," lifting them up as she spoke, 
 from a neck that " rivalled their whiteness." Ellen burst 
 into a scornful laugh, and declared she would rather catch her 
 death-cold, than look so old-fashioned and old-womanish. 
 Mrs. Loring here interposed, and insisted that Ellen should 
 wear a shawl into the ball-room, and to be sure to put it 
 around her when she was not dancing, "for you must 
 remember," added she, " the dreadful cough you had last 
 winter ; when you caught cold, I was really apprehensive of a 
 consumption." 
 
 " I do think, mother, you must be haunted by the ghost of 
 consumption. Everything you say begins and ends with con 
 sumption / am not afraid of the ghost, or the reality, while 
 such roses as these bloom on my cheeks, and such elastic limbs 
 as these bear me through the dance." 
 
 Mrs. Loring looked with admiring fondness on her daugh 
 ter, as she danced gayly before the looking-glass, called her a 
 " wild, thoughtless thing," and thought it would be indeed a 
 pity to muffle such a beautiful neck in a clumsy 'kerchief. 
 The carriage was announced, and Agnes was despatched in a 
 hundred directions for the embroidered handkerchief, the 
 scented gloves, and all the et ceteras, which crowd on the 
 memory at the last moment. Agnes followed the retreating 
 form of Ellen with a long and wistful gaze, then turned with 
 a sigh to collect the scattered artl/les of finery that strewed the 
 room. " Happy Ellen I" said she to herself, " happy, beau 
 tiful Ellen ! favoured by nature and fortune. Every desire 
 of her heart is gratified. She moves but to be admired, flat 
 tered, and caressed. While I, a poor, dependent relative, am 
 compelled to administer to her vanity and wait upon her 
 caprices oh ! if I were only rich and beautiful like Ellen ! I 
 would willingly walk over burning ploughshares to obtain the 
 happiness that is in store for her to-night." 
 
 While the repining Agnes followed Ellen, in imagination, to 
 scenes which appeared to her fancy like the dazzling pictures 
 described in the Arabian Nights, let us enter the ball-room 
 and follow the footsteps of her, whose favoured lot led her 
 through the enchanted land. The hall was brilliantly lighted, 
 the music was of the most animating kind, airy forms floated 
 on the gaze, most elaborately and elegantly adorned, and in 
 the midst of these Ellen shone transcendent. For a while, 
 tar enjoyment realized even the dreams of Agnes. Conscious
 
 THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A BELLE. 137 
 
 of being admired, she glided through the dance, gracefully 
 holding her flowing drapery, smiling, blushing, coquetting and 
 flirting. Compliments were breathed continually into her ears. 
 She was compared to the sylphs, the graces, the muses, the 
 houris, and even to the angels that inhabit the celestial city. 
 Yes, this daughter of fashion, this devotee of pleasure, this 
 vain and thoughtless being, who lived without God in the 
 world, was told by flattering lips, that she resembled those 
 pure and glorified spirits which surround the throne of the 
 Most High, and sing the everlasting song of Moses and the 
 Lamb and she believed it. Perhaps some may assert that 
 the daughters of fashion are not always forgetful of their God, 
 for they are often heard to call upon his great and holy name, 
 in a moment of sudden astonishment or passion, and were a 
 saint to witness their uplifted eyes and clasped hands, he might 
 deem them wrapt in an ecstasy of devotion. 
 
 Ellen, in the midst of almost universal homage, began to 
 feel dissatisfied and weary. There was one who had been in 
 the train of her admirers, himself the star of fashion, who was 
 evidently offering incense at a new shrine. A fair young 
 stranger, who seemed a novice in the splendid scene, drew him 
 from her side, and from that moment the adulation of others 
 ceased to charm. She danced more gayly, she laughed more 
 loudly, to conceal the mortification and envy that was spread 
 ing through her heart ; but the triumph, the joy was over. 
 She began to feel a thousand inconveniences, of whose existence 
 she seemed previously unconscious. Her feet ached from the 
 lightness of her slippers, her respiration was difficult from the 
 tightness of her dress; she was glad when the hour of her 
 departure arrived. Warm from the exercise of the dance, and 
 panting from fatigue, she stood a few moments on the pave 
 ment, waiting for some obstructions to be removed in the 
 way of the carriage. The ground was covered with a sheet 
 of snow, which had fallen during the evening, and made a 
 chill bed for her feet, so ill defended from the inclement sea 
 son. The night air blew damp and cold on her neck an 
 shoulders, for her cloak was thrown loosely around her, thaj 
 her beauty might not be entirely veiled, till the gaze of admi-- 
 ration was withdrawn. 
 
 Agnes sat by the lonely fireside, waiting for the return of 
 Ellen. For a while she kept up a cheerful blaze, and as she 
 heard the gust sweep by the windows, it reminded her that 
 Ellen, would probably come in shivering with cold and reproach
 
 138 THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A BELLE. 
 
 her, if she did not find a glowing hearth to welcome her. She 
 applied fresh fuel, till, lulled by the monotonous sound of the 
 wind, she fell asleep in her chair, nor waked till the voice of 
 Ellen roused her from her slumbers. A few dull embers were 
 all that was left of the fire, the candle gleamed faintly beneath 
 a long, gloomy wick everything looked cold and comfortless. 
 r It was long before poor Agnes could recall the cheering 
 warmth. In the mean time, Ellen poured upon her a torrent 
 of reproaches, and tossing her cloak on a chair, declared she 
 would never go to another ball as long as she lived she bad 
 been tired to death, chilled to death, and now to be vexed to 
 death, by such a stupid, selfish creature as Agnes. It was too 
 much for human nature to endure. Agnes bore it all in 
 silence, for she ate the bread of dependence, and dared not 
 express the bitter feelings that rose to her lips. But she no 
 longer said in her heart "happy, beautiful Ellen;" she 
 wished her admirers could see her as she then did, and be dis 
 enchanted. 
 
 "Take off this horrid dress," cried Ellen, pulling the roses 
 from her hair, now uncurled by the damp, and hanging in 
 long straight tresses over her face. What a contrast did she 
 now present to the brilliant figure which had left the chamber 
 a few hours before ! Her cheeks were pale, her eyes heavy, 
 her limbs relaxed, her buoyant spirits gone. The terrible mis 
 fortune of not having reigned an unrivalled belle, completely 
 overwhelmed her ! He, whose admiration she most prized, 
 had devoted himself to another, and she hated the fair, un 
 conscious stranger, who had attracted him from his allegiance 
 The costly dress which the mantuamaker had sat up all night 
 to complete, was thrown aside as a worthless rag ; her flowers 
 were scattered on the floor; every article of her dress bore wit 
 ness to her ill-humour. 
 
 "I cannot get warm," said she; "I believe I have caught 
 my death-cold;" and throwing her still shivering limbs on the 
 bed, she told Agnes to bury her in blankets, and then let her 
 leep. Can we suppose that guardian angels hovered over the 
 couch, and watched the slumbers of this youthful beauty ? 
 There was no hallowed spot in her chamber, where she was 
 accustomed to kneel in penitence, gratitude, and adoration, 
 before the King of Kings and Lord of Lords. Perhaps, when 
 a mere child, she had been taught to repeat the Lord's Prayer 
 at her nurse's knee, but never had her heart ascended unto 
 Him, who created her for his glory, and breathed into hei
 
 THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A BELLE. 139 
 
 frame a portion of his own immortal Spirit. She had been 
 educated solely for the circles of fashion, to glitter and be 
 admired to dance, to sing, to dress, to talk, and that was all. 
 She knew that she must one day die, and when the bell tolled, 
 and the long funeral darkened the way, she was reluctantly 
 reminded of her own mortality. But she banished the dreadful 
 and mysterious thought, as one with which youth, beauty, and 
 health had nothing to do, and as suited only to the infirmities 
 of age, and the agonies of disease. As for the judgment be 
 yond the grave, that scene of indescribable grandeur, when 
 every created being must stand before the presence of un 
 created glory, " to give an account of the deeds done in the 
 body," she deemed it shocking and sacrilegious to think of a 
 subject so awful; and, to do her justice, she never heard it 
 mentioned except from the pulpit (for there are fashionable 
 churches, and Ellen was the belle of the church as well as of 
 the ball-room). Thus living in practical atheism, labouring to 
 bring every thought and feeling in subjection to the bondage 
 of fashion, endeavouring to annihilate the great principle of 
 immortality struggling within her, Ellen Loring was as much 
 the slave of vice as the votary of pleasure. Like the king of 
 Babylon, who took the golden vessels from the temple of the 
 Lord, and desecrated them at his unhallowed banquet, she had 
 robbed her soul, that temple of the living God, of its sacred 
 treasures, and appropriated them to the revelries of life. But 
 the hour was approaching, when the invisible angel of con- 
 Bcience was to write on the walls of memory those mystic 
 characters which a greater than Daniel alone can interpret. 
 
 It was the afternoon of a mild summer's day, a lovely, 
 smiling, joyous summer day ?< when two female figures were 
 seen slowly walking along a shaded path, that led from a neat 
 white cottage towards a neighbouring grove. One was beau- 
 tiful, and both were young, but the beautiful one was so pale 
 and languid, so fragile and fading, it was impossible to behold 
 her without the deepest commiseration. She moved listlessly on, 
 leaning on the arm of her less fair, but healthier companion, 
 apparently insensible of the sweet and glowing scenery around 
 her. The birds sung in melodious concert, from every green 
 bough, but their music could not gladden her ear; the air 
 played softly through her heavy locks, but awaked no elastic 
 spring iu her once bounding spirits. It was the late blooming
 
 140 THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OP A BELLE. 
 
 Ellen Loring, who, according to the advice of her physician, 
 was inhaling the country air, to see if it could not impart an 
 invigorating influence. She had never recovered from the 
 deadly chill occasioned by her exposure, the night of the ball, 
 when she stood with her thin slippers and uncovered neck in 
 the snow and the blast, in all the "madness of superfluous 
 health." It was said she had caught a " dreadful cold," which 
 the warm season would undoubtedly relieve, and when the 
 summer came, and her cough continued with unabated violence, 
 and her flesh and her strength wasted, she was sent into the 
 country, assured that a change of air and daily exemse would 
 infallibly restore her. The fearful word consumption, which 
 in the days of Ellen's health was so often on the mother's 
 lips, was never mentioned now; and whenever friends iuquired 
 after Ellen, she always told them, "she had caught a bad 
 cold, which hung on a long time, but that she was so young, 
 and had so fine a constitution, she did not apprehend any 
 danger." Ellen was very unwilling to follow the prescriptions 
 of her medical friend. She left the city with great reluctance, 
 dreading the loneliness of a country life. Agnes accompanied 
 her, on whom was imposed the difficult task of amusing and 
 cheering the invalid, and of beguiling her of every sense of 
 her danger. " Be sure," said Mrs. Loring, when she gave 
 her parting injunctions to Agnes, " that you do not suffer her 
 to be alone : there is nothing so disadvantageous to a sick per 
 son as to brood over their own thoughts. It always occasions 
 low spirits. I have put up a large supply of novels, and when 
 she is tired of reading herself, you must read to her, or sing 
 to her, or amuse her in every possible manner. If she should 
 be very ill, you must send for me immediately, but I have no 
 doubt that in a few weeks she will be as well as ever." 
 
 Poor Agnes sometimes was tempted to sink under the weary 
 burden of her cares. She wondered she had ever thought it 
 a task to array her for the ball-room, or to wait her return at 
 the midnight-hour. But she no longer envied her, for Ellen 
 pale and faded, and dejected, was a very different object from 
 Ellen triumphant in beauty and bloom. The kind lady with 
 whom they boarded, had had a rustic seat constructed under 
 the trees, in the above-mentioned grove, for the accommodation 
 of the invalid. As they now approached it, they found it 
 already occupied by a gentleman, who was so intently reading 
 he did not seem aware of their vicinity. They were about to 
 r etire ; when lifting his eyes, he rose, and with a benignant
 
 THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A BELLE. 141 
 
 countenance, requested them to be seated. Ellen was exhausted 
 from the exercise of her walk; and, as the stranger was past the 
 meridian of life, she did not hesitate to accept his offer, at the 
 same time thanking him for his courtesy. His mild, yet 
 serious eyes, rested on her face, with a look of extreme com 
 miseration, as with a deep sigh of fatigue she leaned on the 
 shoulder of Agnes, while the hectic flush flitting over he: 
 cheek, betrayed the feverish current that was flowing in her 
 veins. 
 
 " You seem an invalid, my dear young lady," said he, so 
 kindly and respectfully, it was impossible to be offended with 
 the freedom of the address ; " I trust you find there is a balm 
 in Gilead, a heavenly Physician near." 
 
 Ellen gave him a glance of unspeakable astonishment, 
 and coldly answered, " I have a severe cold, sir nothing 
 more." 
 
 The dry, continuous cough that succeeded, was a fearful 
 commentary upon her words. The stranger seemed one not 
 easily repulsed, and one, too, who had conceived a sudden and 
 irrepressible interest in his young companions. Agnes, in 
 arranging Ellen's scarf, dropped a book from her hand, which 
 he stooped to raise, and as his eye glanced on the title, the 
 gravity of his countenance deepened. It was one of ***** *'g 
 last works, in which that master of glowing language and im 
 passioned images, has thrown his most powerful spell around 
 the senses of the reader, and dazzled and bewildered his percep 
 tions of right and wrong. 
 
 " Suffer me to ask you, young lady," said he, laying down 
 the book, with a sigh, " if you find in these pages instruction, 
 consolation, or support ? anything that as a rational being you 
 ought to seek, as a moral one to approve, as an immortal one 
 to desire ?" 
 
 Ellen was roused to a portion of her former animation, by 
 this attack upon her favourite author ; and, in language warm 
 as his from whom she drew her inspiration, she defended hia 
 sentiments and exalted his genius she spoke of his godlike 
 mind, when the stranger entreated her to forbear, in words of 
 supplication, but in accents of command. 
 
 " Draw not a similitude," said he, "between a holy God, 
 and a being who has perverted the noblest powers that God 
 has given. Bear with me a little while, and I will show you 
 what is truly godlike, a book as far transcending the produc
 
 142 THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A BELLE. 
 
 fcions of him you so much admire, as the rays of the sun excel 
 in glory the wan light of a taper." 
 
 Then, taking from his bosom the volume which had excited 
 the curiosity of Ellen, on account of its apparent fascination, 
 and seating himself by her side, he unfolded its sacred pages. 
 She caught a glimpse of the golden letters on the binding, 
 and drew back with a feeling of superstitious dread. It seemed 
 to her, that he was about to read her death-warrant, and she 
 involuntarily put out her hand, with a repulsive motion. With 
 out appearing to regard it, he looked upon her with sweet 
 and solemn countenance, while he repeated this passage, from 
 a bard who had drank of the waters of a holier fountain than 
 Grecian poets ever knew : 
 
 " This book, this holy book, on every line 
 Marked with the seal of high divinity, 
 On every leaf bedewed with drops of love 
 Divine, and with the eternal heraldry 
 And signature of God Almighty stamped 
 From first to last ; this ray of sacred light, 
 This lamp, from off the everlasting throne, 
 Mercy took down, and in the night of time, 
 Stood, casting on the dark her gracious bow ; 
 And evermore, beseeching men, with tears 
 And earnest sighs, to read, believe, and live." 
 
 Ellen listened with indescribable awe. There was a power 
 and sensibility in his accent, a depth of expression in his occa 
 sional upturned glance, that impressed and affected her as she 
 had never been before. 
 
 " Forgive me," said he, " if, as a stranger, I seem intrusive ; 
 but I look upon every son and daughter of Adarn, with the 
 tenderness of a brother, and upon whom the Almighty has 
 laid his chastening hand, with feelings of peculiar interest. If 
 1 were wandering through a barren wilderness, and found a 
 fountain of living water, and suffered my fellow-pilgrim to 
 slake his thirst at the noisome pool by the wayside, without 
 calling him to drink of the pure stream, would he not have 
 reason to upbraid me for my selfishness ? Oh ! doubly selfish 
 then should I be, if, after tasting the waters of everlasting 
 life, for ever flowing from this blessed Book, I should not seek 
 to draw you from the polluted sources in which you vainly 
 endeavour to quench the thirst of an immortal spirit. Dear 
 young fellow-traveller to* eternity, suffer me to lend you a 
 guiding hand."
 
 THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OP A BELLE. 143 
 
 Ellen Loring, who had been famed in the circles of fashion 
 for her ready wit and brilliant repartee, found no words in 
 which to reply to this affectionate and solemn appeal. She 
 turned aside her head, to hide the tears which she could no 
 longer repress from flowing down her cheeks. As the polished, 
 but darkened Athenians, when Paul, standing on Mars Hill, 
 explained to them " that unknown God, whom they ignorantly 
 worshipped," trembled before an eloquence they could not 
 comprehend, she was oppressed by a power she could not 
 define. Agnes, who began to be alarmed at the consequences 
 of this agitation, and who saw in perspective Mrs. Loring's 
 displeasure and reproaches, here whispered Ellen it was time 
 to return, and Ellen, glad to be released from an influence to 
 which she was constrained to bow, obeyed the signal. Their 
 new friend rose also ; " I cannot but believe," said he, " that 
 this meeting is providential. It seems to me that heaven 
 directed my steps hither, that I might lead you to those green 
 pastures and still waters where the Shepherd of Israel gathers 
 his flock. You are both young, but there is one of you whose 
 cheek is pale, and whose saddened glance tells a touching 
 history of the vanity of all earthly things. Take this blessed 
 volume, and substitute it for the one you now hold, and believe 
 me you will find in it an inexhaustible supply of entertainment 
 and delight, a perennial spring of light, and love, and joy. You 
 will find it an unerring guide in life, and a torch to illumine 
 the dark valley of the shadow of death. Farewell the bless 
 ing of Israel's Grod be yours !" 
 
 He placed the book in the hand of Agnes, and turned in a 
 different path. They walked home in silence. Neither ex 
 pressed to the other the thoughts that filled the bosom of each. 
 Had an angel from heaven come down and met them in the 
 grove, the interview could hardly have had a more solemnizing 
 influence. It was the first time they had ever been individually 
 addressed as immortal beings, the first time they had been 
 personally reminded that they were pilgrims of earth, and 
 doomed to be dwellers of the tomb. The voice of the stranger 
 still rung in their ears, deep and mellow as the sound of 
 the church-going bell. Those warning accents, they could not 
 forget them, for there was an echo in their own hearts, and an 
 answer too, affirming the truth of what he uttered. That night, 
 when Ellen, unusually exhausted, reclined on her restless 
 couch, she suddenly asked Agnes to read her something from 
 that book, so mysteriously given. It was the first time she
 
 144 THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A BELLE. 
 
 had addressed her, since their return, and there was something 
 startling in the sound of her voice, it was so altered. There 
 was humility in the tone, that usually breathed pride or discon 
 tent. Agnes sat down, and turned the leaves with a trembling 
 hand. 
 
 " What shall I read ? where shall I commence ?" asked she, 
 fearful and irresolute, in utter ignorance of its hallowed con 
 tents. 
 
 " Alas ! I know not," replied Ellen, then raising herself on 
 her elbow, with a wild and earnest look, " see if you can find 
 where it speaks of that dark valley, of which he told the dark 
 valley of death." 
 
 By one of those unexpected coincidences which sometimes 
 occur, Agnes at that moment opened at the twenty-third Psalm, < 
 and the verse containing this sublime allusion met her eye. 
 She read aloud " Though I walk through the valley of the 
 shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me 
 thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me." 
 
 " Strange," repeated Ellen, and making a motion for her to 
 continue, Agnes read the remainder of that beautiful Psalm, 
 and the two succeeding ones, before she paused. Dark as was 
 their understanding with regard to spiritual things, and deep 
 as was their ignorance, they were yet capable of taking in 
 gome faint glimpses of the glory of the Lord, pervading these 
 strains of inspiration. Agnes was a pleasing reader, and her 
 voice, now modulated by new emotions, was peculiarly impress 
 ive. Ellen repeated again and again to herself, after Agnes 
 had ceased, " Who is this King of glory ? The Lord strong 
 and mighty ?" She had never thought of God, but as of a 
 Being dreadful in power, avenging in his judgments, and awful 
 in his mystery. She had remembered him only in the whirl 
 wind and the storm, the lightning and the thunder, never in 
 the still small voice. She had thought of de'ath, but it was of the 
 winding sheet and the dark coffin lid, and the lonely grave 
 her fears had rested there, on the shuddering brink of decay 
 ing mortality. Oh ! as she lay awake during the long watches 
 of that night, and conscience, aroused from its deadly lethargy, 
 entered the silent chambers of memory and waked the slum 
 bering shadows of the past how cheerless, how dark was the 
 retrospect ! Far as the eye of memory could revert, she could 
 read nothing but vanity, vanity ! A wide, wide blank, on 
 which a spectral hand was writing vanity, and something told 
 her, too, that that same hand would ere long write this great
 
 THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OP A BELLE. 145 
 
 moral of life on her mouldering ashes. She cast her fearful gaze 
 upon the future, but recoiled in shivering dread, from the vast 
 illimitable abyss that darkened before her. No ray of hope 
 illumined the dread immense. The Star of Bethlehem had 
 never yet shed its holy beams on the horoscope of her destiny j 
 not that its beams had ever ceased to shine, since that me 
 morable night when, following its silvery pathway in the 
 heavens, the wise men of the East were guMed to the cradle 
 of the infant Redeemer, to offer their adoration at his feet ; 
 but her eyes had never looked beyond the clouds of time, and 
 in its high and pure resplendence it had shone in vain for 
 her. 
 
 " I will seek him to-morrow, this holy man," said she, as 
 hour after hour she lay gazing, through her curtains, on the 
 starry depths of night, " and ask him to enlighten and direct 
 me." 
 
 The morrow came, but Ellen was not able to take her ac 
 customed work. For several days she was confined from de 
 bility to her own room, and had ample leisure to continue the 
 great walk of self-examination. As soon as she was permitted 
 to go into the open air, she sought her wonted retreat, and it 
 was with feelings of mingled joy and dread, she recognised 
 the stranger, apparently waiting their approach. This truly 
 good man, though a stranger to them, was well known in the 
 neighbourhood for his deeds of charity and labours of love. 
 His name was M * * * *, and as there was no mystery in his 
 character or life, he may be here introduced to the reader, 
 that the appellation of stranger may no longer be necessary. 
 He greeted them both with even more than his former kind 
 ness, and noticed with pain the increased debility of Ellen. 
 He saw, too, from her restless glance, that her soul was dis 
 quieted within her. 
 
 " Oh, sir," said Ellen, mournfully, "you promised me joy, 
 and you have given me wretchedness." 
 
 " My daughter," replied Mr. M * * * *, "before the sick 
 found healing virtue in the waters at Bethesda, an angel came 
 down and troubled the stillness of the pool." 
 
 Then, at her own request, he sat down by her side, and en 
 deavoured to explain to her the grand yet simple truths of 
 Christianity. And beginning with the law and the prophets, 
 he carried her with him to the mount that burned with fire 
 and thick smoke, where the Almighty, descending in shrouded 
 majesty, proclaimed his will to a trembling world, in thunder
 
 146 THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A BELLE. 
 
 and lightning and flame; he led her on with him, through 
 the wilderness, pointing out the smitten rock, the descending 
 manna, the brazen serpent, and all the miraculous manifesta 
 tions of God's love to his chosen people ; then, taking up the 
 lofty strains of prophecy, from the melodious harp of David to 
 the sublimer lyre of Isaiah, he shadowed forth the promised 
 Messiah. In more persuasive accents he dwelt on the fulfil 
 ment of those wondrous prophecies. Gently, solemnly he 
 guided her on, from the manger to the cross, unfolding as he 
 went the glorious mysteries of redemption, the depth, the 
 grandeur, the extent, and the exaltation of a Saviour's love. 
 Ellen listened and wept. She felt as if she could have listened 
 for ever. At one moment she was oppressed by the greatness 
 of the theme, at another melted by its tenderness. Those who 
 from infancy have been accustomed to hear these divine truths 
 explained, who from tLeir earliest years have surrounded the 
 household altar, and daily read God's holy word, can have no 
 conception of the overpowering emotions of Ellen and Agnes ; 
 neither can they, whose infant glances have taken in the 
 visible glories of creation, comprehend the rapture and amaze 
 ment of those who, being born blind, are made in after years 
 to see. 
 
 From this hour Ellen and Agnes became the willing pupils 
 of Mr. M * * * *, in the most interesting study in the uni 
 verse ; but it is with Ellen the reader is supposed most strongly 
 to sympathize ; the feelings of Agnes may be inferred from 
 her going hand in hand with her invalid friend. Ellen lin 
 gered in the country till the golden leaves of autumn began 
 to strew the ground, and its chill gales to sigh through the 
 grove. What progress she made during this time in the 
 lore of heaven, under the teachings and prayers of her be 
 loved instructor, may be gathered from another, and the last 
 scene, through which this once glittering belle was destined to 
 pass. 
 
 The chamber in which Ellen Loring was first presented to 
 the reader, surrounded by the paraphernalia of the ball-room, 
 was once more lighted but what a change now met the eye ! 
 She, who then sat before the mirror to be arrayed in the 
 adornments of fashion, whose vain eye gazed with unrepressed 
 admiration on her own loveliness, and who laughed to scorn 
 the apprehensions of her fatally indulgent mother, now lay
 
 THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A BELLE. 147 
 
 pale and emaciated on her couch. No roses now bloomed iu 
 her damp, unbraided locks, no decorating pearl surrounded 
 her wan neck, no sparkling ray of anticipated triumph flashed 
 from her sunken eye. Pride, vanity, vainglory, strength, 
 beauty all were fled. 
 
 Come hither, ye daughters of pleasure, ye who live alone 
 for the fleeting joys of sense, who give to the world the homage 
 that God requires, and waste in the pursuits of time the ener 
 gies given for eternity, and look upon a scene through which 
 you must one day pass ! There is more eloquence in one dying 
 bed, than Grecian or Roman orator ever uttered. 
 
 The dim eyes of Ellen turned towards the door, with a wist 
 ful glance. " I fear it will be too late," said she ; " mother, 
 if he should not come before I die " 
 
 " Die I" almost shrieked Mrs. Loring; " you are not going to 
 die, Ellen. Do not talk so frightfully. You will be better 
 soon Agnes, bathe her temples. She is only faint." 
 
 "No, mother," answered Ellen, and her voice was sur 
 prisingly clear in its tones, " I feel the truth of what I utter, 
 here," laying her wasted hand on her breast, as she spoke. 
 " I did hope that I might live to hear once more the voice of 
 him who taught me the way of salvation, and revealed to my 
 benighted mind the God who created, the Saviour who redeem 
 ed me, that I might breathe out to him my parting blessing, 
 and hear his hallowed prayer rise over my dying bed. But 
 oh, my dear mother, it is for your sake, more than mine, I 
 yearn for his presence I looked to him to comfort you, when 
 I am gone." Mrs. Loring here burst into a violent paroxysm, 
 of tears, and wrung her hands in uncontrollable agony. 
 
 " Oh ! I cannot give thee up," she again and again repeated, 
 " my beautiful Ellen, my good, my beautiful child !" 
 
 Mournfully, painfully did these exclamations fall on the 
 chastened ears of the dying Ellen. 
 
 " Recall not the image of departed beauty, oh my mother ! 
 I made it my idol, and my heavenly Father, in infinite 
 mercy, consumed it with the breath of his mouth. Speak 
 not of goodness my life has been one long act of sin and in- 
 gratitude. I can look back upon nothing but wasted mercies, 
 neglected opportunities, and perverted talents. But blessed 
 be God, since I have been led in penitence and faith to the 
 feet of a crucified Saviour, I dare to believe that my sins are 
 forgiven, aud that my trembling spirit will soon find rest in
 
 148 THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OP A BELLE. 
 
 the bosom of Him, who lived to instruct and died to redeem 
 me." 
 
 Ellen paused, for difficult breathing had often impeded her 
 utterance ; but her prayerful eyes, raised to heaven, told the 
 intercourse her soul was holding with One " whom not having 
 seen she loved, but in whom believing, she rejoiced with joy 
 inspeakable and full of glory." At this moment, the door 
 oftly opened, and the gentle footsteps of him, whom on earth 
 he most longed to behold, entered the chamber. As she 
 caught a glimpse of that benign, that venerated countenance, 
 she felt a glow of happiness pervading her being, of which she 
 thought her waning life almost incapable. She clasped her 
 feeble hands together, and exclaimed, " Oh ! Mr. M * * * *." 
 It was all she could utter, for tears, whose fountains she had 
 thought dried for ever, gushed into her eyes and rolled down 
 her pallid cheeks. Mr. M * * * * took one of her cold hands 
 in his, and looked upon her, for a time, without speaking. 
 
 " My daughter," at length he said, and he did not speak 
 without much emotion, " do you find the hand of God laid 
 heavy upon your soul, or is it gentle, even as a father's 
 hand ?" 
 
 " Gentle, most gentle," she answered. " Oh ! blessed, for 
 ever blessed be the hour that sent you, heaven-directed, to 
 guide the wanderer in the paths of peace ! Had it not been 
 for you, I should now be trembling on the verge of a dark 
 eternity, without one ray to illumine the unfathomable abyss. 
 Pray for me once more, my beloved friend, and pray too for 
 my dear mother, that she may be enabled to seek Him in 
 faith, who can make a dying bed ' feel soft as downy pillows 
 are.' " 
 
 Ellen clasped her feeble hands together, while Mr. M * * * *, 
 kneeling by her bed-side, in that low, sweet solemn tone, for 
 which he was so remarkable, breathed forth one of those deep 
 and fervent prayers, which are, as it were, wings to the soul, 
 and bear it up to heaven. Mrs. Loring knelt too, by the 
 weeping Agnes, but her spirit, unused to devotion, lingered 
 below, and her eyes wandered from the heavenly countenance 
 of that man of G-od, to the death-like face of that child, whose 
 beauty had once been her pride. She remembered how short 
 a time since, she had seen that form float in airy grace before 
 the mirror clothed in fair and flowing robes, and how soon she 
 should see it extended in the awful immobility of death, 
 wrapped in the still winding-sheet, that garment whose folds
 
 THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A BELLE. 149 
 
 are never more waved by the breath of life. Then, conscience 
 whispered in her shuddering ear, that, bad she acted a mother'? 
 part, and disciplined her daughter to prudence and obedience, 
 the blasts of death had not thus blighted her in her early 
 blooin. And it whispered also, that she had no comfort to 
 offer her dying child, in this last conflict of dissolving nature. 
 It was for this world she had lived herself, it was for this 
 world she had taught her to live, but for that untravelled 
 world beyond, she had no guiding hand to extend. It was to 
 a stranger's face the fading eyes of Ellen were directed. It 
 was a stranger's prayers that hallowed her passage to the tomb. 
 The realities of eternity for the first time pressed home, on 
 that vain mother's heart. She felt, too, that she must one day 
 die, and that earth with all its riches and pleasures could yield 
 her no support in that awful moment. That there was some 
 thing which earth could not impart, which had power to soothe 
 and animate the departing spirit, she knew by the angelic ex 
 pression of Ellen's upturned eyes, and by the look of unutter 
 able serenity that was diffused over her whole countenance. 
 The voice of Mr. M * * * * died away on her ear, and an un 
 broken silence reigned through the apartment. Her stormy 
 grief had been stilled into calmness, during that holy prayer. 
 The eyes of Ellen were now gently closed, and as they rose 
 from their knees they sat down by her side, fearing, even by a 
 deep-drawn breath, to disturb her slumbers. A faint hope 
 began to dawn in the mother's heart, from the placidity and 
 duration of her slumbers. 
 
 " I have never known her sleep so calm before," said she, 
 in a low voice, to Mr. M * * * *. Mr. M * * * * bent forward 
 and laid his hand softly on her marble brow. 
 
 "Calm indeed are her slumbers," said he, looking solemnly 
 upward ; " she sleeps now, I trust, in the bosom of her Saviour 
 and her God." 
 
 Thus died Ellen Loring just one year from that night 
 when Agnes followed her retreating figure, with such a wistful 
 gaze, as she left her for the ball-room, exclaiming to herself, 
 " Happy, beautiful Ellen !" and Agnes now said within herself, 
 even while she wept over her clay-cold form, " Happy Ellen !" 
 but with far different emotions ; for she now followed, with 
 the eye of faith, her ascending spirit to the regions of the 
 blest, and saw her, in imagination, enter those golden gates, 
 which never will be closed against the humble and penitent 
 believer.
 
 150 THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A BELLE. 
 
 A few evenings after, a brilliant party was assembled in one 
 of those halls, where pleasure welcomes its votaries. " Did 
 you know that Ellen Loring was dead ?" observed some one 
 to a beautiful girl, the very counterpart of what Ellen once 
 was. "Dead !" exclaimed the startled beauty, for one moment 
 alarmed into reflection ; " I did not think she would have 
 lied so soon. I am sorry you told me it will throw a damp 
 over my spirits the whole evening poor Ellen !" It was 
 but a moment, and the music breathed forth its joyous strains. 
 She was led in haste to the dance, and Ellen Loring was 
 forgotten.
 
 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 
 
 CHARLES BROWN sat with Mr. Hall in a corner of the 
 room, apart from the rest of the company. Mr. Hall was a 
 stranger, Charles the familiar acquaintance of all present. The 
 former evidently retained his seat out of politeness to the latter 
 for his eyes wandered continually to the other side of the 
 room, where a group of young ladies was gathered r >und a 
 piano, so closely as to conceal the musician to whom +hey 
 were apparently listening. The voice that accompanied 
 instrument was weak and irregular, and the high tones exces 
 sively shrill and disagreeable, yet the performer continued her 
 songs with unwearied patience, thinking the young gentlemen 
 were turned into the very stones that Orpheus changed into 
 breathing things, to remain insensible to her minstrelsy. 
 There was one fair, blue-eyed girl, with a very sweet counte 
 nance, who stood behind her chair and cast many a mirthful 
 glance towards Charles, while she urged the songstress to con 
 tinue at every pause, as if she were spell-bound by the melody. 
 Charles laughed, and kept time with his foot, but Mr. Hall bit 
 his lips, and a frown passed over his handsome and serious 
 countenance. " What a wretched state of society !" exclaimed 
 he, " that admits, nay, even demands such insincerity. Look 
 at the ingenuous countenance of that young girl would you 
 not expect from her sincerity and truth ? Yet, with what 
 practical falsehood she encourages her companion in her odioua 
 screeching!" 
 
 " Take care," answered Charles, " you must not be too severe. 
 That young lady is a very particular friend of mine, and a very 
 charming girl. She has remarkably popular manners, and if 
 she is guilty of a few little innocent deceptions, such, for in- 
 
 (151)
 
 152 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 
 
 stance, as the present, I see no possible harm in them to her- 
 self, and they certainly give great pleasure to others. She 
 makes Miss Lewis very happy, by her apparent admiration, 
 and I do not see that she injures any one else." 
 
 Mr. Hall sighed. 
 
 " I fear," said he, " I am becoming a misanthropist. I find 
 I have very peculiar views, such as set me apart and isolate 
 me from my fellow beings. I cannot enjoy an artificial state 
 of society. I consider truth as the corner stone of the great 
 social fabric, and where this is wanting, I am constantly look 
 ing for ruin and desolation. The person deficient in this virtue, 
 however fair and fascinating, is no more to me than the whited 
 sepulchre and painted wall." 
 
 " You have, indeed, peculiar views," answered Charles, 
 colouring with a vexation he was too polite to expi'ess in any 
 other way ; " and if you look upon the necessary dissimula 
 tions practised in society as falsehoods, and brand them as such, 
 I can only say, that you have created a standard of morality 
 more exalted and pure than human nature can ever reach." 
 
 " I cannot claim the merit of creating a standard, which 
 the divine Moralist gave to man, when he marked out his 
 duties from the sacred mount, in characters so clear and deep, 
 that the very blind might see and the cold ear of deafness 
 hear." 
 
 Mr. Hall spoke with warmth. The eyes of the jompany 
 were directed towards him. He was disconcerted und re 
 mained silent. Miss Lewis rose from the piano, an</ drew to 
 wards the fire. 
 
 " I am getting terribly tired of the piano," said she, " I 
 don't think it suits my voice at all. I am going co take lessoua 
 on the guitar and the harp one has so much more scope with 
 them ; and then they are much more graceful instruments." 
 
 " You are perfectly right," replied Miss Ellis, the young 
 lady with the ingenuous countenance, " I have no doubt you 
 would excel on either, and your singing would be much better 
 appreciated. Don't you think so, Margaret ?" added she, turn 
 ing to a young lady, who had hitherto been silent, and appa 
 rently unobserved. 
 
 " You know I do not," answered she, who was so abruptly 
 addressed, in a perfectly quiet manner, and fixing her eyea 
 serenely on her face ; " I should be sorry to induce Miss Lewi* 
 to do anything disadvantageous to herself, and consequently 
 painful to her friends."
 
 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 153 
 
 "Keally, Miss Howard," cried Miss Lewis, bridling, and 
 tossing her head with a disdainful air, " you need not be so 
 afraid of my giving you so much pain I will not intrude my 
 singing upon your delicate and refined ears." 
 
 Mr. Hall made a movement forward, attracted by the un 
 common sincerity of Miss Howard's remark. 
 
 " There," whispered Charles, " is a girl after your own heart 
 Margaret Howard will speak the truth, however unpalatable 
 it may be, and see what wry faces poor Miss Lewis makes iti 
 trying not to swallow it I am sure Mary Ellis's flattery is a 
 thousand times kinder and more amiable." 
 
 Mr. Hall did not answer. His eyes were perusing the face 
 of her, whose lips had just given such honourable testimony 
 to a virtue so rarely respected by the world of fashion. A 
 decent boldness lighted up the clear hazel eyes that did not 
 seem to be unconscious of the dark and penetrating glances at 
 that moment resting upon them. She was dressed with re 
 markable simplicity. No decoration in colour relieved the 
 spotless whiteness of her attire. Her hair of pale, yet shining 
 brown, was plainly parted over a brow somewhat too lofty for 
 mere feminine beauty, but white and smooth as Parian marble. 
 Her features, altogether, bore more resemblance to a Pallas 
 than a Venus. They were calm and pure, but somewhat cold 
 and passionless and under that pale, transparent skin, there 
 seemed no under current, ebbing and flowing with the crimson 
 tide of the heart. Her figure, veiled to the throat, was of fine, 
 though not very slender proportions. There was evidently no 
 artificial compression about the waist, no binding ligatures to 
 prevent the elastic motions of the limbs, the pliable and grace 
 ful movements of nature. 
 
 " She has a fine face a very handsome face," repeated 
 Charles, responding to what Mr. Hall looked, for as yet he 
 had uttered nothing ; " but to me, it is an uninteresting one. 
 She is not generally liked respected, it is true, but feared 
 and fear is a feeling which few young ladies would wish to 
 inspire. It is a dangerous thing to live above the world at 
 least, for a woman." 
 
 Charles availed himself of the earliest opportunity of intro 
 dueing his friend to Miss Howard, glad to be liberated for a 
 wbi.o from the close companionship of a man who made him 
 feel strangely uncomfortable with regard to himself, and weL 
 pleased with the opportunity of conversing with his favourite, 
 Mary Ellis.
 
 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 
 
 "I feel quite vexed with Margaret," said this thoughtless 
 girl, " for spoiling my compliment to Miss Lewis. I would 
 give one of my little fingers to catch her for once in a white 
 lie." 
 
 "Ask her if she does not think herself handsome," said 
 Charles ; " no woman ever acknowledged that truth, though 
 none be more firmly believed." 
 
 He little expected she would act upon his suggestion, but 
 Mary was too much delighted at the thought of seeing the un 
 compromising Margaret guilty of a prevarication, to suffer it 
 to pass unheeded. 
 
 " Margaret," cried she, approaching her, unawed by the 
 proximity of the majestic stranger " Mr. Brown says you 
 will deny that you think yourself handsome. Tell me the 
 truth don't you bejieve yourself very handsome ?" 
 
 " I will tell you the truth, Mary," replied Margaret, blush 
 ing so brightly, as to give an actual radiance to her face, " that 
 is, if I speak at all. But I would rather decline giving any 
 opinion of myself." 
 
 " Ah ! Margaret," persisted Miss Ellis, " I have heard you 
 say that to conceal the truth, when it was required of us, un 
 less some moral duty were involved, was equivalent to a false 
 hood. Bear witness, Charles, here is one subject on which 
 even Margaret Howard dares not speak the truth." 
 
 " You are mistaken," replied Miss Howard ; " since you 
 force me to speak, by attacking my principles, I am very will 
 ing to say, I do think myself handsome ; but not so conspicu 
 ously as to allow me to claim a superiority over my sex, or to 
 justify so singular and unnecessary a question." 
 
 All laughed even the grave Mr. Hall smiled at the frank 
 ness of the avowal all but Miss Lewis, who, turning up her 
 eyes and raising her hands, exclaimed, " Really, Miss Howard's 
 modesty is equal to her politeness. I thought she despised 
 beauty." 
 
 " The gifts of God are never to be despised," answered Miss 
 Howard, mildly. " If he has graced the outer temple, we 
 should only be more careful to keep the indwelling spirit 
 pure." 
 
 She drew back, as if pained by the observation she had ex 
 cited ; and the deep and modest colour gradually faded from 
 her cheek. Mr. Hall had not been an uninterested listener. 
 He was a sad and disappointed man. He had been the victim 
 of a woman's perfidy and falsehood and was consequently
 
 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 15G 
 
 distrustful of the whole sex ; and his health had suffered from 
 the corrosion of his feelings, and he had been compelled to 
 seek, in a milder clime, a balm which time alone could yield. 
 He had been absent several years, and was just returned to his 
 native country, but not to the scene of his former residence. 
 The wound was healed, but the hardness of the scar remained. 
 
 One greater and purer than the Genius of the Arabian 
 Tale, had placed in his breast a mirror, whose lustre would 
 be instantaneously dimmed by the breath of falsehood or dis 
 simulation. It was in this mirror he saw reflected the actions 
 of his fellow beings, and it pained him to see its bright surface 
 so constantly sullied. Never, since the hour he was so fatally 
 deceived, had he been in the presence of woman, without a 
 melancholy conviction that she was incapable of standing the 
 test of this bosom talisman. Here, however, was one, whose 
 lips cast no cloud upon its lustre. He witnessed the marvel 
 lous spectacle of a young, beautiful, and accomplished woman, 
 surrounded by the artifices and embellishments of fashionable 
 life, speaking the truth, in all simplicity and godly sincerity, ag 
 commanded by the holy men of old. There was something in 
 the sight that renovated and refreshed his blighted feelings. 
 The dew falling on the parched herbage, prepares it for the 
 influence of a kinder ray. Even so the voice of Margaret 
 Howard, gentle in itself and persuasive, advocating the cause 
 he most venerated, operated this night on the heart of Mr. 
 Hall. 
 
 For many weeks the same party frequently met at the dwell 
 ing of Mrs. Astor. This lady was a professed patroness and 
 admirer of genius and the fine arts. To be a fine painter, a 
 fine singer, a fine writer, a traveller, or a foreigner, was a direct 
 passport to her favour. To be distinguished in any manner in 
 society was sufficient, provided it was not " bad eminence" 
 which was attained by the individual. She admired Mr. Hall 
 for the stately gloom of his mien, his dark and foreign air, his 
 peculiar and high-wrought sentiments. She sought an intimacy 
 with Margaret Howard, for it was a distinction to be her friend, 
 and, moreover, she had an exquisite taste and skill in drawing 
 and painting. Mary Ellis was a particular favourite of hers, 
 because her own favourite cousin Charles Brown thought hei 
 the most fascinating young lady of his acquaintance. Mrs. 
 Astor's house was elegantly furnished, and her rooms were 
 adorned with rare and beautiful specimens of painting and 
 statuary. She had one apartment which she called her Gallery
 
 156 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 
 
 of Fine Arts, and every new guest was duly ushered into this 
 ganctuary, and called upon to look and admire the glowing 
 canvas and the breathing marble. A magnificent pier-glass 
 was placed on one side of the hall, so as to reflect and multiply 
 these classic beauties. It had been purchased in Europe, and 
 was remarkable for its thickness, brilliancy, and fidelity of re 
 flection. It was a favourite piece of furniture of Mrs. Astor' s, 
 and all her servants were warned to be particularly careful, 
 whenever they dusted its surface. As this glass is of some 
 importance in the story, it deserves a minute description. Mrs. 
 Astor thought the only thing necessary to complete the fur 
 nishing of the gallery, were transparencies for the windows. 
 Miss Howard, upon hearing the remark, immediately offered 
 to supply the deficiency, an offer at once eagerly accepted, and 
 Mrs. Astor insisted that her painting apparatus should be placed 
 in the very room, that she might receive all the inspiration to 
 be derived from the mute yet eloquent relics of genius, that 
 there solicited the gaze. Nothing could be more delightful 
 than the progress of the work. Margaret was an enthusiast 
 in the art, and her kindling cheek always attested the triumph 
 of her creating hand. Mrs. Astor was in a constant state of 
 excitement, till the whole was completed, and it was no light 
 task, as four were required, and the windows were of an extra 
 size. Almost every day saw the fair artist seated at her easel, 
 with the same group gathered round her. Mary Ellis admired 
 everything so indiscriminately, it was impossible to attach 
 much value to her praise; but Mr. Hall criticised as well as 
 admired, and as he had the painter's eye, and the poet's tongue, 
 Margaret felt the value of his suggestions, and the interest 
 they added to her employment. Above all things, she felt 
 their truth. She saw that he never flattered, that he dared to 
 blame, and when he did commend, she was conscious the 
 tribute was deserved. Margaret was not one of those beings, 
 who cannot do but one thing at a time. She could talk and 
 listen, while her hands were applying the brush or arranging 
 the colours, and look up too from the canvas, with a glance 
 that showed how entirely she participated in what was passing 
 around her. 
 
 " I wonder you are not tired to death of that everlasting 
 easel," said Mary Ellis to Margaret, who grew every day more 
 interested in her task. " I could not endure such confine 
 ment." 
 
 " Death and everlasting are solemn words to be so lightly
 
 THE FATAL COSMETIC. Ib7 
 
 Used, my dear Mary," answered Margaret, whose religious ear 
 was always pained by levity on sacred themes. 
 
 " I would not be as serious us you are, for a thousand 
 worlds," replied Mary, laughing; "I really believe you think 
 it a sin to smile. Give me the roses of life, let who will take 
 the thorns. I am going now to gather some, if I can, and 
 leave you and Mr. Hall to enjoy all the briers you can find." 
 
 She left the room gayly singing, sure to be immediately fol 
 lowed by Charles, and Mr. Hall was left sole companion of the 
 artist. Mary had associated their names together, for the pur 
 pose of disturbing the self-possession of Margaret, and she 
 certainly succeeded in her object. Had Mr. Hall perceived 
 her heightened colour, his vanity might have drawn a flatter 
 ing inference; but he was standing behind her easel, and his 
 eyes were fixed on the beautiful personification of Faith, Hope, 
 and Charity those three immortal graces she was delineat 
 ing, as kneeling and embracing, with upturned eyes and celes 
 tial wings. It was a lovely group the last of the transparen 
 cies, and Margaret lavished on it some of the finest touches 
 of her genius. Mary had repeated a hundred times that it 
 was finished, that another stroke of the pencil would ruin it, 
 and Mrs. Astor declared it perfect, and more than perfect, but 
 still Margaret lingered at the frame, believing every tint should 
 be the last. Every lover of the arts knows the fascination 
 attending the successful exercise and development of their 
 genius of seeing bright and warm imaginings assume a colour 
 ing and form, and giving to others a transcript of the mind's 
 glorious creations ; but every artist does not know what deeper 
 charm may be added by the conversation and companionship 
 of such a being as Mr. Hall. He was what might be called 
 a fascinating man, notwithstanding the occasional gloom and 
 general seriousness of his manners. For, when flashes of 
 sensibility lighted up that gloom, and intellect, excited and 
 brought fully into action, illumined that seriousness it was 
 like moonlight shining on some ruined castle, beauty and 
 grandeur meeting together and exalting each other, from the 
 effect of contrast. Then there was a deep vein of piety per 
 vading all his sentiments and expressions. The comparison of 
 the ruined castle is imperfect. The moonbeams falling on 
 some lofty cathedral, with its pillared dome and " long-drawn 
 aisles," is a better similitude, for devotion hallowed and elevated 
 evr.ry faculty of his soul. Margaret, who had lived in a world 
 of her own, surrounded by a purer atmosphere, lonely and
 
 158 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 
 
 somewhat unapproachable, felt as if she were no longer solitary, 
 for here was one who thought and sympathized with her ; one, 
 too, who seemed sanctified and set apart from others, b} 7 a kind 
 of mysterious sorrow, which the instinct of woman told her 
 had its source in the heart. 
 
 " I believe I am too serious, as Mary says," cried Margaret, 
 first breaking the silence; " but it seems to me the thoughtless 
 alone can be gay. I am young in years, but I began to reflect 
 early, and from the moment I took in the mystery of life and 
 all its awful dependencies, I ceased to be mirthful. I am doomed 
 to pay a constant penalty for the singularity of my feelings : 
 like the priestess of the ancient temples, I am accused of utter 
 ing dark sayings of old, and casting the shadows of the future 
 over the joys of the present." 
 
 Margaret seldom alluded to herself, but Mary's accusation 
 about the thorns and briers had touched her, where perhaps 
 alone she was vulnerable ; and in the frankness of her nature, 
 she uttered what was paramount in her thoughts. 
 
 "Happy they who are taught by reflection, not experience, 
 to look seriously, though not sadly on the world," said Mr. 
 Hall, earnestly ; " who mourn from philanthropy over its folly 
 and falsehood, not because that falsehood and folly have 
 blighted their dearest hopes, nay, cut them off, root and branch, 
 for ever." 
 
 Margaret was agitated, and for a moment the pencil wavered 
 in her hand. She knew Mr. Hall must have been unhappy 
 that he was still suffering from corroding remembrances and 
 often had she wished to pierce through the mystery that hung 
 over his past life; but now, when he himself alluded to it, she 
 shrunk from an explanation. He seemed himself to regret 
 the warmth of his expressions, and to wish to efface the im 
 pression they had made, for his attention became riveted on 
 the picture, which he declared wanted only one thing to make 
 it perfect " And what was that T' " Truth encircling the 
 trio with her golden band." 
 
 " It may yet be done," cried Margaret; and, with great ani 
 mation and skill, she sketched the outline suggested. 
 
 It is delightful to have one's own favourite sentiments and 
 feelings embodied by another, and that too with a graceful 
 readiness and apparent pleasure, that shows a congeniality of 
 thought and taste. Mr. Hall was not insensible to this charm 
 in Margaret Howard. He esteemed, revered, admired, he 
 wished that he dared to love her. But all charming and true
 
 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 159 
 
 as she seemed, she was still a woman, and ho might be again 
 deceived. It would be a terrible thing to embark his happinesa 
 once more on the waves which had once overwhelmed it j and 
 find himself again a shipwrecked mariner, cast upon the cruel 
 desert of existence. The feelings which Margaret inspired 
 were so different from the stormy passions which had reigned 
 over him, it is no wonder he was unconscious of their strength 
 and believed himself still his own master. 
 
 " Bless me/' said Mary, who, entering soon after, banished^ 
 as she said, Mr. Hall from her presence, for he retired; "if 
 you have not added another figure to the group. I have a 
 great mind to blot Faith, Hope, and Charity, as well as Truth 
 frtfm existence," and playfully catching hold of the frame, she 
 pretended to sweep her arm over their faces. 
 
 " Oh ! Mary, beware I" exclaimed Margaret ; but the warn 
 ing came too late. The easel tottered and fell instantaneously 
 against the magnificent glass, upon which Mrs. Astor set such 
 an immense value, and broke it into a thousand pieces. Mary 
 looked aghast, and Margaret turned pale as she lifted her 
 picture from amid the ruins. 
 
 " It is not spoiled," said she; "but the glass !" 
 
 " Oh ! the glass !" eried Mary, looking the image of despair; 
 " what shall I do ? What will Mrs. Astor say ? She will 
 never forgive me !" 
 
 " She cannot be so vindictive !" replied Margaret ; " but it 
 is indeed an unfortunate accident, and one for which I feel 
 particularly responsible." 
 
 "Do not tell her how it happened," cried Mary, shrinking 
 with moral cowardice from the revealing of the truth. " I 
 cannot brave her displeasure ! Chai'les, too, will be angry 
 with me, and I cannot bear that. Oh ! pray, dearest Margaret, 
 pray do not tell her that it was I who did it you know it 
 would be so natural for the easel to fall without any rash hand 
 to push it. Promise me, Margaret." 
 
 Margaret turned her clear, rebuking eye upon the speaker 
 with a mingled feeling of indignation and pity. 
 
 " I will not expose you, Mary," said she, calmly ; and, with 
 drawing herself from the rapturous embrace, in which Mary 
 expressed her gratitude, she began to pick up the fragments 
 of the mirror, while Mary, unwilling to look on the wreck she 
 had made, flew out to regain her composure. It happened that 
 Mr. Hall passed the window while Margaret was thus occu 
 pied j aud he paused a moment to watch her, for iu spite of
 
 150 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 
 
 himself, he felt a deep and increasing interest in every action 
 of Margaret's. Margaret saw his shadow as it lingered, but 
 she continued her employment. He did not doubt that she 
 had caused the accident, for he had left her alone, a few mo 
 ments before, and he was not conscious that any one had entered 
 since his departure. Though he regretted any circumstance 
 which might give pain to her, he anticipated a pleasure in 
 seeing the openness and readiness with which she would avow 
 herself the aggressor, and blame herself for her carelessness. 
 
 Margaret found herself in a very unpleasant situation. She 
 had promised not to betray the cowardly Mary, and she knew 
 that whatever blame would be attached to the act, would rest 
 upon herself. But were Mrs. Astor to question her upon the 
 subject, she could not deviate from the truth, by acknowledg 
 ing a fault she had never committed. She felt an unspeakable 
 contempt for Mary's weakness, for, had she been in her place, 
 she would have acknowledged the part she had acted, unhesi 
 tatingly, secure of the indulgence of friendship and benevo 
 lence. " Better to leave the circumstance to speak for itself," 
 said Margaret to herself, " and of course the burden will rest 
 upon me." She sighed as she thought of the happy hours she 
 had passed, by the side of that mirror, and how often she had 
 seen it reflect the speaking countenance of Mr. Hall, that 
 tablet of "unutterable thoughts," and then thinking how his 
 hopes seemed shattered like that frail glass, and his memories 
 of sorrow multiplied, she came to the conclusion that all earthly 
 hopes were vain and all earthly memories fraught with sadness. 
 Never had Margaret moralized so deeply as in the long soli 
 tary walk she stole that evening, to escape the evil of being 
 drawn into the tacit sanction of a falsehood. Like many 
 others, with equally pure intentions, in trying to avoid one 
 misfortune she incurred a greater. 
 
 Mrs. Astor was very much grieved and astonished when 
 she discovered her loss. With all her efforts to veil her feel 
 ings, Mary saw she was displeased with Margaret, and would 
 probably never value as they deserved, the beautiful transpa 
 rencies on which she had so faithfully laboured. 
 
 " I would not have cared if any other article had been bro 
 ken," said Mrs. Astor, whose weak point Mary well knew ; 
 " but this can never be replaced. I do not so much value the 
 cost, great as it was, but it was perfectly unique. I never 
 B&w another like it." 
 
 Mary's conscience smote her, for suffering another to bear
 
 
 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 161 
 
 the imputation she herself deserved. A sudden plan occurred 
 to her. She had concealed the truth, she was now determined 
 to save her friend, even at the cost of a lie. 
 
 "I do not believe Margaret broke it," said she. "I saw 
 Dinah, your little black girl in the room, just before Margaret 
 left it, and you know how often you have punished her for 
 putting her hands on forbidden articles. You know if Margaret 
 had done it, she would have acknowledged it, at once." 
 
 " True," exclaimed Mrs. Astor; " how stupid I have been !" 
 and glad to find a channel in which her anger could flow, un 
 checked by the restraints of politeness, she rung the bell and 
 summoned the unconscious Dinah. 
 
 In vain she protested her innocence. She was black, and 
 it was considered a matter of course that she would lie. Mrs. 
 Astor took her arm in silence, and led her from the room, in 
 spite of her prayers and protestations. We should be sorry 
 to reveal the secrets of the prison-house, but from the cries 
 that issued through the shut door, and from a certain whizzing 
 sound in the air, one might judge of the nature of the punish 
 ment inflicted on the innocent victim of unmerited wrath. 
 Mary closed her ears. Every sound pierced her heart. Some 
 thing told her those shrieks would rise up in judgment against 
 her at the last day. " Oh ! how," thought she, " if I fear the 
 rebuke of my fellow-creature for an unintentional offence, 
 how can I ever appear before my Creator, with the blackness 
 of falsehood and the hardness of cruelty on my soul ?" She 
 wished she had had the courage to have acted right in the first 
 place, but now it was too late. Charles would despise her, 
 and that very day he had told her that he loved her better 
 than all the world beside. She tried, too, to soothe her con 
 science, by reflecting that Dinah would have been whipped for 
 something else, and that as it was a common event to her, it 
 was, after all, a matter of no great consequence. Mrs. Astor, 
 having found a legitimate vent for her displeasure, chased the 
 cloud from her brow, and greeted Margaret with a smile, on 
 hsr return, slightly alluding to the accident, evidently trying 
 to rise superior to the event. Margaret was surprised and 
 pleased. She expressed her own regret, but as she imputed 
 to herself no blame, Mrs. Astor was confirmed in the justice 
 of her verdict. Margaret knew not what had passed in her 
 absence, for Mrs. Astor was too refined to bring her domestic 
 troubles before her guests. Mary, who was the only one 
 necessarily initiated, was too deeply implicated to repeat it,
 
 162 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 
 
 and the subject was dismissed. But the impression remained 
 on one mind, painful and ineffaceable. 
 
 Mr. Hall marked Margaret's conscious blush on her entrance, 
 he had heard the cries and sobs of poor Dinah, and was not 
 ignorant of the cause. He believed Margaret was aware of 
 the fact she, the true offender. A pang, keen as cold steel 
 can create, shot through his heart at this conviction. He had 
 thought her so pure, so true, so holy, the very incarnation of 
 his worshipped virtue and now, to sacrifice her principles for 
 such a bauble a bit of frail glass. He could not remain in 
 her presence, but, complaining of a headache, suddenly retired, 
 but not before he had cast a glance on Margaret, so cold and 
 freezing, it seemed to congeal her very soul. 
 
 " He believes me cowardly and false/' thought she, for she 
 divined what was passing in his mind ; and if ever she was 
 tempted to be so, it was in the hope of reinstating herself in 
 his esteem. She had given her promise to Mary, however, 
 and it was not to be broken. Mary, whose feelings were as 
 evanescent as her principles were weak, soon forgot the whole 
 affair in the preparations of her approaching marriage with 
 Charles, an event which absorbed all her thoughts, as it involved 
 all her hopes of happiness. 
 
 Margaret .finished her task, but the charm which had gilded 
 the occupation was fled. Mr. Hall seldom called, and when 
 Le did, he wore all his original reserve. Margaret felt she 
 had not deserved this alienation, and tried to cheer herself 
 with the conviction of her own integrity ; but her spirits were 
 occasionally dejected, and the figure of Truth, which had such 
 a beaming outline, assumed the aspect of utter despondency. 
 Dissatisfied with her work, she at last swept her brush over 
 the design, and mingling Truth with the dark shades of the 
 back ground, gave up her office as an artist, declaring her 
 sketches completed. Mrs. Astor was enraptured with the 
 whole, and said she intended to reserve them for the night of 
 Mary's wedding, when they would burst upon the sight, in one 
 grand coup d'oeil, in the full blaze of chandeliers, bridal 
 lamps, and nuptial ornaments. Margaret was to officiate as 
 one of the bridemaids, but she gave a reluctant consent. She 
 could not esteem Mary, and she shrunk from her flattery and 
 caresses with an instinctive loathing. She had once set her 
 foot on a flowery bank, that edged a beautiful stream. The 
 turf trembled and gave way, for it was hollow below, and 
 Margaret narrowly escaped death. She often shuddered at
 
 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 163 
 
 the recollection. With similar emotions she turned from Mary 
 Ellis's smiles and graces. There was beauty and bloom on the 
 surface, but hollowness and perhaps ruin beneath. 
 
 A short time before the important day, a slight efflorescence 
 appeared on the fair cheek and neck of Mary. She was in 
 despair, lest her loveliness should be marred, when she most 
 of all wished to shine. It increased instead of diminishing, 
 and she resolved to have recourse to any remedy, that would 
 remove the disfiguring eruption. She recollected having seen. 
 a violent erysipelas cured immediately by a solution of corro 
 sive sublimate ; and without consulting any one, she sent Dinah 
 to the apothecary to purchase some, charging her to tell no one 
 whose errand she was bearing, for she was not willing to con 
 fess her occasion for such a cosmetic. Dinah told the apothe 
 cary her mistress sent her, and it was given without questioning 
 or hesitation. Her only confidant was Margaret, who shared 
 her chamber and toilet, and who warned her to be exceedingly 
 cautious in the use of an article so poisonous ; and Mary pro 
 mised with her usual heedlessness, without dreaming of any 
 evil consequences. The eruption disappeared Mary looked 
 fairer than ever, and, clad in her bridal paraphernalia of white 
 satin, white roses, and blonde lace, was pronounced the most 
 beautiful bride of the season. Mr. Hall was present, though 
 he had refused to take any part in the ceremony. He could 
 not, without singularity, decline the invitation and, notwith 
 standing the blow his confidence in Margaret's character had 
 received, he still found the spot where she was, enchanted 
 ground, and he lingered near, unwilling to break at once the 
 only charm that still bound him to society. After the short 
 but solemn rite, that made the young and thoughtless, one by 
 indissoluble ties, and the rush of congratulation took place, 
 Margaret was forced by the pressure close to Mr. Hall's side. 
 He involuntarily offered his arm as a protection, and a thrill 
 of irrepressible happiness pervaded his heart, at this unexpected 
 and unsought proximity. He forgot his coldness the broken, 
 glass, everything but the feeling of the present moment. 
 Margaret was determined- to avail herself of the tide of re 
 turning confidence. Mer just womanly modesty and pride pre 
 vented her seeking an explanation and reconciliation, but she 
 knew without breaking her promise to Mary, she could not 
 justify herself in Mr. Hall's opinion, if even the opportunity 
 offered. She was to depart in the morning, with the new- 
 married pair, who were going to take an excursion of pleasure,
 
 164 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 
 
 so fashionable after the wedding ceremony. She might n<iver 
 see him again. He had looked pale, his face was now ftiiohed 
 high with excited feeling. 
 
 " You have wronged me, Mr. Hall," said she, blushing;, but 
 without hesitation ; " if you think I have been capable of 
 wilful deception or concealment. The mirror was not broken 
 by me, though I know you thought me guilty, and afraid or 
 ashamed to avow the truth. I would not say so much to 
 justify myself, if I did not think you would believe me, aud 
 if I did not value the esteem of one who sacrifices even friend 
 ship at the shrine of truth." 
 
 She smiled, for she saw she was believed, and there was 
 such a glow of pleasure irradiating Mr. Hall's countenance, it 
 was like the breaking and gushing forth of sunbeams. There 
 are few faces, on which a smile has such a magic effect as on 
 Margaret's. Her smile was never forced. It was the inspi 
 ration of truth, and all the light of her soul shone through it. 
 Perhaps neither ever experienced an hour of deeper happiness 
 than that which followed this simple explanation. Margaret 
 felt a springtide of hope and joy swelling in her heart, for there 
 was a deference, a tenderness in Mr. Hall's manner she had 
 never seen before. He seemed entirely to have forgotten the 
 presence of others, when a name uttered by one near, arrested 
 his attention. 
 
 " That is Mrs. St. Henry/' observed a lady, stretching 
 eagerly forward. " She arrived in town this morning, and 
 had letters of introduction to Mrs. Astor. She was the beauty 
 
 of , before her marriage, and is still the leader of fashion 
 
 and taste." 
 
 Margaret felt her companion start, as if a ball had penetrated 
 him, and looking up, she saw his altered glance, fixed on the 
 lady, who had just entered, with a dashing escort, and was 
 advancing towards the centre of the room. She was dressed 
 in the extremity of the reigning mode her arms and Deck 
 entirely uncovered, and their dazzling whiteness, thus lavishly 
 displayed, might have mocked the polish and purity of ala 
 baster. Her brilliant black eyes flashed on either side, with 
 the freedom of conscious beauty, and disdain of the homage it 
 inspired. She moved with the air of a queen, attended by her 
 vassals, directly forward, when suddenly her proud step faltered, 
 her cheek and lips became wan, and uttering a sudden ejacu 
 lation, she stood for a moment perfectly still. She was op 
 posite Mr. Hall, whose eye, fixed upon hers, seemed to have the
 
 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 165 
 
 effect of fascination. Though darkened by the burning sun 
 of a tropical clime, and faded from the untimely blighting of 
 the heart, that face could never be forgotten. It told her of 
 perjury, remorse, sorrow yes, of sorrow, for in spite of the 
 /splendour that surrounded her, this glittering beauty was 
 wretched. She had sacrificed herself at the shrine of Mam 
 mon, and had learned too late the horror of such ties, unsancti- 
 Qed by affection. Appreciating but too well the value of the 
 Jove she had forsaken, goaded by remorse for her conduct to 
 him, whom she believed wasting away in a foreign land she 
 flew from one scene of dissipation to another, seeking in the 
 admiration of the world an equivalent for her lost happiness. 
 The unexpected apparition of her lover was as startling and 
 appalling as if she had met an inhabitant of another world. 
 She tried to rally herself and to pass on, but the effort was iu 
 vain sight, strength, and recollection forsook her. 
 
 " Mrs. St. Henry has fainted ! Mrs. St. Henry has fainted !" 
 was now echoed from mouth to mouth. A lady's fainting, 
 whether in church, ball-room, or assembly, always creates a 
 great sensation ; but when that lady happens to be the centre 
 of attraction and admiration, when every eye that has a loop 
 hole to peep through is gazing on her brilliant features, to fee- 
 hold her suddenly fall, as if smitten by the angel of death, 
 pallid and moveless the effect is inconceivably heightened. 
 When, too, as in the present instance, a sad, romantic-looking 
 stranger rushes forward to support her, the interest of the 
 scene admits of no increase. At least Margaret felt so, as 
 she saw the beautiful Mrs. St. Henry borne in the arms of Mr. 
 Hall through the crowd, that fell back as he passed, into au 
 adjoining apartment, speedily followed by Mrs. Astor, all 
 wonder and excitement, and many others all curiosity and ex 
 pectation, to witness the termination of the scene. Mr. Hall 
 drew back, while the usual appliances were administered for 
 her resuscitation. He heeded not the scrutinizing glances bent 
 upon him. His thoughts were rolled within himself, and 
 
 " The soul of other days came rushing in." 
 
 The lava that had hardened over the ruin it created, melted 
 anew, and the greenness and fragrance of new-born hopes were 
 lost under the burning tide. When Mrs. St. Henry opened 
 her eyes, she looked round her in wild alarm ; then shading her 
 brow with her hand, her glance rested where Mr. Hall stood,
 
 166 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 
 
 pale and abstracted, with folded arms, leaning against ilia 
 wall <k I thought so," said she, in a low voice, "I thought 
 so j" then covered her eyes and remajned silent. Mr. Hall, 
 the moment he heard the sound of her voice and was assured 
 of her recovery, precipitately retired, leaving behind him 
 matter of deep speculation. Margaret was sitting in a window 
 of the drawing-room, through which he passed. She was alone, 
 or even the bride was forgotten in the excitement of the pas 
 cene. He paused he felt an explanation was due to her, 
 but that it was impossible to make it. He was softened by 
 the sad and sympathizing expression of her countenance, and 
 seated himself a moment by her side. 
 
 "I have been painfully awakened from a dream of bliss," 
 said he, " which I was foolish enough to imagine might yet be 
 realized. But the heart rudely shattered as mine has been, 
 must never hope to be healed. I cannot command myself 
 sufficiently to say more, only let me make one assurance, that 
 whatever misery has been and may yet be my doom, guilt has 
 no share in my wretchedness I cannot refuse myself the 
 consolation of your esteem." 
 
 Margaret made no reply she could not. Had her exist 
 ence depended on the utterance of one word, she could not 
 have commanded it. She extended her hand, however, in 
 token of that friendship she believed was hereafter to be the 
 only bond that was to unite them. Long after Mr. Hall was 
 gone, she sat in the same attitude, pale and immovable as a 
 statue ; but who can tell the changes and conflicts of her spirit, 
 in that brief period ? 
 
 Mrs. St. Henry was too ill to be removed, and Mrs. Astor 
 was unbounded in her attentions. She could hardly regret a 
 circumstance which forced so interesting and distinguished a 
 personage upon the acceptance of her hospitality. Margaret 
 remained with her during the greater part of the night, appre 
 hensive of a renewal of the fainting fits, to which she acknow 
 ledged she was constitutionally subject. Margaret watched 
 ner as she lay, her face scarcely to be distinguished from the 
 sheet, it was so exquisitely fair, were it not for the shading of 
 the dark locks, that fell unbound over the pillow, still heavy 
 with the moisture with which they had been saturated ; and, aa 
 she contemplated her marvellous loveliness, she wondered not 
 at the influence she exercised over the destiny of another. 
 Mr. Hall had once spoken of himself as being the victim of 
 falsehood. Could she have been false and loving him, how
 
 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 167 
 
 could she Lave married another? If she had voluntarily 
 broken her troth, why such an agitation at his sight ? and if 
 she were worthy of his love, why such a glaring display of her 
 person, such manifest courting of the free gaze of admiration ? 
 These, and a thousand similar interrogations, did Margaret 
 make to herself during the vigils of the night, but they found 
 no answer. Towards morning, the lady slept ; but Margaret 
 was incapable of sleep, and her wakeful eyes caught the first 
 gray tint of the dawn, and marked it deepening and kindling, 
 till the east was robed with flame, the morning livery of the 
 skies. All was bustle till the bridal party was on their way. 
 Mrs. St. Henry still slept, under the influence of an opiate, 
 and Margaret saw her no more. Farewells were exchanged, 
 kind wishes breathed, and the travellers commenced their 
 journey. Margaret's thoughts wandered from Mrs. St. Henry 
 to Mr. Hall, and back again, till they were weary of wander 
 ing and would gladly have found rest ; but the waters had not 
 subsided, there was no green spot where the dove of peace 
 could fold her drooping wings. Charles and Mary were too 
 much occupied by each other to notice her silence ; and it was 
 not till they paused in their journey, she was recalled to exist 
 ing realities. Mary regretted something she had left behind 
 a sudden recollection came over Margaret. 
 
 " Oh ! Mary," said she, " I hope you have been cautious, 
 and not left any of that dangerous medicine, where mischief 
 could result from it. I intended to remind you of it before 
 our departure." 
 
 " Certainly to be sure I took especial care of it, I have it 
 with me in my trunk," replied Mary, but her conscience gave 
 her a remorseful twinge as she uttered the white lie, for she 
 had forgotten it, and where she had left it, she could not re 
 member. As Margaret had given her several warnings, she 
 was ashamed to acknowledge her negligence, and took refuge 
 in the shelter she had too often successfully sought. Had she 
 anticipated the fatal consequences of her oblivion, her bridal 
 felicity would have been converted into agony and despair. 
 She had left the paper containing the powder, yet undissolved, 
 on the mantelpiece of her chamber. The chambermaid who 
 arranged the room after her departure, seeing it and supposing 
 it to be medicine, put it in the box which Mrs. Astor devoted 
 to that department, in the midst of calomel, saits, antimony, 
 &c. It was folded in brown paper, like the rest, and there 
 was no label to indicate its deadly qualities. Mrs. St. Henry
 
 168 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 
 
 continued the guest of Mrs. Astor, for her indisposition as 
 sumed a more serions aspect, and it was impossible to remove 
 her. She appeared feverish and restless, and a physician was 
 called in to prescribe for her, greatly in opposition to her wishes. 
 She could not bear to acknowledge herself ill. It was the heat 
 of the room that had oppressed her a transient cold, which 
 would soon pass away she would not long trespass on Mrs. 
 Astor's hospitality. The doctor was not much skilled in 
 diseases of the heart, though he ranked high in his profession. 
 His grand panacea for almost all diseases was calomel, which 
 he recommended to his patient, as the most efficient and 
 speediest remedy. She received the prescription with a very 
 ill grace, declaring she had never tasted of any in her life, 
 and had a horror of all medicines. Mrs. Astor said she had 
 an apothecary's shop at command in her closet, and that she 
 kept doses constantly prepared for her own use. After the 
 doctor's departure, Mrs. St. Henry seemed much dejected, and 
 her eyes had an anxious, inquiring expression as they turned 
 on Mrs. Astor. 
 
 " You say," said she to her, in a low tone, " that friends 
 have been kind in their inquiries for me? Most of them are 
 strangers, and yet I thank them." 
 
 " Mr. Hall has called more than once," replied Mrs. Astor } 
 l( he, I believe, is well known to you." 
 
 " He is indeed," said Mrs. St. Henry " I wish I could 
 Bee him but it cannot be ; no, it would not answer." 
 
 Mrs. Astor longed to ask the nature of their former acquaint 
 ance, but a conviction that the question would be painful, re 
 strained the expression of her curiosity. 
 
 " Would you not like to send for some of your friends ?" 
 inquired Mrs. Astor "your husband? My servants shall 
 be at your disposal." 
 
 " You are very kind," answered Mrs. St. Henry, quickly 
 " but it is not necessary my husband is too infirm to travel, 
 and believing me well, he will suffer no anxiety on my account 
 I think I shall be quite well, after taking your sovereign 
 medicine. Give it me now, if you please, while I am in a 
 vein of compliance." 
 
 She turned, with so lovely a smile, and extended her hand 
 with so much grace, Mrs. Astor stood a moment, thinking what 
 a beautiful picture she would make ; then taking the lamp 
 in her hand, she opened her closet, and took down the medi 
 cine casket. It happened that the first paper she touched waa
 
 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 169 
 
 that which Mary had left, and which the servant had mingled 
 with the others. 
 
 " Here is one already prepared," cried she " I always keep 
 them readjr, the exact number of grains usually given, as we 
 often want it suddenly and at night." 
 
 She mixed the fatal powder with some delicious jelly, and 
 holding it to the lips of her patient, said with a cheerin 
 stnile " Come, it has no disagreeable taste at all." 
 
 Mrs. St. Henry gave a nervous shudder, but took it, uncon 
 scious of its deadly properties ; and Mrs. Astor, praising her 
 resolution, seated herself in an easy chair by the bedside, and 
 began to read. She became deeply interested in her book, 
 though she occasionally glanced towards her patient to see if 
 she slept. She had placed the lamp so that its light would 
 not shine on the bed, and the most perfect quietness reigned 
 in the apartment. How long this tranquillity lasted it is im 
 possible to tell, for she was so absorbed in her book, time 
 passed unheeded. At length Mrs. St. Henry began to moan, 
 and toss her arms over the covering, as if in sudden pain. 
 Mrs. Astor leaned over her, and took her hand. It was hot 
 and burning, her cheek had a scarlet flush on it, and when 
 she opened her eyes they had a wild and alarming expres 
 sion. 
 
 " Water," she exclaimed, leaning on her elbow, and shading 
 back her hair hurriedly from her brow " Give me water, for 
 I die of thirst." 
 
 " I dare not," said Mrs. Astor, terrified by her manner 
 " anything but that to quench your thirst." 
 
 She continued still more frantically to call for water, till 
 Mrs. Astor, excessively alarmed, sent for the doctor, and called 
 in other attendants. As he was in the neighbourhood, he 
 came immediately. He looked aghast at the situation of hia 
 patient, for she was in a paroxysm of agony at his entrance, 
 and his experienced eye took in the danger of the case. 
 " What have you given her, madam ?" said he, turning to Mrs 
 Astor, with a countenance that made her tremble. 
 . " What have you given me ?" exclaimed Mrs. St. Henry, 
 grasping her wrist with frenzied strength " You have killed 
 me it was poison I feel it in my heart and in my brain I" 
 
 Mrs. Astor uttered a scream, and snatched up the paper 
 which had fallen on the carpet. 
 
 " Look at it, doctor it was calomel, just as you prescribed 
 what else could it be !"
 
 170 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 
 
 The doctor examined the paper there was a little powder 
 still sticking to it. 
 
 " Good heavens, doctor/' cried Mrs. Astor, " what makes 
 you look so ? what is it ? what was it ?" 
 
 " Where did you get this ?" said he, sternly. 
 
 " At the apothecary's I took it from that chest examine 
 *t, pray." 
 
 The doctor turned away with a groan, and approached his 
 beautiful patient, now gasping and convulsed. He applied 
 the most powerful antidotes, but without effect. 
 
 " I am dying," she cried, " I am dying I am poisoned 
 but oh, doctor, save me save me let me see him, if I must 
 die let me see him again;" and she held out her hands im 
 ploringly to Mrs. Astor, who was in a state little short of dis 
 traction. 
 
 " Only tell me, if you mean Mr. Hall." 
 
 " Who should I mean but Augustus ?" she cried. " Perhaps 
 in death he may forgive me." 
 
 The doctor made a motion that her request should be com 
 plied with, and a messenger was despatched. 
 
 What an awful scene was presented, when he entered that 
 chamber of death ! Was that the idol of his young heart, the 
 morning star of his manhood ; she, who lay livid, writhing and 
 raving there ? Her long, dark hair hung in dishevelled masses 
 over her neck and arms, her large black eyes were fearfully 
 dilated, and full of that unutterable agony which makes the 
 spirit quail before the might of human suffering. Cold sweat- 
 drops gleamed on her marble brow, and her hands were damp 
 with that dew which no morning sunbeam can ever exhale. 
 
 " Almighty Father !" exclaimed Mr. Hall, " what a sight 
 is this I" 
 
 The sound of that voice had the power to check the ravings 
 of delirium. She shrieked, and stretched out her arms towards 
 him, who sunk kneeling by the bedside, covering his face with 
 liis hands, to shut out the appalling spectacle. 
 
 " Forgive me," she cried, in hollow and altered accents 
 , ' Augustus, you are terribly avenged I loved you, even when 
 I left you for another. Oh ! pray for me to that great and 
 dreadful G-od, who is consuming me, to have mercy on me 
 hereafter." 
 
 He did pray, but it was in spirit, his lips could not articu 
 late; but his uplifted hands and streaming eyes called down 
 pardon and peace on the dying penitent. Tl e reason, that
 
 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 171 
 
 had flashed out for a moment, rekindled by memory ana pas 
 sion, was now gone for ever. All the rest was but the striving 
 of mortal pain, the rending asunder of body and soul. In 
 a short time all was over, and the living were left to read one 
 of the most tremendous lessons on the vanity of beauty, and 
 the frailty of life, mortality could offer in all its gloomy 
 annals. 
 
 " This is no place for you, now," said the doctor, taking 
 Mr. Hall's arm, and drawing him into another apartment, 
 where, secure from intrusion, he could be alone with Grod and 
 his own heart. There was another duty to perform to in 
 vestigate the mystery that involved this horrible tragedy. The 
 apothecary was summoned, who, after recovering from his first 
 consternation, recollected that a short time before, he had sold 
 a quantity of corrosive sublimate to a little black girl, accord 
 ing to her mistress's orders. The servants were called for 
 examination, and Dinah was pointed out as the culprit Dinah, 
 the imputed destroyer of the mirror, whose terror was now 
 deemed the result of conscious guilt. Mrs. Astor vehemently 
 protested she had never sent her, that it was the blackest false 
 hood ; and Dinah, though she told the whole truth, how Mary 
 had forbid her telling it was for her, and she merely used her 
 mistress's name on that account, gained no belief. The cham 
 bermaid, who had found the paper and put it in the chest, 
 withheld her testimony, fearing she might be implicated in the 
 guilt. Everything tended to deepen the evidence against Diuah. 
 The affair of the broken looking-glass was revived. She had 
 been heard to say, after her memorable flagellation, that she 
 wished her mistress was dead, that she would kill her if she 
 could ; and many other expressions, the result of a smarting 
 back and a wounded spirit, were brought up against her. It 
 was a piteous thing to see the fright, and hear the pleadings 
 of the wretched girl : " Oh ! dotf't send me to jail don't hang 
 me send for Miss Mary," she repeated, wringing her hands, 
 and rolling her eyes like a poor animal whom the hunters have 
 at bay. But to jail she was sent for who could doubt her 
 crime, or pity her after witnessing its terrific consequences ? 
 a damp, dreary prison-house, where, seated on a pallet of straw, 
 she was left to brood day after day over her accumulated 
 wrongs, hopeless of sympathy or redress. Let those who con 
 sider a white lie a venial offence, who look upon deception as 
 necessary to the happiness and harmony of society, reflect on 
 the consequences of Mary Ellis's moral delinquency, and
 
 172 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 
 
 tremble at the view. She had not done more than a thousand 
 others have done, and are daily doing; and yet what was the 
 result? The soul of the lovely, the erring, and the unprepared 
 had been sent shuddering into eternity, a household made 
 wretched, the innocent condemned, a neighbourhood thrown 
 into consternation and gloom. Had Mary confessed her negli 
 gence to Margaret, instead of telling an unnecessary and un- 
 tempted falsehood, a warning message could have then been 
 easily sent back, and the wide-spread ruin prevented. There 
 is no such thing as a white lie) they are all black as the 
 blackest shades of midnight; and no fuller on earth can whiten 
 them. 
 
 When Mrs. Astor had recovered from the shock of these 
 events in a sufficient degree, she wrote to Mary a detailed 
 account, begging her and Margaret to return immediately, and 
 cheer the home which now seemed so desolate. The letter 
 was long in reaching her, for the travellers were taking a devious 
 course, and could leave behind them no precise directions. 
 Mary was in one of her gayest, brightest humours, when she 
 received the epistle. She was putting on so ne new ornaments, 
 which Charles had presented to her, and h 3 was looking over 
 her shoulder at the fair image reflected in the glass, whose 
 brow was lighted up with the triumph of conscious beauty. 
 
 " I look shockingly ugly to-day/' said she, with a smile that 
 belied her words. 
 
 "You tell stories with such a grace," replied her flattering 
 husband, "I am afraid we shall be in love with falsehood." 
 
 " A letter from our dear Mrs. Astor ; open it, Cl tries, while 
 I clasp this bracelet ; and read it aloud, then Mai garet and I 
 both can hear it." 
 
 Before Charles had read one page, Mary sunk down at his 
 feet, rending the air with hysterical screams. Her husband, 
 who was totally unaware of the terrible agency she had had in 
 the affair, raised her in indescribable alarm. Her own wild 
 expressions, however, revealed the truth, which Margaret's 
 shivering lips confirmed. 
 
 " Oh ! had you told me but the truth," cried Margaret, rais 
 ing her prayerful eyes and joined hands to heaven "how 
 simple, how easy it had been Charles, Charles," added she, 
 with startling energy, " praise not this rash, misguided girl, 
 for the grace with which she lies I will not recall the word. 
 By the worth of your own soul and hers, teach her, that aa 
 there is a God above, he requires truth in the inward heart."
 
 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 1,8 
 
 Charles trembled at the solemnity of the adjuration ; and 
 conscience told him, that all the agonies his wife suffered, 
 and all the remorse which was yet to be her portion, were just. 
 Margaret sought the solitude of her chamber, and there, oa 
 her knees, she endeavoured to find calmness. The image of 
 Mr. Hall, mourning over the death-bed of her once so madly 
 loved, the witness of her expiring throes, the receiver of her 
 last repentant sigh rose, between her and her Creator. Then, 
 that radiant face, that matchless form, which had so lately 
 excited a pang of envy, even in her pure heart, now blasted 
 by consuming poison, and mouldering in the cold grave ; how 
 awful was the thought, and how fearful the retribution ! She, 
 whose vain heart had by falsehood endangered the very exist 
 ence of another, was the victim of the very vice that had 
 blackened her own spirit. Yes ! there is retribution even in 
 this world. 
 
 Mary returned, but how changed from the gay and bloom 
 ing bride ! Her cheek was pale, and her eye heavy. She 
 hastened to repair the only wrong now capable of anyrcmedy. 
 The prison doors of poor Dinah were thrown open, and 
 her innocence declared : but could the long and lonely days 
 and nights spent in that weary, gloomy abode be blotted 
 out ? Could the pangs of cold, shuddering fear, the dream of 
 the gallows, the rope, the hangman's grasp round the gurgling 
 throat, the dark coffin seat, the scoffing multitude, be forgotten ? 
 No ! Dinah's spirit was broken, for though her skin was 
 black, there was sensibility and delicacy too beneath her ebon 
 colouring. Could Mary bring back the gladness that once per 
 vaded the dwelling of Mrs. Astor? Everything there was 
 changed. The room in which Mrs. St. Henry died was closed, 
 for it was haunted by too terrible remembrances. Bitterly 
 did Mary mourn over the grave of her victim; but she could 
 not recall her by her tears. No remorse could open the gates 
 of the tomb, or reclothe with beauty and bloom the ruins of 
 life. 
 
 Margaret, the true, the pure-hearted and upright Margaret, 
 was not destined, like Mary, to gather the thorns and briers 
 of existence. Long did the fragrance of Tier roses last, for she 
 had not plucked them with too rash a hand. She and Mr. 
 Hall again met. The moral sympathy that had drawn them 
 togethec, was not weakened by the tragic event that had inter 
 vened; it had rather strengthened through suffering and sor 
 row. Mr. Hall could never forget the death scene of Laura 
 112
 
 174 
 
 THE FATAL COSMETIC. 
 
 St. Henry. The love expressed for him at a moment when 
 all earthly dissimulation was over had inexpressibly affected 
 him. Her unparalleled sufferings seemed an expiation for her 
 broken faith. It was at her grave that he and Margaret first 
 met after their sad separation, when the falling shades of 
 evening deepened the solemnity of the scene. Sorrow, sym 
 pathy, devotion, and truth, form a holy groundwork for love; 
 and when once the temple is raised on such a foundation, the 
 winds and waves may beat against it in vain. Mr. Hall found 
 by his own experience, that the bruised heart can be healed, 
 for Margaret's hand poured oil and balm on its wounds. He 
 could repose on her faith as firmly as on the rock which ages 
 have planted. He knew that she loved him, and felt it due 
 to her happiness as well as his own, to ask her to be the com 
 panion of his pilgrimage. If they looked back upon the clouds 
 that had darkened their morning, it was without self-reproach, 
 and remembrance gradually lost its sting. Who will say she 
 was not happier than Mary, who carried in her bosom, through 
 life, that which "biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like ?,n 
 adder?"
 
 THE 
 
 ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 
 
 ADELLAN, an Abyssinian youth, approached one of those 
 consecrated buildings, which crown almost every hill of his 
 native country. Before entering, he drew off his shoes, and 
 gave them in charge to a servant, that he might not soil the 
 temple of the Lord, with the dust of the valley ; then bend 
 ing down, slowly and reverentially, he pressed his lips to the 
 threshold, performed the same act of homage to each post of 
 the door, then passed into the second division of the church, 
 within view of the curtained square, answering to the myste 
 rious holy of holies in the Jewish temple. He gazed upon 
 the pictured saints that adorned the walls, long and earnestly, 
 when, kneeling before them, he repeated, with deep solemnity, 
 his customary prayers. He rose, looked towards the mystic 
 veil, which no hand but that of the priest was permitted to 
 raise, and anticipated with inexplicable emotions the time 
 when, invested with the sacred dignity of that office, he might 
 devote himself exclusively to Heaven. From early childhood, 
 Adellan had been destined to the priesthood. His first years 
 were passed mid the stormy scenes of war, for his father was 
 soldier, fighting those bloody battles, with which the provinc 
 of Tigre had been more than once laid waste. Then followeu 
 the dreadful discipline of famine, for the destroying locusts, 
 the scourge of the country, had followed up the desolation of 
 war, and year succeeding year, gleaned the last hope of man. 
 The parents of Adellan fled from these scenes of devastation, 
 crossed the once beautiful and fertile banks of the Tacazze, 
 and sought refuge in the ample monastery of Walduba, where 
 
 (175)
 
 176 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 
 
 a brother of his father then resided. Here, he was placed 
 entirely under the protection of his uncle, for his father, 
 sickened with the horrors he had witnessed, and loathing the 
 ties which were once so dear to him, recrossed his native 
 stream, became a gloomy monk in another convent, where, 
 with several hundred of his brethren, he soon after perished a 
 victim to those barbarities, which had robbed him of all that 
 gave value to life. Adellan had never known the joys of 
 childhood. The greenness and bloom of spring had been 
 blotted from his existence. Famine had hollowed his boyish 
 cheek, and fear and distrust chilled and depressed his young 
 heart. After entering the convent of Walduba, where all his 
 physical wants were supplied, the roundness and elasticity of 
 health were restored to his limbs, but his cheek was kept 
 pale by midnight vigils, and long and painful fastings. The 
 teacher, whom his uncle placed over him, was severe and ex 
 acting. He gave him no relaxation by day, and the stars of 
 night witnessed his laborious tasks. He was compelled to 
 commit lessons to memory, in a language which he did not 
 then understand, a drudgery from which every ardent mind 
 must recoil. Yet, such was his thirst for knowledge, that he 
 found a pleasure, even in this, that sweetened his toils. All 
 the strains of the devout Psalmist were familiar to his lips, 
 but they were in an unknown tongue, for in this manner are 
 the youth of those benighted regions taught. Often, when 
 gazing on the magnificent jewelry of a tropical sky, shining 
 down on the darkness and solitude of night, had he uncon 
 sciously repeated the words of the royal penitent " The 
 heavens declare the glory of God. The firmament showeth 
 his handy work." He understood noi their meaning, but the 
 principle of immortality was striving within him, and every 
 star that gemmed the violet canopy, seemed to him eye-beams 
 of that all-seeing Divinity he then darkly adored. 
 
 Adellan left the enclosure of the church, and lingered 
 beneath the shade of the cedars, whose trunks supported the 
 oof, and thus formed a pleasant colonnade sheltered from 
 he sun and the rain. Beautiful was the prospect that here 
 stretched itself around him. All the luxuriance of a moun 
 tainous country, constantly bathed with the dews of heaven, 
 and warmed by the beams of a vertical sun, was richly un 
 folded. Odoriferous perfumes, wafted from the forest trees, 
 and exhaled from the roses, jessamines, and wild blossoms, 
 with which the fields were covered, scented the gale. Borno
 
 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 177 
 
 from afar, the fragrance of Judea's balm mingled with the 
 incense of the flowers and the richer breath of the myrrh. A 
 cool stream murmured near, where those who came up to 
 worship, were accustomed to perform their ablutions and 
 purifying rites, in conformance with the ancient Levitical 
 law. Wherever Adellan turned his eyes, he beheld some 
 object associated with the ceremonies of his austere religion. 
 In that consecrated stream he had bathed, he had made an 
 altar beneath every spreading tree, and every rock had wit 
 nessed his prostrations. He thought of the unwearied nature 
 of his devotions, and pride began to swell his heart. He 
 knew nothing of that meek and lowly spirit, that humiliation 
 of soul, which marks the followers of a crucified Redeemer. 
 He had been taught to believe that salvation was to be found 
 in the observance of outward forms, but never had been led 
 to purify the inner temple so as to make it a meet residence 
 for a holy God. 
 
 Near the close of the day, he again walked forth, meditating 
 on his contemplated journey to Jerusalem, the holy city, where 
 he was not only to receive the remission of his own sins, but 
 even for seven generations yet unborn, according to the su 
 perstitious belief of his ancestors. He was passing a low, 
 thatched dwelling, so lost in his own meditations, as scarcely 
 to be aware of its vicinity, when a strain of low, sweet music, 
 rose like a stream of " rich distilled perfumes." Woman's 
 softer accents mingled with a voice of manly melody and 
 strength ; and as the blending strains stole by his ear, ho 
 paused, convinced that the music he heard was an act of 
 adoration to God, though he understood not the language in 
 which it was uttered. The door of the cabin was open, and 
 he had a full view of the group near the entrance. A man, 
 dressed in a foreign costume, whose prevailing colour was 
 black, sat just within the shade of the cedars that sheltered 
 the roof. Adellan immediately recognised the pale face of the 
 European, and an instinctive feeling of dislike and suspicion 
 urged him to turn away. There was something, however, in 
 the countenance of the stranger that solicited and obtained 
 more than a passing glance. There was beauty in the calm, 
 thoughtful features, the high marble brow, the mild devotional 
 dark eye, and the soft masses of sable heir that fell somewhat 
 neglected over his lofty temples. There was a tranquillity, a 
 peace, an elevation diffused over that pallid face, which was 
 reflected back upon the heart of the beholder : a kind of moon-
 
 178 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 
 
 light brightness, communicating its own peculiar sweetness 
 and quietude to every object it shone upon. Seated near him, 
 and leaning over the arm of his chair, was a female, whose 
 slight delicate figure, and dazzlingly fair complexion, gave her 
 a supernatural appearance to the unaccustomed eye of the 
 dark Abyssinian. Her drooping attitude and fragile frame 
 appealed at once to sympathy and protection, while her placid 
 eyes, alternately lifted to heaven and turned towards him on 
 whose arm she leaned, were expressive not only of meekness 
 and submission, but even of holy rapture. A third figure 
 belonged to thJs interesting group : that of an infant girl, 
 about eighteen months old, who, seated on a straw matting, at 
 the feet of her parents, raised her cherub head as if in the act 
 of listening, and tossed back her flaxen ringlets with the play 
 ful grace of infancy. 
 
 Adellan had heard that a Christian missionary was in the 
 neighbourhood of Adorva, and he doubted not that he now 
 beheld one whom he had been taught to believe his most 
 dangerous enemy. Unwilling to remain longer in his vicinity, 
 he was about to pass on, when the stranger arose and addressed 
 him in the language of his country. Surprised at the saluta 
 tion, and charmed, in spite of himself, with the mild courtesy 
 of his accents, Adellan was constrained to linger. The fair- 
 haired lady greeted him with a benign smile, and the little 
 child clapped its hands as if pleased with the novelty and 
 grace of his appearance ; for though the hue of the olive dyed 
 his cheek, his features presented the classic lineaments of 
 manly beauty, and though the long folds of his white robe 
 veiled the outlines of his figure, he was formed in the finest 
 model of European symmetry. The missionary spoke to him 
 of his country, of the blandness of the climate, the magnifi 
 cence of the trees, the fragrance of the air, till Adellan forgot 
 his distrust, and answered him with frankness and interest. 
 Following the dictates of his own ardent curiosity, he ques 
 tioned the missionary with regard to his name, his native 
 country, and his object in coming to his own far land. He 
 
 learned that his name was M , that he came from the 
 
 banks of the Rhine to the borders of the Nile, and, following 
 its branches, had found a resting-place riear the waters of tho 
 beautiful Tacazze. 
 
 " And why do you come to this land of strangers ?" asked 
 fche abrupt Abyssinian. 
 
 "I came as un humble servant of my divine Master/' replied
 
 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 179 
 
 the missionary, meekly; "as a messenger of 'glad tidings of 
 great joy/ to all who will receive me, and as a friend and 
 brother, even to those who may persecute and revile me." 
 
 " What tidings can you bring MS," said Adellan, haughtily, 
 " that our priests and teachers can not impart to us ?" 
 
 " I bring my credentials with me," answered Mr. M , 
 
 and taking a Testament, translated into the Amharic language, 
 he offered it to Adellan ; but he shrunk back with horror, and 
 refused to open it. 
 
 "I do not wish for your books," said he; "keep them. 
 We are satisfied with our own. Look at our churches. They 
 stand on every hill, far as your eye can reach. See that stream 
 that winds near your dwelling. There we wash away the 
 pollution of our souls. I fast by day, I watch by night. The 
 saints hear my prayers, and the stars bear witness to my 
 penances. I am going to the holy city, where I shall obtain 
 remission for all my sins, and those of generations yet unborn. 
 I shall return holy and happy." 
 
 Mr. M sighed, while the youth rapidly repeated his 
 
 claims to holiness and heaven. 
 
 " You believe that God is a spirit," said he; "and the wor 
 ship that is acceptable in his eyes, must be spiritual also. In 
 vain is the nightly vigil and the daily fast, unless the soul is 
 humbled in his eyes. We may kneel till the rock is worn 
 by our prostrations, and torture the flesh till every nerve is 
 wakened to agony, but we can no more work out our own 
 salvation by such means, than our feeble hands can create a 
 new heaven and a new earth, or our mortal breath animate the 
 dust beneath our feet, with the spirit of the living God." 
 
 The missionary spoke with warmth. His wife laid her 
 gentle hand on his arm. There was something in the glance 
 of the young Abyssinian that alarmed her. But the spirit 
 of the martyr was kindled within him, and would not be 
 quenched. 
 
 " See," said he, directing the eye of the youth towards the 
 neighbouring hills, now clothed in the purple drapery of sun 
 set ; " as sure as those hills now stand, the banner of the cross 
 shall float from their summits, and tell to the winds of heaven 
 the triumphs of the Kedeemer's kingdom. Ethiopia shall 
 stretch out her sable hands unto God, and the farthest isles 
 of the ocean behold the glory of his salvation." 
 
 Adellan looked into the glowing face of the missionary, re 
 membered the cold and gloomy countenance of his religious
 
 180 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 
 
 teacher, and wondered at the contrast. But his prejudices 
 were unshaken, and his pride rose up in rebellion against the 
 man who esteemed him an idolater. 
 
 "Come to us again/' said the missionary, in a subdued 
 tone, as Adellan turned to depart; "let us compare our dif 
 ferent creeds, by the light of reason and revelation, and see 
 
 vhat will be the result." 
 <' Come to us again," said the lady, in Adellan's native 
 
 ongue ; and her soft, low voice sounded sweet in his ears, as 
 the fancied accents of the virgin mother. That night, as he 
 eat in his lonely chamber, at the convent, conning his task in 
 the stillness of the midnight hour, the solemn words of the 
 missionary, his inspired countenance, the ethereal form of his 
 wife, and the cherub face of that fair child, kept floating in 
 bis memory. He was angry with himself at the influence 
 they exercised. He resolved to avoid his path, and to hasten 
 his departure to Jerusalem, where he could be not only secure 
 from his arts, but from the legions of the powers of darkness. 
 
 Months passed away. The humble cabin of the missionary 
 was gradually thronged with those who came from curiosity, 
 or better motives, to hear the words of one who came from 
 such a far country. His pious heart rejoiced in the hope, 
 that the shadows of idolatry which darkened their religion 
 would melt awaj before the healing beams of the Sun of Right 
 eousness. But he looked in vain for the stately figure of the 
 young Adellan. His spirit yearned after the youth, and when 
 ever he bent his knees at the altar of his God, he prayed for 
 his conversion, with a kind of holy confidence that his prayer 
 would be answered. At length he once more presented him- 
 eelf before them, but so changed they could scarcely recognise 
 his former lineaments. His face was haggard and emaciated, 
 his hair had lost its raven brightness, and his garments were 
 worn and soiled with dust. He scarcely answered the anxious | 
 
 inquiries of Mr. M , but sinking into a seat, and covering -, 
 
 his face with his hands, large tears, gathering faster and faster, 
 glided through his fingers, and rained upon his knees. Mary, ' 
 the sympathizing wife of the missionary, wept in unison ; but 
 she did not limit her sympathy to tears, she gave him water 
 to wash, and food to eat, and it was not until he rested his 
 weary limbs, that they sought to learn the history of his suf 
 ferings. It would be tedious to detail them at length, though
 
 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 181 
 
 be nad indeed experienced " a sad variety of woe." He had 
 commenced his journey under the guidance and protection of 
 a man in whose honour he placed unlimited confidence, had 
 been deceived and betrayed, sold as a slave, and, though he 
 had escaped this degradation, he had been exposed to famine 
 and nakedness, and the sword. 
 
 " I have been deserted by man," said Adellan ; " the saints 
 have turned a deaf ear to my prayers ; I have come to you to 
 learn if there is a power in your Christianity to heal a wounded 
 spirit, and to bind up a broken heart." 
 
 The missionary raised his eyes in gratitude to Heaven. 
 
 " The Spirit of the Lord (rod is upon me," cried he, repeat 
 ing the language of the sublimest of the prophets : " because 
 the Lord hath anointed me to preach good tidings unto the 
 meek ; he hath sent me to bind up the broken-hearted, to pro 
 claim liberty to the captive, and the opening of the prison to 
 them that are bound." 
 
 " Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted," 
 repeated Mary, softly ; and never were promises of mercy 
 pronounced in a sweeter voice. Afflictions had humbled the 
 proud spirit of Adellan. But his was not the humility of the 
 Christian. It was rather a gloomy misanthropy, that made 
 him turn in loathing from all he had once valued, and to dootbt 
 the efficacy of those forms and penances, in which he had 
 wasted the bloom of his youth, and the morning strength of 
 his manhood. But he no longer rejected the proffered kind 
 ness of his new friends. He made his home beneath their 
 roof. The Testament he had formerly refused, he now grate 
 fully received, and studied it with all the characteristic ardour 
 of his mind. Persevering as he was zealous, as patient in 
 investigation as he was quick of apprehension, he compared 
 text with text, and evidence with evidence, till the prejudices 
 of education yielded to the irresistible force of conviction. 
 When once his understanding had received a doctrine, he 
 cherished it as a sacred and eternal truth, immutable as the 
 vord of God, and immortal as his own soul. 
 
 He now went down into the hitherto untravelled chambers 
 of his own heart, and, throwing into their darkest recesses 
 the full blaze of revelation, he shuddered to find them infested 
 by inmates more deadly than the serpent of the Nile. Pas 
 sions, of whose existence he had been unconscious, rose up 
 from their hiding places, and endeavoured to wrap him in 
 their giant folds. Long and fearful was the struggle, but
 
 182 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 
 
 Adellan opposed to their power the shield of Faith and tho 
 sword of the Spirit, and at last came off conqueror, and laid 
 down his spoils at the foot of the cross. The missionary wept 
 over him, "tears such as angels shed." "Now," exclaimed 
 he, " I am rewarded for all my privations, and my hitherto 
 unavailing toils. Oh ! Adellan, now the friend and brother 
 of my soul, I feel something like the power of prophecy come 
 over me, when I look forward to your future destiny. The 
 time will shortly come, when you will stand in the high places 
 of the land, and shake down the strong holds of ancient idolatry 
 and sin. The temples, so long desecrated by adoration of sense 
 less images, shall be dedicated to the worship of the living God. 
 Sinners, who so long have sought salvation in the purifying 
 waters of the stream, shall turn to the precious fountain of the 
 Redeemer's blood. Oh ! glorious, life-giving prospect ! They 
 who refuse to listen to the pale-faced stranger, will hearken to 
 the accents of their native hills. Rejoice, my beloved Mary ! 
 though I may be forced to bear back that fading frame of 
 yours to a more congenial clime, our Saviour will not be left 
 without a witness, to attest his glory, and confirm his power." 
 
 To fulfil this prophecy became the ruling desire of Adellan's 
 life. He longed to liberate his deluded countrymen from the 
 thraldom of that superstition to which he himself had served 
 such a long and gloomy apprenticeship. He longed, too, for 
 some opportunity of showing his gratitude to his new friends. 
 But there is no need of signal occasions to show what is pass 
 ing in the heart. His was of a transparent texture, and its 
 emotions were visible as the pebbles that gleam through the 
 clear waters of the Tacazze. The beautiful child of the mis 
 sionary was the object of his tenderest love. He would carry 
 it in his arms for hours, through the wild groves that sur 
 rounded their dwelling, and, gathering for it the choicest pro 
 ductions of nature, delight in its smiles and infantine caresses. 
 Sometimes, as he gazed on the soft azure of its eyes, and felt 
 its golden ringlets playing on his cheek, he would clasp it to 
 his bosom and exclaim, " Of such is the kingdom of heaven." 
 
 Mary idolized her child, and Adellan's great tenderness for 
 it, inexpressibly endeared him to her heart. She loved to see 
 the fair face of her infant leaning against the dark cheek of 
 Adellan, and its flaxen locks mingling with his jetty hair. 
 One evening, as it feU asleep in his arms, he was alarmed at 
 the scarlet brightness of its complexion, and the burning heat 
 3f its skiu. He carried it to its mother. It was the last time
 
 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 183 
 
 the cherub ever slumbered on his bosom. It never again 
 lifted up its head, but faded away like a flower scorched by a 
 noonday sun. 
 
 Day and night Adellan knelt by the couch of the dying 
 infant, and prayed in agony for its life ; yet even in the in- 
 ensity of his anguish, he felt how sublime was the resignation 
 of its parents. They wept, but no murmur escaped their lips. 
 They prayed, but every prayer ended with the submissive 
 ejaculation of their Saviour, "Not our will, O Father! but 
 thine be done." And when the sweet, wistful eyes were at 
 last closed in death, and the waxen limbs grew stiff and cold, 
 when Adellan could not restrain the bitterness of his grief, 
 still the mourners bowed ther heads and cried, " The Lord 
 gave, the Lord taketh away blessed be the name of the 
 Lord." 
 
 Adellan had witnessed the stormy sorrow of his country 
 women, whose custom it is to rend their hair, and lacerate 
 their faces with their nails, and grovel, shrieking, in the dust ; 
 but never had his heart been so touched as by the resignation 
 of this Christian mother. But, though she murmured not, 
 she was stricken by the blow, and her fragile frame trembled 
 beneath the shock. Her husband felt that she leaned more 
 heavily on his arm, and though she smiled upon him as wont, 
 the smile was so sad, it often brought tears into his eyes. At 
 length she fell sick, and the missionary saw her laid upon the 
 surne bed on which his infant had died. Now, indeed, it 
 might be said that the hand of God was on him. She, the 
 bride of his youth, the wife of his fondest affections, who had 
 given up all the luxuries of wealth, and the tender indulgences 
 of her father's home, for the love of him and her God ; who 
 had followed him not only with meekness, but joy, to those 
 benighted regions, that she might share and sweeten his 
 labours, and join to his, her prayers and her efforts for the 
 extension of the Redeemer's kingdom ; she, whose presence 
 Lad been able to transform their present lowly and lonely 
 dwelling into a place lovely as the Garden of Eden could he 
 gee her taken from him, and repeat, from his heart, as he had 
 done over the grave of his only child, " Father, thy will be 
 done ?" 
 
 Bitter was the conflict, but the watchful ear of Adellan 
 again heard the same low, submissive accents, which were so 
 lately breathed over his lost darling. Here, too, Adellan 
 acted a brother's part ; but female care was requisite, and thib
 
 184 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 
 
 his watchful tenderness supplied. He left them for a wt /ta, 
 and returned with a young maiden, whose olive coinplexwr, 
 graceful figure, and long braided locks, declared her of Abys 
 sinian birth. Her voice was gentle, and her step light, when 
 she approached the bed of the suiferer. Ozora, for such was 
 the name of the maiden, was a treasure in the house of sick 
 ness. Mary's languid eye followed her movements, and often 
 brightened with pleasure, while receiving her sympathizing 
 attentions. In her hours of delirious agony, she would hold 
 her hand, and call her sister in the most endearing tone, and 
 ask her how she had found her in that land of strangers. 
 Sometimes she would talk of the home of her childhood, and 
 imagine she heard the green leaves of her native bowers rus 
 tling in the gale. Then she thought she was wandering through 
 the groves of Paradise, and heard the angel voice of her child 
 singing amid the flowers. 
 
 Ozora was familiar with all the medicinal arts and cooling 
 drinks of her country. She possessed not only native gentle 
 ness, but skill and experience as a nurse. She was an orphan, 
 and the death-bed of her mother had witnessed her filial ten 
 derness and care. She was an idolater, but she loved Adellan, 
 and for his sake would gladly embrace the faith of the Euro 
 pean. Adellan was actuated by a twofold motive in bringing 
 her to the sick-bed of Mary ; one was, that she might exer 
 cise a healing influence on the invalid, and another, that she 
 might witness the triumphs of Christian faith over disease, 
 sorrow, and death. But Mary was not doomed to make her 
 grave in the stranger's land. The fever left her burning veins, 
 and her mind recovered its wonted clearness. She was able 
 to rise from her couch, and sit in the door of the cabin, and 
 feel the balmy air flowing over her pallid brow. 
 
 She sat thus one evening, supported by the arm of her hus 
 band, in the soft light of the sinking sunbeams. Adellan and 
 her gentle nurse were seated near. The eyes of all were simul 
 taneously turned to a small green mound, beneath the shade 
 of a spreading cedar, and they thought of the fairy form that 
 had so often sported around them in the twilight hour. 
 
 " Oh ! not there," cried Mary, raising her glistening eyes 
 from that lonely grave to heaven " Not there must we seek 
 our child. Even now doth her glorified spirit behold the face 
 of our Father in heaven She is folded in the arms of Him, 
 who, when on earth, took little children to his bosom and 
 Messed them And I, my beloved husband a little while
 
 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 185 
 
 and ye shall see my face no more. Though the Almighty haa 
 raised me from that couch of pain, there is something tells 
 me," continued she, laying her hand on her heart, " that my 
 days are numbered; and when my ashes sleep beside that 
 grassy bed, mourn not for me, but think that I have gone to 
 my Father and your Father, to my God and your God." 
 Then, leaning her head on her husband's shoulder, she added, 
 in a low trembling voice " to my child and your child." 
 
 It was long before Mr. M spoke ; at length he turned 
 
 to Adellan, and addressed him in the Amharic language : 
 " My brother ! it must be that I leave you. The air of her 
 native climes may revive this drooping flower. I will bear 
 her back to her own home, and, if God wills it, I will return 
 and finish the work he has destined me to do." 
 
 Mary clasped her hands with irrepressible rapture as ho 
 uttered these words ; then, as if reproaching herself for the 
 momentary selfishness, she exclaimed, "And leave the poor 
 Abyssinians !" 
 
 " I will leave them with Adellan," he answered, " whom I 
 firmly believe God has chosen, to declare his unsearchable 
 riches to this portion of the Gentile world. The seed that 
 has been sown has taken root, and the sacred plant will spring 
 up and increAse, till the birds of the air nestle in its branches, 
 and the beasts of the forest lie down beneath its shade. Adel 
 lan, does your faith waver ?" 
 
 " Never," answered the youth, with energy, " but the arm 
 of my brother is weak. Let me go with him on his homeward 
 journey, and help him to support the being he loves. I shall 
 gather wisdom from his lips, and knowledge from the glimpse 
 of a Christian land. Then shall I be more worthy to minister 
 to my brethren the word of life." 
 
 A sudden thought flashed into the mind of the missionary. 
 " And would you, Adellan," asked he, " would you indeed 
 wish to visit our land, and gain instruction in our institutions 
 of learning, that you might return to enrich your countr 
 with the best treasures of our own ? You are very young, 
 and might be spared awhile now, that you may be fitted for 
 more extensive usefulness hereafter." 
 
 Adellan's ardent eye told more expressively than words 
 could utter, the joy which filled his soul at this proposition. 
 v ' Too happy to follow you," cried he ; " how can I be suffi 
 ciently grateful for an added blessing ?" 
 
 Ozora, who had listened to the conversation, held in her
 
 186 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 
 
 own language, with intense interest, here turned her eyes upon 
 Adellan, with a look of piercing reproach, and suddenly rising, 
 left the cabin. 
 
 " Poor girl I" exclaimed Mary, as Adellan, with a saddened 
 countenance, followed the steps of Ozora; "how tenderly has 
 she nursed me, and what is the recompense she meets ? We 
 ire about to deprive her of the light that gladdens her exist- 
 nce. She has not yet anchored her hopes on the Rock of 
 Ages, and where else can the human heart find refuge, when 
 the wild surges of passion sweep over it !" 
 
 " Adellan is in the hands of an all-wise and all-controlling 
 power," answered the missionary, thoughtfully ; " the tears 
 of Ozora may be necessary to prove the strength of his resolu 
 tion ; if so, they will not fall in vain." 
 
 A few weeks after, everything being in readiness for the 
 departure of the missionary and his family, he bade farewell 
 to the Abyssinians, who crowded round his door to hear hia 
 parting words. He took them with him to the hillside, and, 
 under the shadow of the odoriferous trees, and the covering of 
 the heavens, he addressed them with a solemnity and fervour 
 adapted to the august temple tha't surrounded him. His deep 
 and sweet-toned voice rolled through the leafy colonnades and 
 verdant aisles, like the rich notes of an organ in some ancient 
 cathedral. The Amharic language, soft and musical in itself, 
 derived new melody from the lips of Mr. M . 
 
 "And now," added he, in conclusion, " I consign you 
 to the guardianship of a gracious and long-suffering God. 
 Forget not the words I have just delivered unto you, for 
 remember they will rise up in judgment against you in that 
 day when we shall meet face to face before the bar of eternal 
 justice. This day has the Gospel been preached in your ears. 
 Every tree that waves its boughs over your heads, every flower 
 that embalms the atmosphere, and every stream that flows 
 down into the valley, will bear witness that the hallowed name 
 of the Redeemer has been breathed in these shades, and pro 
 mises of mercy so sweet that angels stoop down from heaven 
 to listen to the strains that have been offered, free, free as the 
 very air you inhale. I go, my friends, but should I never 
 return, this place will be for ever precious to my remembrance. 
 It contains the ashes of my child. That child was yielded up 
 in faith to its Maker, and the spot where it sleeps is, there 
 fore, holy ground. Will ye not guard it from the foot of the 
 stranger, and the wild beast of the mountain ? Let the flower
 
 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 187 
 
 of the hills bloom ungathered upon it, and the dew of heaven 
 rest untrodden on its turf, till he, who is the resurrection and 
 the life, shall appear, and the grave give back its trust." 
 
 He paused, overpowered by the strength of his emotions, 
 and the sobs of many of his auditors attested the sympathy of 
 these untutored children of nature. He came down from the 
 elevated position on which he had been standing, and taking 
 the hand of Adellan, led him to the place he had just occu 
 pied. The people welcomed him with shouts, for it was the 
 first time he had presented himself in p'ublic, to declare the 
 change in his religious creed, and such was the character he 
 had previously obtained for sanctity and devotion, they looked 
 upon him with reverence, notwithstanding his youth. He 
 spoke at first with diffidence and agitation, but gathering con 
 fidence as he proceeded, he boldly and eloquently set forth 
 and defended the faith he had embraced. That young, enthu 
 siastic preacher would have been a novel spectacle to an Euro 
 pean audience, as well as that wild, promiscuous assembly. 
 His long, white robes, girded about his waist, according to the 
 custom of his country, his black, floating hair, large, lustrous 
 eyes, and dark but now glowing complexion, formed a striking 
 contrast with the sable garments, pallid hue, and subdued 
 expression of the European minister. They interrupted him 
 with tumultuous shouts, and when he spoke of his intended 
 departure and attempted to bid them farewell, their excite 
 ment became so great, he was compelled to pause, for his voice 
 strove in vain to lift itself above the mingled sounds of grief 
 and indignation. 
 
 " I leave you, my brethren," cried he, at length, " only to 
 return more worthy to minister unto you. My brother will 
 open my path to the temples of religion and knowledge. He 
 needs my helping arm in bearing his sick through the lonely 
 desert and over the deep sea what do I not owe him ? I 
 was a stranger and he took me in ; I was naked and he clothed 
 me ; hungry and he fed me, thirsty and he gave me driuk ; 
 and more than all, he has given me to eat the bread of heaven, 
 and water to drink from the wells of salvation. Oh ! aext to 
 God, he is my best friend and yours." 
 
 The shades of night began to fall, before the excited crowd 
 
 were all ^dispersed, and Mr. M , and Adellan were left in 
 
 tranquillity. Mary had listened to the multitudinous sounds, 
 ^ith extreme agitation. She reproached herself for allowing 
 ner husband to withdraw from the scene of his missionary
 
 188 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 
 
 labours out of tenderness for her. She thought it would ho 
 better for her to die and be laid by her infant's grave, than 
 the awakened minds of these half Pagan, half Jewish people, 
 be allowed to relapse into their ancient idolatries. When the 
 clods of the valley were once laid upon her breast, her slumbers 
 would not be less sweet because they were of the dust of a 
 foreign land. 
 
 Thus she reasoned with her husband, who, feeling that her 
 life was a sacred trust committed to his care, and that it was 
 his first duty to guar*d it from danger, was not moved from his 
 purpose by her tearful entreaties. They were to depart on the 
 following morning. 
 
 That night Adellan sat with Ozora by the side of a fountain, 
 that shone like a bed of liquid silver in the rising moonbeams. 
 Nature always looks lovely in the moonlight, but it seemed to 
 the imagination of Adellan he had never seen her clothed with 
 such resplendent lustre as at this moment, when every star 
 shone with a farewell ray, and every bough, as it sparkled in 
 the radiance, whispered a melancholy adieu. 
 
 Ozora sat with her face bent over the fountain, which lately 
 had often been fed by her tears. Her hair, which she had 
 been accustomed to braid with oi-iental care, hung dishevelled 
 over her shoulders. Her whole appearance presented the 
 abandonment of despair. Almost every night since his con 
 templated departure, had Adellan followed her to that spot, 
 and mingled the holiest teachings of religion with the purest 
 vows of love. He had long loved Ozora, but he had struggled 
 with the passion, as opposed to that dedication of himself to 
 heaven, he had contemplated in the gloom of his conventual 
 life. Now enlightened by the example of the missionary, 
 and the evangelical principles he had embraced, he believed 
 Christianity sanctioned and hallowed the natural affections of 
 the heart. He no longer tried to conquer his love, but to 
 make it subservient to higher duties. 
 
 Mary, grieved at the sorrow of Ozora, would have gladly 
 taken her with her, but Adellan feared her influence. He 
 knew he would be unable to devote himself so entirely to the 
 eternal truths he was one day to teach to others, if those soft 
 and loving eyes were always looking into the depths of his 
 heart, to discover their own image there. He resisted the 
 
 proposition, and Mr. M applauded the heroic resolution. 
 
 But now Adellan was no hero; he was a young, impassioned
 
 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 189 
 
 lover, and the bitterness of parting pressed heavily on hia 
 soul. 
 
 " Promise me, Ozora," repeated he, "that when I am gone, 
 you will never return to the idolatrous worship you have 
 abjured. Promise me, that you will never kneel to any but 
 the one, invisible God, and that this blessed book, which I 
 give you, as a parting pledge, shall be as a lamp to your feet 
 and a light to your path. Oh! should you forget the faith 
 you have vowed to embrace, and should I, when I come back 
 to my country, find you an alien from God, I should mourn, 
 I should weep tears of blood over your fall; but you could 
 never be the wife of Adellan. The friend of his bosom must 
 be a Christian." 
 
 " I cannot be a Christian," sobbed the disconsolate girl r 
 " for I love you better than God himself, and I am still an 
 idolater. Oh ! Adellan, you are dearer to me than ten thou 
 sand worlds, and yet you are going to leave me." 
 
 The grief she had struggled to restrain, here burst, its 
 bounds. Like the unchastened daughters of those ardent 
 climes, she gave way to the wildest paroxysms of agony. 
 She threw herself on the ground, tore out her long raven 
 locks, and startled the silence of night by her wild, hysterical 
 screams. Adellan in vain endeavoured to soothe and restore 
 her to reason ; when, finding his caresses and sympathy worse 
 than unavailing, he knelt down by her side, and lifting his 
 hands above her head, prayed to the Almighty to forgive her 
 for her sacrilegious love. As the stormy waves are said to 
 subside, when the wing of the halcyon passes over them, so 
 were the tempestuous emotions that raged in the bosom of this 
 unhappy maiden, lulled into calmness by the holy breath of 
 prayer. As Adellan continued his deep and fervent aspira 
 tions, a sense of the omnipresence, the omnipotence and holi 
 ness of God stole over her. She raised her weeping eyes, and 
 as the moonbeams glittered on her tears, they seemed but the 
 glances of his all-seeing eye. As the wind sighed through 
 the branches, she felt as if His breath were passing by her, 
 in mercy and in love. Filled with melting and penitential 
 feelings, she lifted herself on her knees, by the side of Adel 
 lan, and softly whispered a response to every supplication for 
 pardon. 
 
 " Oh ! Father, I thank thee for this hour !" exclaimed 
 Adellan, overpowered by so unlooked-for a change, and throw 
 ing his arms around her, he wept from alternate ecstasy ad 
 113
 
 190 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 
 
 sorrow. Let not the feelings of Adcllan be deemed too refinrd 
 and exalted for the region in which he dwelt. From early 
 boyhood he had been kept apart from the companionship of 
 the ruder throng ; his adolescence had been passed in the 
 shades of a convent, in study, and deep observation, and more 
 than all he was a Christian ; and wherever Christianity sheds 
 its pure and purifying light, it imparts an elevation, a sub 
 limity to the character and the language, which princes, un 
 taught of God, may vainly emulate. 
 
 The morning sunbeam lighted the pilgrims on their way. 
 The plight and feeble frame of Mary was borne on a litter by 
 four sturdy Ethiopians. Seven or eight more accompanied to 
 
 rest them, when weary, and to bear Mr. M in the same 
 
 manner, when overcome by fatigue, for it was a long distance 
 to Massowak. Their journey led tern through a desert wilder 
 ness, where they might vainly sigh for the shadow of the rock, 
 or the murmur of the stream. Adellan walked in silence by 
 the side of his friend. His thoughts were with the weeping 
 Ozora, and of the parting hour by the banks of the moon 
 lighted fountain. Mary remembered the grave of her infant, 
 and wept, as she caught a last glimpse of the hill where she 
 had dwelt. The spirit of the missionary was lingering with 
 the beings for whose salvation he had laboured, and he made 
 a solemu covenant with his own soul, that he would return 
 with Adellan, if God spared his life, and leave his Mary under 
 the shelter of the paternal roof, if she indeed lived to behold 
 
 it. On the third day, Mr. M was overcome with such 
 
 excessive languor, he was compelled to be borne constantly by 
 the side of his wife, unable to direct, or to exercise any con 
 trolling influence on his followers. Adellan alone, unwearied 
 and energetic, presided over all, encouraged, sustained, and 
 soothed. He assisted the bearers in upholding their burdens, 
 and whenever he put his shoulder to the litter, the invalids 
 immediately felt with what gentleness and steadiness they 
 were supported. When they reached the desert, and camels 
 were provided for the travellers, they were still often obliged 
 to exchange their backs for the litter, unable long to endure 
 the fatigue. Adellan was still unwilling to intrust his friends 
 to any guidance but his own. He travelled day after day 
 through the burning sands, animating by his example *he ex 
 hausted slaves, and personally administering to the wants of 
 the sufferers. When they paused for rest or refreshment, 
 before he carried the cup to his own parched lips, he brought
 
 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 191 
 
 it to theirs. It was his hand that bathed with water their 
 feverish brows, and drew the curtain around them at night, 
 when slumber shed its dews upon their eyelids. And often, 
 in the stillness of the midnight, when the tired bearers and 
 weary camels rested and slept after their toils, the voice of 
 Adellan rose sweet and solemn in the loneliness of the desert, 
 holding communion with the high and holy One who in 
 habited eternity. 
 
 There was a boy among the negro attendants, who was the 
 object of Adellan's peculiar kindness. He seemed feeble and 
 incapable of bearing long fatigue, and at the commencement 
 of the journey Adellan urged him to stay behind, but he ex 
 pressed so strong a desire to follow the good missionary, he 
 could not refuse his request. He wore his face muffled in a 
 handkerchief, on account of some natural deformity, a circum 
 stance which exposed him to the derision of his fellow slaves, 
 but which only excited the sympathy of the compassionate 
 Adellan. Often, when the boy, panting and exhausted, would 
 throw himself for breath on the hot sand, Adellan placed him 
 on his own camel and compelled him to ride. And when 
 they rested at night, and Adellan thought every one but him 
 self wrapped in slumber, he would steal towards him, and ask 
 him to tell him something out of God's book, that he, Adellan, 
 had been reading. It was a delightful task to Adellan to pour 
 the light of divine truth into the dark mind of this poor negro 
 boy, and every moment he could spare from his friends was 
 devoted to his instruction. 
 
 One evening, after a day of unusual toil and exertion, they 
 reached one of those verdant spots, called the Oases of the 
 desert ; and sweet to the weary travellers was the fragrance 
 and coolness of this green resting-place. They made their 
 tent under the boughs of the flowering acacia, whose pure 
 white blossoms diffused their odours even over the sandy waste 
 they, had passed. The date tree, too, was blooming luxuriantly 
 there, and, more delicious than all, the waters of a fountain, 
 gushing out of the rock, reminded them how God had pro 
 vided for the wants of his ancient people in the wilderness. 
 The missionary and his wife were able to lift their languid 
 heads, and drink in the freshness of the balmy atmosphere 
 All seemed invigorated and revived but the negro boy, who 
 lay drooping on the ground, and refused the nourishment 
 which the others eagerly shared. 
 
 " What is the matter, my boy ?" asked Adellan, kindly, 
 
 -
 
 192 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 
 
 and taking his hand in his, was struck by its burning heat. 
 " You are ill," continued he, " and have not complained." 
 He made a pallet for him under the trees, and they brought 
 him a medicinal draught. Seeing him sink after a while in 
 a deep sleep, Adellan's anxiety abated. But about midnight 
 he was awakened by the meanings of the boy, and bending 
 over him, laid his hand on his forehead. The sufferer opened 
 his eyes, and gasped, " Water, or I die !" Adellan ran to the 
 fountain, and brought the water immediately to his lips. 
 Then kneeling down, he removed the muffling folds of the 
 handkerchief from his face, and unbound the same from his 
 head, that he might bathe his temples in the cooling stream. 
 The moon shone as clearly and resplendently as when * it 
 beamed on Ozora's parting tears, and lighted up with an in 
 tense radiance the features of the apparently expiring negro. 
 Adellan was astonished that no disfiguring traces appeared on 
 the regular outline of his youthful face ; his hair, too, instead 
 of the woolly locks of the Ethiopian, was of shining length 
 and profusion, and as Adellan's hand bathed his brow with 
 water, he discovered beneath the jetty dye of his complexion 
 the olive skin of the Abyssinian. 
 
 " Ozora !" exclaimed Adellan, throwing himself in agony 
 by her side ; " Ozora, you have followed me, but to die !" 
 
 " Forgive me, Adellan," cried she, faintly ; " it was death 
 to live without you ; but oh ! I have found everlasting life, 
 in dying at your feet. Your prayers have been heard in the 
 desert, and I die in the faith and the hope of a Christian." 
 
 Adellan's fearful cry had roused the slumberers of the tent. 
 
 Mr. M , and Mary, herself, gathering strength from terror, 
 
 drew near the spot. What was her astonishment to behold 
 her beloved nurse, supported in the arms of Adellan, and 
 seemingly breathing out her last sighs ! Every restorative 
 was applied, but in vain. The blood was literally burning up 
 in her veins. 
 
 This last fatal proof of her love and constancy wrung the 
 heart of Adellan. He remembered how often he had seen 
 her slender arms bearing the litter, her feet blistering in the 
 sands ; and when he knew, too, that it was for the love of him 
 she had done this, he felt as if he would willingly lay down 
 his life for hers. But when he saw her mind, clear and un- 
 dimmed by the mists of disease, bearing its spontaneous testi 
 mony to the truth of that religion which reserves its most
 
 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 193 
 
 glorious triumphs for the dying hour, he was filled with re 
 joicing emotions. 
 
 " My Saviour found me in the wilderness," cried she, "while 
 listening to the prayers of Adellan. His head was filled with 
 dew, and his locks were heavy with the drops of night. Oh, 
 Adellan, there is a love stronger than that which has bound 
 my soul to yours. In the strength of that love I am willing 
 o resign you. I feel there is forgiveness even for me." 
 
 She paused, and lifting her eyes to heaven, with a serene 
 expression, folded her hands on her bosom. The missionary 
 saw that her soul was about to take its flight, and kneeling 
 over her, his feeble voice rose in prayer and adoration. While 
 the holy incense was ascending up to heaven, her spirit winged 
 its upward way, so peacefully and silently, that Adellau still 
 clasped her cold hand, unconscious that he was clinging to 
 dust and ashes. 
 
 They made her grave beneath the acacia, whose blossoms 
 were strewed over her dying couch. They placed a rude stone 
 at the head, and the hand of Adellan carved upon it this 
 simple, but sublime inscription, " I know that my Redeemer 
 liveth." The name of Ozora, on the opposite side, was all 
 the memorial left in the desert, of her whose memory was iu,- 
 mortal in the bosom of her friends. But there was a grandcui 
 in that lonely grave which no marble monument could exalt, 
 It was the grave of a Christian : 
 
 " And angels with their silver Tvings o'ershade 
 The ground now sacred by her relics made." 
 
 It would be a weary task to follow the travellers through 
 every step of their journey. Adellan still continued his un 
 wearied offices to his grateful and now convalescent friends, 
 but his spirit mourned for his lost Ozora. When, however, 
 he set foot on Christian land, he felt something of the rapture 
 that swelled the breast of Columbus on the discovery of a new 
 world. It was, indeed, a new world to him, and almost 
 realized his dreams of Paradise. 
 
 The friends of Mary and her husband welcomed him, as 
 the guardian angel who had watched over their lives in the 
 desert, at the hazard of his own ; and Christians pressed for 
 ward to open their hearts and their homes to their Abyssinian 
 brother. Mary, once more surrounded by the loved scenes 
 of her youth, and all the appliances of kindred love, and all
 
 194 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 
 
 the medicinal bairns the healing art can furnish, slowly re 
 covered her former strength. All that female gratitude and 
 tenderness could do, she exerted to interest and enliven the 
 feelings of Adellan, when, after each day of intense study, he 
 returned to their domestic circle. The rapidity with which 
 he acquired the German language was extraordinary. He 
 found it, however, only a key, opening to him treasures of 
 unknown value. Mr. M feared the effects of bis exces 
 sive application, and endeavoured to draw him from his books 
 and studies. He led him abroad amongst the works of nature, 
 and the wonders of art, and tried to engage him in the athletic 
 exercises the youth of the country delighted in. 
 
 Whatever Adellan undertook he performed with an ardour 
 which no obstacles could damp, no difficulties subdue. Know 
 ledge, purified by religion, was now the object of his exist 
 ence ; and, while it was flowing in upon his mind, from such 
 various sources, finding, instead of its capacities being filled, 
 that they were constantly enlarging and multiplying, and the 
 fountains, though overflowing, still undrained : and knowing 
 too, that it was only for a short time that his spirit could 
 drink in these immortal influences, and that through them he 
 was to fertilize and refresh, hereafter, the waste places of his 
 country, he considered every moment devoted to relaxation 
 alone, as something robbed from eternity. 
 
 One day, Adellan accompanied a number of young men 
 belonging to the institution in which he was placed, in an ex 
 cursion for the collection of minerals. Their path led them 
 through the wildest aud most luxuriant country, through 
 scenes where nature rioted in all its virgin bloom ; yet, where 
 the eye glancing around, could discern the gilding traces of 
 art, the triumphs of man's creating hand. Adellan, who be 
 held in every object, whether of nature or of art, the mani 
 festation of God's glory, became lost in a trance of ecstasy. 
 He wandered from his companions. He knelt down amid the 
 rocks, upon the green turf, and on the banks of the streams. 
 In every place he found an altar, and consecrated it with the 
 incense of prayer and of praise. The shades of night fell 
 around him, before he was conscious that the sun had declined. 
 The dews fell heavy on his temples, that still throbbed with 
 the heat and the exertions of the day. He returned chilled 
 and exhausted. The smile of rapture yet lingered on his lips, 
 bat the damps of death had descended with the dews of night, 
 aiid from taut h.;ur consumption commenced its slow but
 
 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 195 
 
 certain progress. When his friends became aware of his 
 d ringer, they sought by every possible means to ward off the 
 
 fatal blow. Mr. M induced him to travel, that he might 
 
 wean him from his too sedentary habits. He carried him 
 with him, through the magnificent valleys of Switzerland, 
 those valleys, embosomed in hills, on whose white and glitter 
 ing summits Adellan imagined he could see the visible foot 
 prints of the Deity. " Up to the hills," he exclaimed, with 
 the sweet singer of Israel, in a kind of holy rapture, " up to 
 the hills do I lift mine eyes, from whence conieth my help." 
 When returning, they lingered on the lovely banks of the 
 Rhine, his devout mind, imbued with sacred lore, recalled 
 " the green fields and still waters," where the Shepherd of 
 Israel gathered his flock. 
 
 The languid frame of Adellan seemed to have gathered 
 strength, and his friends rejoiced in their reviving hopes; but 
 "He who seeth not as man seeth," had sent forth his messenger 
 to call him to his heavenly home. Gentle was the summons, 
 but Adellan knew the voice of his divine Master, and prepared 
 to obey. One night, as he reclined in his easy chair, and Mr. 
 
 M was seated near, he stretched out his hand towards 
 
 him, with a bright and earnest glance : " My brother," said 
 he, "I can now say from my heart, the will of God be done. 
 It was hard to give up my beloved Abyssinians, but I leave 
 them in the hands of One who is strong to deliver, and mighty 
 to save. You, too, will return, when you have laid this wasted 
 frame in its clay-cold bed." 
 
 " I made a vow unto my God," answered Mr. M , " that 
 
 I would see them again, and that vow shall not be broken. 
 When they ask me the parting words of Adellan, tell me what 
 I shall utter." 
 
 " Tell them," exclaimed Adellan, raising himself up, with 
 an energy that was startling, and in a voice surprisingly clear, 
 while the glow of sensibility mingled with the hectic fires that 
 burned upon his cheek ; " tell them that the only reflection 
 that planted a thorn in my dying pillow, was the sorrow I felt 
 that I was not permitted to declare to them once more, the 
 eternal truths of the Gospel. Tell them, with the solemnities 
 of death gathering around me, in the near prospect of judg 
 ment and eternity, I declare my triumphant faith in that 
 religion your lips revealed unto me, that religion which was 
 sealed by the blood of Jesus, and attested by the Spirit of 
 Almighty God ; and say, too, that had I ten thousand lives,
 
 196 THE ABYSSINIAN NEOPHYTE. 
 
 and for every life ten thousand years to live, I should deem 
 them all too short to devote to the glory of God, and the ser 
 vice of my Redeemer." 
 
 He sunk back exhausted in his chair, and continued, in a 
 lower voice, " You will travel once more through the desert, 
 but the hand of Adellan will no longer minister to the friend 
 he loves. Remember him when you pass the grave of Ozora, 
 and hallow it once more with the breath of prayer. She died 
 for love of me, but she is gone to him who loved her as man 
 never loved. Her spirit awaits my coming." 
 
 The last tear that ever dimmed the eye of Adellan here fell 
 to the memory of Ozora. It seemed a parting tribute to the 
 world be was about to leave. His future hours were gilded 
 by anticipations of the happiness of heaven, and by visions of 
 glory too bright, too holy for description. He died in the 
 arms of the missionary, while the hand of Mary wiped from 
 his brow the dews of dissolution. Their united tears em 
 balmed the body of one, who, had he lived, would have been 
 a burning and a shining light, in the midst of the dark places 
 of the earth; one, who combined in his character, notwith 
 standing his youth and his country, the humility of the Pub 
 lican, the ardour of Peter, the love of John, and the faith and 
 zeal of the great Apostle of the Gentiles. Perhaps it should 
 rather be said, with the reverence due to these holy evangelists 
 and saints, that a large portion of their divine attribute? ani 
 mated the spirit of the Abyssinian Neophyte.
 
 THE 
 
 VILLAGE ANTHEM. 
 
 " WHAT is that bell ringing for ?" asked Villeneuve of tbo 
 waiter, who was leaving the room. 
 
 " For church," was the reply. 
 
 " For church ! Oh ! is it Sunday ? I had forgotten it. I 
 did not think there was a church in this little village." 
 
 '' Yes, indeed," answered the boy, his village pride taking 
 the alarm, " and a very handsome one, too. Just look out at 
 that window, sir. Do you see that tall, white steeple, behind 
 those big trees there ? That is the church, and I know there 
 is not a better preacher in the whole world than Parson Bland- 
 ford. He was never pestered for a word yet, and his voice 
 makes one feel so warm and tender about the heart, it does 
 one good to hear him." 
 
 Villeneuve cast a languid glance through the window, from 
 the sofa on which he was reclining, thinking that Parson 
 Blandford was very probably some old hum-drum, puritanical 
 preacher, whose nasal twang was considered melodious by the 
 vulgar ears which were accustomed to listen to him. Dull as 
 his present position was, he was resolved to keep it, rathe 
 than inflict upon himself such an intolerable bore. The boy, 
 who had mounted his hobby, continued, regardless of the un 
 propitious countenance of his auditor. 
 
 " Then there is Miss Grace Blandford, his daughter, plays 
 so beautifully on the organ ! You never heard such music in 
 your life. When she sits behind the red curtains, and you 
 can't see anything but the edge of her white skirt below, 1 
 
 (197)
 
 11)8 THE VILLAGE ANTHEM. 
 
 can't help thinking there's an angel hid there; and wT en sho 
 comes down and takes her father's arm, to walk out of ovurch, 
 she looks like an angel, sure enough." 
 
 Villeneuve's countenance brightened. Allowing for .ill tha 
 hyperbole of ignorance, there were two positive thing.' which 
 were agreeable in themselves music and a young maidc t. He 
 ose from the sofa, threw aside his dressing-gown, cal.'wd for 
 is coat and hat, and commanded the delighted boy to direct 
 nim to the church, the nearest way. His guide, pn.ad of 
 ushering in such a handsome and aristocratic-looking stiaiiger, 
 conducted him to one of the most conspicuous seats in the 
 broad aisle, in full view of the pulpit and the orchestva, and 
 Villeneuve's first glance was towards the red curtains, which 
 were drawn so close, not even a glimpse of white was granted 
 to the beholder. He smiled at his own curiosity. Very likely 
 this angel of the village boy was a great red-faced, hard-handed 
 country girl, who had been taught imperfectly to thrum the 
 keys of an instrument, and consequently transformed by rustic 
 simplicity into a being of superior order. No matter, any 
 kind of excitement was better than the ennui from which he 
 had been aroused. A low, sweet, trembling prelude sf>,le on 
 his car. " Surely," thought he, " no vulgar fingers press 
 those keys that is the key-note of true harmony." He lis 
 tened, the sound swelled, deepened, rolled through the arch 
 of the building, and sank again with such a melting cadence, 
 the tears involuntarily sprang into his eyes. Ashamed of his 
 emotions, he leaned his head on his hand, and yielded unseen, 
 to an influence, which, coming over him so unexpectedly, had 
 all the force of enchantment. The notes died awa}', then 
 swelled again in solemn accompaniment with the opening 
 hymn. The hymn closed with the melodious vibrations of 
 the instrument, and for a few moments there was a most pro 
 found silence. 
 
 "The Lord is in his holy temple; let all the earth keep 
 S'^nce before him :" uttered a deep, solemn voice. 
 
 Villeneuve raised his head and gazed upon the speaker. He 
 was a man rather past the meridian of life, but wearing un- 
 marred the noblest attributes of manhood. His brow was 
 unwrinkled, his piercing eye undimmed, and his tall figure 
 majestic and unbowed. The sun inclined from the zenith, but 
 the light, the warmth, the splendour remained in all their 
 power, and the hearts of the hearers radiated that light ana 
 warmth, till an intense gbw pervaded the assembly, and the
 
 THE VILLAGE ANTHEM. 199 
 
 opening words of the preacher seemed realized. Yilleneuve 
 was an Infidel ; he looked upon the rites of Christianity as 
 theatrical machinery, necessary, perhaps, towards carrying on 
 the great drama of life, and when the springs were well ad 
 justed and oiled, and the pulleys worked without confusion, 
 and every appearance of art was kept successfully in the buck- 
 ground, he was willing to sit and listen as he would to a fine 
 actor when reciting the impassioned language of the stage. 
 " This man is a very fine actor," was his first thought, " he 
 knows his part well. It is astonishing, however, that he ia 
 willing to rqinain in such a limited sphere with such an eyo 
 and voice such flowing language and graceful elocution, he 
 might make his fortune in any city. It is incomprehensible 
 that he is content to linger in obscurity." Thus Villeneuve 
 speculated, till his whole attention became absorbed in the 
 sermon, which as a literary production was exactly suited to 
 his fastidiously refined taste. The language was simple, the 
 sentiments sublime. The preacher did not bring himself down 
 to the capacities of his auditors, he lifted them to his, be ele 
 vated them, he spiritualized them. He was deeply read iu 
 the mysteries of the human heart, and he knew that however 
 ignorant it might be of the truths of science and the laws of 
 metaphysics, it contained many a divine spark which only 
 required an eliciting touch to kindle. He looked down into 
 the eyes upturued to him in breathless interest, and he read ia 
 them the same yearnings after immortality, the same reverence 
 f>r the Infinite Majesty of the Universe, which moved and 
 solemnized his own soul. His manner was in general calm 
 and affectionate, yet there were moments when he swept the 
 chords of human passion with a master's hand, and the hectic 
 flush of his cheek told of the fire burning within. 
 
 " He is a scholar, a metaphysician, a philosopher, and a 
 gentleman," said Villeneuve to himself, at the close of his 
 discourse. " If he is an actor, he is the best one I ever saw. 
 He is probably an enthusiast, who, if he had lived iu ancient 
 days, would have worn the blazing crown of martyrdom. I 
 should like to see his daughter." The low notes of the organ 
 again rose, as if in response to his heart's desire. This time 
 there was the accompaniment of a new female voice. The 
 congregation rose as the words of the anthem began. It waa 
 a kind of doxology, the chorus terminating with the solemn 
 expression " for ever and ever." The hand of the organist 
 DO longer trembled. It swept over the keys, as if the euthu-
 
 200 THE VILLAGE ANTHEM. 
 
 eiasm of an exalted spirit were communicated to every pulse 
 and sinew. The undulating strains rolled and reverberated 
 till the whole house was filled with the waves of harmony. 
 But high, and clear, and sweet above those waves of harmony 
 and the mingling voices of the choir, rose that single female 
 voice, uttering the burden of the anthem, "for ever and ever." 
 Villeneuve closed his eyes. He was oppressed by the novelty 
 of his sensations. Where was he ? In a simple village church, 
 listening to the minstrelsy of a simple village maiden, and he 
 had frequented the magnificent cathedral of Notre Dame, been 
 familiar there with the splendid ritual of the national religion, 
 and heard its sublime chantings from the finest choirs in the 
 Universe. Why did those few monotonous words so thrill 
 through every nerve of his being ? That eternity which he 
 believed was the dream of fanaticism, seemed for a moment 
 an awful reality, as the last notes of the paean echoed on his 
 ear. 
 
 When the benediction was given, and the congregation was 
 leaving the church, he watched impatiently for the foldings 
 of the red curtains to part, and his heart palpitated when he 
 saw a white-robed figure glide through the opening and imme 
 diately disappear. The next minute she was seen at the 
 entrance of the church, evidently waiting the approach of her 
 father, who, surrounded by his people, pressing on each other 
 to catch a kindly greeting, always found it difficult to make 
 his egress. As she thus stood against a column which sup 
 ported the entrance, Villeneuve had a most favourable oppor 
 tunity of scanning her figure, which he did with a practised 
 and scrutinizing glance. He was accustomed to Parisian and 
 English beauty, and comparing Grace Blandford to the high 
 born and high-bred beauties of the old world, she certainly 
 lost in the comparison. She was very simply diessed, her 
 eyes were downcast, and her features were in complete repose. 
 Still there was a quiet grace about her that pleased him a 
 blending of perfect simplicity and perfect refinement that was 
 extraordinary. Mr. Blaudford paused as he came down the 
 aisle. He had noticed the young and interesting looking 
 stranger, who listened with such devout attention to all the 
 exercises. He had heard, for in a country village such things 
 are rapidly communicated, that there was a traveller at the 
 inn, a foreigner and an invalid two strong claims to sympathy 
 and kindness. The pallid complexion of the young man was a 
 sufficient indication of the latter, and the air of high breeding
 
 THE VILLAGE ANTHEM. 201 
 
 distinguished him was equal to a letter of recommenda 
 tion in his behalf. The minister accosted him with great be 
 nignity, and invited him to accompany him home. 
 
 "You are a stranger," said he, "and I understand an 
 invalid. Perhaps you will find the quiet of our household 
 more congenial this day than the bustle of a public dwelling." 
 
 Villeneuve bowed his delighted acceptance of this most 
 unexpected invitation. He grasped the proffered hand of the 
 minister with more warmth than he was aware of, and followed 
 him to the door where Grace yet stood, with downcast eye& 
 
 " My daughter," said Mr. Blandford, drawing her hand 
 through his arm. This simple introduction well befitted the 
 place where it was made, and was acknowledged by her with 
 a gentle bending of the head and a lifting of the eyes, and 
 they walked in silence from the portals of the church. What 
 a change had the mere uplifting of those veiled lids made in 
 her countenance ! Two lines of a noble bard flashed across his 
 memory 
 
 " The light of love, the purity of grace, 
 The mind, the music breathing from her face." 
 
 Then another line instantaneously succeeded 
 " And oh ! that eye is in itself a soul." 
 
 There was one thing which disappointed him. He did not 
 notice a single blush flitting over her fair cheek. He feared 
 she was deficient in sensibility. It was so natural to blush at 
 a stranger's greeting. He did not understand the nature of 
 her feelings. He could not know that one so recently engaged 
 in sublime worship of the Creator, must be lifted above fear 
 or confusion in the presence of the creature. Villeneuve had 
 seen much of the world, and understood the art of adapted- 
 ness, in the best sense of the word. He could conform to the 
 circumstances in which he might be placed with grace and 
 ease, and though he was too sincere to express sentiments he 
 did not feel, he felt justified in concealing those he did feel, 
 when he knew their avowal would give pain or displeasure 
 It was a very singular way for him to pass the Sabbath. The 
 guest of a village pastor, breathing an atmosphere redolent of 
 the sweets of piety, spirituality, and holy love. The language 
 of levity and flattery, so current in society, would be considered 
 profanation here ; and a conviction deeply mortifying to his
 
 202 THE VILLAGE ANTHEM. 
 
 vanity forced itself upon him, that all those accomplishments 
 for which he had been so much admired, would gain him no 
 favour with the minister and his daughter. He could not 
 forbear expressing his surprise at the location Mr. Blandford 
 had chosen. 
 
 " I would not insult you by flattery," said Villeneuve, 
 
 , ngenuously, " but I am astonished you do not seek a wider 
 
 phere of usefulness. It is impossible that the people here 
 
 should appreciate your talents, or estimate the sacrifices you 
 
 make to enlighten and exalt them." 
 
 Mr. Blandford smiled as he answered " You think my 
 sphere too small, while I tremble at the weight of responsibility 
 I have assumed. If I have the talents which you kindly 
 ascribe to me, I find here an ample field for their exercise. 
 There are hundreds of minds around me that mingle their 
 aspirations with mine, and even assist me in the heavenward 
 journey. In a larger, more brilliant circle, I might perhaps 
 gain a more sounding name and exercise a wider influence, but 
 that influence would not be half as deep and heartfelt. I was 
 born and bred in a city, and know the advantages such a life 
 can offer ; but I would not exchange the tranquillity of this 
 rural residence, the serenity of my pastoral life, the paterual 
 influence I wield over this secluded village, and the love 
 and reverence of its upright and pure-minded inhabitants, 
 for the splendid sinecure of the Archbishops of our mother 
 land." 
 
 Villeneuve was astonished to see a man so nobly endowed, 
 entirely destitute of the principle of ambition. He wanted to 
 ask him how he had thus trampled under his feet the honours 
 and distinctions of the world. " You consider ambition a 
 vice, then ?" said he. 
 
 " You are mistaken," replied Mr. Blandford, " if you believe 
 rue destitute of ambition. I am one of the most ambitious 
 men in the world. But I aspire after honours that can resist 
 the mutations of time, and partake of the imperishability of 
 thair Great Bestower." 
 
 There was a silence of some moments, during which Mr 
 Blandford looked upward, and the eyes of Grace followed her 
 father's with kindling ray. 
 
 " But, your daughter," continued Villeneuve, " can she find 
 contentment in a situation for which nature and educatior have 
 jo evidently unfitted her ?" 
 
 lt Let Grace answer for herself," said Mr. Blandford, mildly ;
 
 THE VILLAGE ANTHEM. 203 
 
 " I have consulted her happiness as well as my own, in the 
 choice I have made." 
 
 Villeneuve was delighted to see a bright blush suffuse the 
 modest cheek of Grace but it was the blush of feeling, not of 
 shame. 
 
 " I love the country rather than the town," said she, " for 
 I prefer nature to art, meditation to action, and the works of 
 God to the works of man ; and in the constant companionship 
 of my father I find more than contentment I find happiness, 
 
 jy-'.' 
 
 Villeneuve sighed he felt the isolation of his own destiny. 
 The last of his family, a traveller in a strange land, in pursuit 
 of health ; which had been sacrificed in the too eager pursuit 
 of the pleasures of this world, without one hope to link him 
 to another. Affluent and uncontrolled, yet sated and despond 
 ing, he envied the uncorrupted taste of the minister's daugh 
 ter. He would have bartered all his wealth for the enthusiasm 
 that warmed the character of her father. That night he was 
 awakened by a singular dream. He thought he was alone in 
 the horror of thick darkness. It seemed that he was in the 
 midst of infinity, and yet chained to one dark spot, an im 
 movable speck in the boundless ocean of space. " Must I 
 remain here for ever?" he cried in agony, such as is only 
 known in dreams, when the spirit's nerves are all unsheathed. 
 " For ever and ever," answered a sweet, seraphic voice, high 
 above his head, and looking up he beheld Grace, reclining on 
 silver-bosomed clouds, so distant she appeared like a star in 
 the heavens, yet every lineament perfectly defined. " Am I 
 then parted from thee for ever ?" exclaimed he, endeavouring 
 to stretch out his arms towards the luminous point. " For 
 ever and ever," responded the same heavenly accents, mourn 
 fully echoing till they died away, and the*vision fled. He was 
 not superstitious, but he did not like the impression of his 
 dream. He rose feverish and unrefreshed, and felt himself 
 unable to continue his journey. Mr. Blandford came to see 
 him. He was deeply interested in the young stranger, and 
 experienced the pleasure which every sensitive and intellectual 
 being feels in meeting with kindred sensibility and intellect 
 The intimacy, thus commenced, continued to increase, and 
 week after week passed away, and Villeneuve still lingered 
 near the minister and his daughter. His health was invigo 
 rated, his spirits excited by the novel yet powerful influences 
 that surrounded him. It was impossible, in the course of thu 1
 
 204 THE VILLAGE ANTHEM. 
 
 deepening intimacy, that the real sentiments of Villeneuve 
 should remain concealed, for hypocrisy formed no part of his 
 character. Mr. Blandford, relying on the reverence and affec 
 tion Villeneuve evidently felt for him, believed it would be an 
 easy task to interest him in the great truths of religion. And it 
 was an easy task to interest him, particularly when the father's 
 arguments were backed by the daughter's persuasive eloquence ; 
 but it was a most difficult one to convince. The prejudices 
 of education, the power of habit, the hardening influence of a 
 worldly life, presented an apparently impenetrable shield against 
 the arrows of divine truth. 
 
 " I respect, I revere the principles of your religion," Vil 
 leneuve was accustomed to say at the close of their long and 
 interesting conversations. " I would willingly endure the 
 pangs of death ; yea, the agonies of martyrdom, for the pos 
 session of a faith like yours. But it is a gift denied to me. I 
 cannot force my belief, nor give a cold assent with my lips to 
 what my reason and my conscience belie." 
 
 Mr. Blandford ceased not his efforts, notwithstanding the 
 unexpected resistance he encountered, but Grace gradually 
 retired from the conflict, and Villeneuve found to his sorrow 
 and mortification that she no longer appeared to rejoice in his 
 society. There was a reserve in her manners which would 
 have excited his resentment, had not the sadness of her coun 
 tenance touched his heart. Sometimes when he met her eye 
 it had an earnest, reproachful, pitying expression, that thrilled 
 to his soul. One evening he came to the Parsonage at a later 
 hour than usual. He was agitated and pale. " I have received 
 letters of importance," said he; "I must leave you imme 
 diately. I did not know that all my happiness was centered 
 in the intercourse I have been holding with your family, till 
 this summons came.* 7 Grace, unable to conceal her emotions, 
 rose and left the apartment. Villeneuve's eyes followed her 
 with an expression which made her father tremble. He anti 
 cipated the scene which followed. " Mr. Blandford," con 
 tinued Villeneuve, " I love your daughter. I cannot live 
 without her I cannot depart without an assurance of her love 
 nd your approbation." 
 
 Mr. Blandford was too much agitated to reply the blood 
 rushed to his temples, then retreating as suddenly, left his 
 brow and cheek as colourless as marble. " I should have fore 
 seen this/' at length he said. " It would have spared us all 
 much misery."
 
 THE VILLAGE ANTHEM. 205 
 
 " Misery !" replied Villeneuve, in a startling tone. 
 
 " Yes," replied Mr. Blandford, " I have been greatly to 
 blame I have suffered my feelings to triumph over my judg 
 ment. Villeneuve, I have never met a young man who won 
 upon my affections as you have done. The ingenuousness, 
 ardour, and generosity of your character impelled me to love 
 you. I still love you ; but I pity you still more. I can nevei 
 trust my daughter's happiness in your hands. There is a gulf 
 between you a wall of separation high as the heavens and 
 deeper than the foundations of the earth." He paused, and 
 bowed his face upon his hands. The possibility that his 
 daughter's happiness might be no longer in her own keeping, 
 completely overpowered him. Villeneuve listened in astonish 
 ment and dismay. He, in all the pride of affluence and rank 
 (for noble blood ran in lineal streams through his veins), to be 
 rejected by an obscure village pastor, from mere religious 
 scruples. It was incredible one moment his eye flashed 
 haughtily on the bending figure before him ; the next it 
 wavered, in the apprehension that Grace might yield to her 
 father's decision, and seal their final separation. " Mr. Bland- 
 ford," cried he, passionately, " I can take my rejection only 
 from your daughter I have never sought her love unsanctioned 
 by your approbation I have scorned the guise of a hypocrite, 
 and I have a right to claim this from you. You may destroy 
 my happiness it is in your power but tremble lest you 
 sacrifice a daughter's peace." 
 
 Mr. Blandford recovered his self-command, as the passions 
 of the young man burst their bounds. He summoned Grace 
 into his presence. " I yield to your impetuous desire," said 
 he, " but I would to Heaven you had spared me a scene like 
 this. Painful as it is, I must remain to be a witness to it." 
 He took his daughter's hand as she entered, and drew her 
 towards him. He watched her countenance while the first 
 vows of love to which she had ever listened were breathed 
 into her ear with an eloquence and a fervour which seemed 
 irresistible, and these were aided by the powerful auxiliary of 
 a most handsome and engaging person, and he trembled as he 
 gazed. Her cheek kindled, her eye lighted up with rapture, 
 her heart panted with excessive emotion. She leaned on her 
 father's arm, unable to speak, but looked up in his face with 
 an expression that spoke volumes. 
 
 " You love him, then, Grace," said he mournfully, " Oh, 
 ioy God ! forgive me the folly, the blindness, the madness of 
 which I have been guilty I" 
 114
 
 206 THE VILLAGE ANTHEM. 
 
 Grace started, as if wakening from a dream. Her father's 
 words recalled her to herself one brief moment of ecstasy had 
 been hers to be followed, she knew, by hours of darkness 
 and sorrow. The warm glow faded from her cheek, and throw 
 ing her arms round her father's neck, she wept unrestrainedly. 
 
 "She loves me," exclaimed Villeneuve; "you yourself 
 witness her emotions you will not separate us you will not 
 Buffer a cruel fanaticism to destroy us both." 
 
 " Grace," said Mr. Blandford, in a firm voice, " look up. 
 Let not the feelings of a moment, but the principles of a life 
 decide. Will you hazard, for the enjoyment of a few fleeting 
 years, the unutterable interests of eternity ? Will you forsake 
 the Master he abjures for the bosom of a stranger ? In one 
 word, my daughter, will you wed an Infidel ?" 
 
 Grace lifted her head, and clasping her hands together, 
 looked fervently upward. 
 
 " Thou art answered," cried Mr. Blandford, with a repelling 
 motion towards Villeneuve. " The God she invokes will give 
 her strength to resist temptation. Go, then, most unhappy 
 yet beloved young man you have chosen your destiny, and we 
 have chosen ours. You live for time. We, for eternity. As 
 I said before, there is a deep gulf between us. Seek not to 
 drag her down into the abyss into which you would madly 
 plunge. My soul hath wrestled with yours, and you have 
 resisted, though I fought with weapons drawn from Heaven's 
 own armory. Farewell our prayers and our tears will fol 
 low you." 
 
 He extended his hand to grasp Villeneuve's for the last 
 time, but Villeneuve, with every passion excited beyond the 
 power of control, rejected the motion ; and, snatching the hand 
 of Grace, which hung powerless over her father's shoulder, 
 drew her impetuously towards him. " She loves me," exclaimed 
 he, " and I will never resign her ; I swear it by the inexorable 
 Power you so blindly worship. Perish the religion that 
 would crush the dearest and holiest feelings of the human 
 heart ! Perish the faith that exults in the sacrifice of nature 
 and of love !" 
 
 With one powerful arm Mr. Blandford separated his daugh- 
 ter from the embrace of her lover, and holding him back with 
 the other, commanded him to depart. He was dreadfully 
 agitated, the veins of his temples started out like cords, and 
 his eyes flashed with imprisoned fires. Villeneuve writhed 
 for a moment in his unrekxing grasp, then, reeling backward,
 
 THE VILLAGE ANTHEM. 207 
 
 sunk upon a sofa. He turned deadly pale, and held his hand 
 kerchief to his face. 
 
 " Oh ! father ! you have killed him !" shrieked Grace, spring 
 ing to his side; " he faints ! he bleeds, he dies !" 
 
 Even while Grace was speaking, the white handkerchief was 
 crimsoned with blood, the eyes of the young man closed, and 
 he fell back insensible. 
 
 " Just Heaven ! spare me this curse !" cried Mr. Blandford 
 " Great God ! I have killed them both I" 
 
 They did indeed look like two murdered victims, for the 
 blood which oozed from the young man's lips not only dyed 
 his own handkerchief and neckcloth, but reddenad the white 
 dress of Grace and stiffened on her fair locks, as her head 
 drooped unconsciously on his breast. All was horror and 
 confusion in the household. The physician was immediately 
 summoned, who declared that a blood-vessel was ruptured, 
 and that the life of the young man was in the most imminent 
 danger. Grace was borne to her own apartment and con 
 signed to the care of some kind neighbours, but Mr. Blandford 
 remained the whole night by Villeneuve's side, holding his 
 hand in his, with his eyes fixed on his pallid countenance, 
 trembling lest every fluttering breath should be his last. 
 About daybreak he opened his eyes, and seeing who was 
 watching so tenderly over him, pressed his hand and attempted 
 to speak, but the doctor commanded perfect silence, assuring 
 him that the slightest exertion would be at the hazard of his 
 life. For two or three days he hovered on the brink of the 
 grave, during which time Mr. Blandford scarcely left his side, 
 and Grace lingered near the threshold of the door, pale and 
 sleepless, the image of despair. One night, when he seemed 
 to be in a deep sleep, Mr. Blandford knelt by his couch, and 
 in a low voice breathed out his soul in prayer. His vigil had 
 been one long prayer, but he felt that he must find vent in 
 language for the depth and strength of his emotions. He 
 prayed in agony for the life of the young man ; for his soul' 
 life. He pleaded, he supplicated ; till, language failing, sigh 
 and tears alone bore witness to the strivings of his spirit 
 " Yet, not my will, oh ! God !" ejaculated he again, " but 
 thine be done." 
 
 " Amen !" uttered a faint voice. The minister started as 
 if he had heard a voice from the dead. It was Villeneuve 
 who spoke, and whose eyes fixed upon him had a most intense 
 and thrilling expression. "Your prayer is heard," continued
 
 208 THE VILLAGE ANTHEM. 
 
 he. " I feel that God is merciful. A ray of divine light 
 illumines my parting hour. Let me see Grace before I die, 
 that our souls may mingle once on earth, in earnest of their 
 union hereafter." 
 
 The minister led his daughter to the couch of Villeneuve. 
 He joined her hand in his. " My daughter," cried he, " rejoice. 
 I asked for him life. God giveth unto him long life ; yea, life 
 for evermore." 
 
 Grace bowed her head on the pale hand that clasped her 
 own, and even in that awful moment, a torrent of joy gushed 
 into her soul. It was the foretaste of an eternal wedlock, and 
 death seemed indeed swallowed up in victory. Mr. Blandford 
 knelt by his kneeling daughter, and many a time during that 
 night they thought they saw the spirit of Villeneuve about to 
 take its upward flight ; but he sunk at length into a gentle 
 slumber, and when the doctor again saw him, he perceived a 
 favourable change in his pulse, and told Mr. Blandford there 
 was a faint hope of his recovery. " With perfect quiet and 
 tender nursing," said he, looking meaningly at Grace, " he 
 may yet possibly be saved." 
 
 The predictions of the excellent physician were indeed ful 
 filled, for in less than three weeks Villeneuve, though still 
 weak and languid, was able to take his seat in the family 
 circle. Mr. Blandford saw with joy that the faith which he 
 had embraced in what he believed his dying hour, was not 
 abandoned with returning health. He had always relied on 
 the rectitude of his principles, and now, when religion strength 
 ened and sanctified them, he felt it his duty to sanction his 
 union with his daughter. The business which had summoned 
 him so unexpectedly to his native country still remained un 
 settled, and as the physician prescribed a milder climate, he 
 resolved to try the genial air of France. It was no light 
 sacrifice for Mr. Blandford to give up his daughter, the sole 
 treasury of his affections, and doom himself to a solitary home j 
 but he did it without murmuring, since he hoped the blessing 
 f heaven would hallow their nuptials. Villeneuve promised 
 to return the ensuing year, and restore Grace again to her 
 beloved parsonage. 
 
 The Sunday before their departure, Grace accompanied her 
 father and husband to the village church. Villeneuve saw 
 the boy who had guided him there the first time, standing at 
 the portal. He returned his respectful salutation with a warm
 
 THE VILLAGE ANTHEM. 209 
 
 grasp of the hand. " He led me to the gate of heaven/' thought 
 he ; " he shall not go unrewarded." 
 
 " She will be too proud to play on the organ any more," 
 said the boy to himself, " now that she has married a great man 
 and a foreigner ;" but Grace ascended the steps as usual, and 
 drew the red curtains closely round her. What the feelings 
 of the musician were, within that sacred sanctuary, as she 
 pressed the keys, probably for the last time, could only be 
 judged from a trembling touch; but at the close of the 
 services, when the same sublime anthem, with the burden " for 
 ever and ever," was sung by the choir, Villeneuve recognised 
 the same clear, adoring accents which first fell so thrillingly 
 on his ear. He remembered hia dream. It no longer filled 
 him with superstitious horror. It was caused by the workings 
 of his dark and troubled mind. Now every thought flowed in 
 a new channel ; he seemed a new being to himself. 
 
 " Are we indeed united ?" said he, while his soul hung on 
 the echoes of that SAveet strain, " and shall we be united for 
 ever ?" 
 
 " For ever and ever," returned the voice of the worshipper ; 
 and the whole choir, joining in, in a full burst of harmony, 
 repeated again and again, "for ever and ever."
 
 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 
 
 11 1 RA.VE something to tell you, Rosamond," said Cecil 
 Dormer, taking Rosamond Clifford on his knee and seating 
 himself in a corner of her mother's sofa" Don't you want to 
 hear a story to-night ?" 
 
 " Is it a sure enough story ?" asked Rosamond, " or a fairy 
 tale, like the Arabian Nights Entertainment ?" 
 
 " Every word of it truth," answered Cecil "though some 
 portions of it may t freeze your young blood.' It is of a little 
 girl, about your own age, and a woman who I verily believe 
 is Lucifer himself dressed in woman's clothes." 
 
 " You have excited my curiosity," said Mrs. Clifford closing 
 her book, and taking a seat on the sofa " for as every story 
 must have a hero, I suspect you are the hero of your own." 
 
 " Please tell it," cried Rosamond, with the impatience of a 
 petted child " I want to hear about the little girl." 
 
 " Well," said Cecil, " you recollect how bright and beautiful 
 the moon shone last night, and how peaceful and lovely every 
 thing looked. As I was returning to my lodgings, rather 
 later than usual, I passed through a lane, which shortened the 
 distance, though the walk itself was rough and unpleasant. As 
 I was indulging in my old habit of building castles by the moon 
 light, I heard the most piercing shrieks issuing from a low 
 building to which I was directly opposite. There must be 
 murder going on, thought I, and like the giant, I imagined I 
 could ' smell the blood of an Englishman.' I rushed to the 
 door, almost shook it from its hinges in opening it, and found 
 myself in the narrow, dark passage but, guided by the cries, 
 I soon reached another door, which I opened with as little 
 ceremony, and what do you think I saw ?" 
 
 (210;
 
 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 211 
 
 "Were they killing the poor little girl?" cried Rosamond, 
 drawing a long breath, her eyes growing larger and darker. 
 
 " You shall hear. In the centre of the room, there was a 
 large, iron-framed woman, with her right hand extended, 
 brandishing a leathern thong over the head of a pale, shrinking 
 girl, whom she grasped with her left hand, and from whose 
 bare shoulders the blood was oozing through grooves that 
 thong had cut. You may well start and shudder, for a more 
 hideous spectacle never met the eye. She was just in the act 
 of inflicting another lash, when I arrested her arm with a/orce 
 which must have made it ache to the marrow of the bones, and 
 caused her involuntarily to loosen her hold of her victim, who 
 fell exhausted to the floor. The woman turned on me, with 
 the fury of a wolf interrupted in its bloody banquet." 
 
 " Did she look like the picture of the wolf in little Red 
 Riding Hood?" asked Rosamond. 
 
 " Yes, a most striking resemblance. Her cap was blown 
 back to the crown of her head by the barbarous exercise in 
 which she had been engaged, her tongue actually protruded 
 from her mouth, in the impotence of her rage, and her hard, 
 dull-coloured eyes glowed like red-hot stones in their deep 
 sockets." 
 
 "'What do you want?' cried she, in a voice between a 
 growl and a scream ' and who are you, and what is your 
 business ? You had better take care, or I'll make your back 
 smart, in spite of your fine coat.' 
 
 " I could not help smiling at the idea of being whipped by 
 a woman, but I answered as sternly as possible ' I want 
 humanity, for I am a man. My business is to snatch this 
 child from your clutches, and to give you up to the city 
 authorities for disturbing the public peace.' 
 
 " ' It is her fault, not mine,' replied she, a little intimidated 
 by my threat ' she always screams and hollows when I whip 
 her, as if I were murdering her, if I but scratch her skin. I 
 gave her a task to do, and told her if she did not do it I would 
 whip her a good-for-nothing, lazy thing ! mope, mope from 
 morning to night, nothing but mope and fret, while I'm 
 drudging like a slave. I'm not going to support her any 
 longer, if I have to turn her out of doors. She thinks 
 because her mother happened to die here, I must give her a 
 home, forsooth, and she do nothing to pay for it, the ungrate 
 ful hussy !'" 
 
 " Oh ! don't tell any more about that horrid old woman,"
 
 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 
 
 interrupted Rosamond " I want to hear about the little girl. 
 What did she do ?" 
 
 " Why, she wept and sobbed, and said she did all she could, 
 but that she was sick and weak, and she wished she was iu 
 the grave, by her poor mother's side, for there was nobody in 
 the world to take care of her, and she knew not what would 
 become of her. I told her impulsively that /would see she 
 was taken care of, and if that vile woman but lifted her 
 finger against her once more, she should rue it to her heart's 
 core." 
 
 " There, Cecil, you have made a rhyme, so you must wish 
 before you speak again," said Rosamond, laughing. 
 
 " Well, I wish that poor, desolate child had a home like 
 this, and a mother like Mrs. Clifford, and a companion like 
 Rosamond or I wish that I had a kind mother and sister, to 
 whose care I could intrust her, or a sweet gentle wife and it 
 is the first time in my life I ever breathed that wish who 
 would be willing to protect and cherish her for my sake." 
 
 " Is she a pretty child ?" interrogated Mrs. Clifford, feelings 
 best known to herself prompting the question. 
 
 " Yes !" repeated Rosamond, eagerly, stealing a look in the 
 glass at her own bright eyes, fair complexion, and curling locks 
 " is she pretty, and was she dressed nice ?" 
 
 "No !" answered Cecil, "the only emotion she could excite 
 is that of the deepest pity. She is thin to emaciation, sallow 
 to cadaverousness, and her eyes occupy the greatest portion of 
 her face, they look so large and hollow and wild. She might 
 sit for a miniature representation of famine, disease, or woe. 
 There is something about her, however, that speaks of gentle 
 blood and early gentle breeding. Her name at least ia 
 aristocratic, and bespeaks a French extraction Eugenia St. 
 Clair." 
 
 Rosamond was delighted with the name, and wondered how 
 she could help being pretty with such a beautiful name. 
 
 " Poor child !" said Mrs. Clifford, " it is a pity she is not 
 handsome, it would add so much to the romance of the adven 
 ture." 
 
 " She is helpless and oppressed," cried Cecil warmly, " and 
 if she had the beauty of a cherub her claims would not plead 
 more eloquently than they do in my heart. I should think I 
 were guilty of murder, if I left her in the hands of that virago. 
 It is true I put a douceur in her hand, terrifying her at the 
 same time with the threatenings of the law, but this will only
 
 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 213 
 
 purchase the child's security for a short time. I made a vow 
 to myself, when she clung to me convulsively, as I attempted 
 to leave her, that I would plage her in some situation where 
 she could find kindness and protection, till fitting arrangements 
 can be made for her education." 
 
 " You are indeed romantic," said Mrs. Clifford, seriously, 
 " and know not what you may entail upon yourself." 
 
 " I am sorry if you think me so," said Cecil, with a look 
 of mortification and disappointment " I see I have as usual 
 drawn too hasty conclusions. You have been so very kind to 
 me, so kind as to make me forget in your household the 
 absence of domestic ties. I dared to hope you would assist me 
 in my design, and perhaps receive for a little while, under your 
 own roof, this neglected child of orphanage and want. I have 
 no other friend of whom I could ask a similar favour, and if I 
 find I am presuming too much on you, I believe I must try to 
 fall in love and get married, so that I can take my protegee to 
 a home of my own." 
 
 Mrs. Clifford had not the most distant idea of permitting 
 him to do so preposterous a thing, for she had long since ap 
 propriated him to Rosamond, whom as a child he now petted 
 and caressed, and whom, if he continued as he now was, fancy 
 free, as a woman he must inevitably love. When he first 
 mentioned the girl, and expressed such a strong interest in 
 her behalf, she began to tremble in anticipation, fearing a 
 future rival in her views ; but the lean, sallow face, half eyes 
 and half bone, just delineated, tranquillized her fears, and as 
 her fears subsided, her pity strengthened. And Rosamond, 
 though too young to enter into her mother's speculations, felt 
 her sympathy increased tenfold since she had learned that 
 nature had gone hand in hand with fortune, and been equally 
 niggard of her boons. She was unfortunately an only child, 
 and accustomed to be an object of exclusive attention in the 
 household, from her idolizing mother down to the lowest 
 menial. The guests too easily understood the way to Mrs. 
 ; Clifford's heart, and as Rosamond was pretty and sprightly, 
 they derived amusement from her little airs and graces. But 
 what flattered her vanity and elated her pride more than any- 
 ihing else, Cecil Dormer, so distinguished for wealth and 
 Accomplishments, so courted and admired, seemed to prefer her 
 company to the society of grown ladies, who had often declared 
 themselves jealous of her, and threatened, when she was a fow 
 years older ; to shut her up in some convent or cell. Thus imper-
 
 214 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 
 
 ceptibly acquiring an exaggerated idea of her own consequence, 
 and believing the love and admiration of all her inalienable 
 right, had Cecil represented the.orphan Eugenia as beautiful 
 and charming, it is more than probable she would have regarded 
 her as a dreaded encroacher on boundaries which nature had 
 prescribed and fortune guarded but for the ugly Eugenia all 
 her sympathies were enlisted, and she pleaded her mother so 
 varmly to bring her there directly, and take her away from that 
 roadful woman for good and all, that Cecil was delighted 
 with her sensibility and benevolence, and rejoiced in such a 
 juvenile coadjutor. 
 
 The next morning Mrs. Clifford accompanied Dormer to 
 Mrs. Grundy's, the woman of the leathern thong, of whom 
 ehe requested the history of Eugenia. Mrs. Grundy was sul 
 len, and but little disposed to be communicative. She declared 
 she knew nothing about her mother, only that she came there 
 as a boarder, with barely sufficient to pay the expenses of her 
 lodgings ; that she fell sick soon after, and died, leaving the 
 little girl on her hands, with nothing in the world but a grand 
 name for her support. She expressed no gratitude or plea 
 sure at the prospect of being released from the burthen under 
 which she groaned, but grumbled about her own hard lot, in 
 sinuating that idleness and ingratitude were always sure to be 
 rewarded. Eugenia's appearance was a living commentary on 
 the truth of Dormer's story. Her neck and shoulders were 
 streaked with swollen and livid lines, and her large, blood-shot 
 eyes spoke of repressed and unutterable anguish. When told 
 of the new home to which she was to be transferred, that she 
 was to be placed by Dormer under the protection of Mrs. Clif 
 ford, and that if she were a good girl, and merited such ad 
 vantages, she should be sent to school, and be fitted for a 
 respectable station in society she stood like one bewildered, 
 as if awaking from a dream. Then, after taking in the truth 
 of her position, she turned towards Dormer with wonderful 
 quickness and even grace of motion, and clasping her hands 
 together, attempted to speak, but burst into a passionate fit of 
 weeping. 
 
 " There !" cried Mrs. Grundy, " you see what an ungrateful 
 cretur she is. Do what you will for her, she does nothing but 
 cry. Well, all I hope, you'll not be sick of your bargain, and 
 be imposing her on me, before the week comes round again. 
 But I give you warning, when once she gets out of my doors, 
 he never darkens them a second time."
 
 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 215 
 
 Dormer cast upon her a withering look, but, disdaining to 
 reply to mere vulgarity and insolence, lie took the hand of 
 the sobbing child, and motioning to Mrs. Clifford, they left 
 the room, while Mrs. Grundy's voice, keeping up a deep 
 thorough bass, followed them till the door of the carriage was 
 closed and the rumbling of the wheels drowned accents which 
 ertainly " by distance were made more sweet." 
 
 Eugenia had not been an hour under the roof of Mrs. Clif 
 ord, before a complete transformation was effected, by the 
 supervising care of the proud and busy Kosamond. Her wait 
 ing-maid was put in active employment, in combing, brushing, 
 and perfuming Eugenia's neglected hair, her wardrobe was ran 
 sacked to supply her fitting apparel, her mother's medicine chest 
 was opened to furnish a healing liniment for 'her lacerated 
 neck, which was afterwards covered by a neat muslin apron. 
 
 " Now look at yourself in the glass," said Rosamond, leading 
 her to a large mirror, which reflected the figure at full length ; 
 " don't you look nice ?" 
 
 Eugenia cast one glance, then turned away with a deep 
 sigh. The contrast of her own tawny visage and meagre 
 limbs with the fair, bright, round, joyous face and glowing 
 lineaments of Rosamond, was too painful; but Rosamond 
 loved to linger where a comparison so favourable to herself 
 could be drawn, and her kind feelings to Eugenia rose in pro 
 portion to the self-complacency of which she was the cause. 
 
 It was a happy little circle which met that evening around 
 Mrs. Clifford's table. Mrs. Clifford was happy in the new 
 claim she had acquired over Cecil Dormer, and the probable 
 influence it might exert on her future plans. Rosamond was 
 bappy in enacting the character of Lady Bountiful, and being 
 praised by Cecil Dormer ; and Cecil himself was happy in the 
 consciousness of having performed a benevolent action. 
 Eugenia's spirits had been so crushed by sorrow and unkind- 
 ness, it seemed as if their elastic principle were destroyed. 
 She was gentle, but passive, and appeared oppressed by the 
 strangeness of her situation. Yet, as she expressed no vulgar 
 amazement at the elegancies that surrounded her, and had 
 evidently been taught the courtesies of society, Mrs. Clifford 
 became convinced that Dormer was right in bis belief that 
 she was of gentle blood, and the fear that Rosamond's manners 
 might be injured by contact with an unpolished plebeian 
 subsided. When Eugenia was somewhat accustomed to her 
 new situation, Mrs. Clifford questioned her minutely with
 
 216 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 
 
 regard to her parentage and the peculiar circumstances of her 
 mother's death. She gathered from her broken and timid 
 answers, that her father was wealthy, and that the first years 
 of her life were passed in affluence ; that as she grew older 
 her mother seemed unhappy and her father stern and gloomy, 
 why she could not tell; that one night, during her father's 
 absence, her mother had left her home, accompanied by herself 
 and one servant girl, and taken passage in a steamboat for 
 that city. They boarded in obscure lodgings, never went 
 abroad, or received visiters at home. Her mother grew paler 
 and sadder. At length the servant girl, who seemed greatly 
 attached to them, died. Then she described her mother as 
 being much distressed for money to pay her board, being 
 obliged to part with her watch and jewels, and when these 
 resources failed, thankful to obtain sewing from her landlady, 
 or, through her, from others. As they became more wretched 
 and helpless, they were compelled to go from house to house, 
 where her mother could find employment, till she was taken 
 Bick at Mrs. Grundy's, and never lifted her head again from 
 the pillow so grudgingly supplied. A diamond ring, the most 
 valued and carefully preserved of all her jewels, procured for 
 her the sad privilege of dying there. Over her consequent 
 sufferings Eugenia only wept, and on this subject Mrs. Clifford 
 had no curiosity. 
 
 It was about six years after these events, that Cecil Dormer 
 again was seated on the sofa in Mrs. Clifford's drawing-room, 
 but Rosamond no longer sat upon his knee. The rosy-cheeked 
 child, with short curling hair, short frock, and ruffled pan 
 talettes, had disappeared, and, in her stead, a maiden with 
 longer and more closely fitting robes, smoother and darker 
 hair, and cheeks of paler and more mutable roses. Cecil was 
 unchanged in face, but there was that in his air and manner 
 which spoke a higher degree of elegance and fashion, and a 
 deeper acquaintance with the world. He had passed several 
 years at Paris. Rosamond had been in the mean time at a 
 distant boarding-school, where Eugenia still remained. 
 
 " What are you going to do with Eugenia," asked Mrs. 
 Clifford, "when she returns? Will you not find a young 
 female protege*e rather an embarrassing appendage to a bache 
 lor's establishment ?" 
 
 " I have just been thinking of the same thing," replied 
 Cecil. " I believe I must still encroach on your kindness as 
 I was wont to do in former days, and request you to receive
 
 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 217 
 
 her under your protection, till some permanent arrangement 
 can be made for her home." 
 
 " That permanent arrangement must be your own marriage, 
 I should presume/' said Mrs. Clifford; "and indeed, Cecil, 
 I wonder that with your fortune and rare endowments, you 
 do not think seriously of assuming the responsibility of a 
 household." 
 
 " What ! the sensible Benedict a married man ?" cried 
 Cecil, with a theatrical start. " I shall lose all my consequence 
 in society I shall dwindle down into complete insignificance. 
 No I am not quite old enough to be married yet. I must act, 
 too, as protector and elder brother to Rosamond, on her entrance 
 into the world, an office which I promised to perform, when I 
 dandled her a child in my arms." 
 
 " I am sure Rosamond would not wish to interfere with 
 your personal arrangements," replied Mrs. Clifford, in a tone 
 of pique she was vexed and astonished at Cecil's coldness 
 and indifference. She could not imagine the stoicism which 
 could resist the influence of Rosamond's blooming beauty. She 
 had looked forward to their meeting, after an absence of years, 
 as the moment which should realize her long-cherished hopes, 
 and nothing could be more provoking than the nonchalance 
 of Cecil, unless it was the warm interest he manifested in 
 everything respecting Eugenia. 
 
 " No, indeed," said Rosamond, laughing, " I willingly re 
 linquish every claim on your protection, for Eugenia's sake. 
 Perhaps some one else will take pity on my forlorn condition, 
 and volunteer as my champion." Rosamond laughed, but 
 her voice was unsteady, and a bright blush suffused her 
 cheek. 
 
 Cecil noticed the vibration of her voice, and the sudden 
 crimson rushing even to her temples. Her emotion surprised 
 interested him was it possible, his marriage was an event 
 capable of awakening such visible agitation ? He looked at her 
 more intently. Sensibility had added wonderful charms to 
 her features. His vanity was flattered. He had been much 
 admired in the world, and the language of adulation was 
 familiar to his ear. But here was a young girl, in all the 
 freshness and purity of life's vernal season, incapable of arti 
 fice, unpractised in the blandishments of society, one too whom 
 he had known and loved as a beautiful child, and caressed 
 with the familiarity of a brother, who was paying him an in 
 voluntary homage, as unexpected as it was fascinating. It was
 
 218 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 
 
 surprising what a long train of images swept over his mind, 
 rapid and dazzling as lightning, called up by that deep maiden 
 blush. How delightful it would be to secure the possession 
 of a heart which had never yet known the pulsations of passion, 
 whose master chords were waiting the magic of his touch to 
 respond the deep music of feeling and love ! How happy 
 ^Eugenia would be in the constant companionship of her 
 .juvenile benefactress, her schoolmate and friend ! Mrs. Clif 
 ford, too, had always shown him the tenderness of a mother, 
 and was so interested in his future establishment. Strange, 
 what slight circumstances sometimes decide the most solemn, 
 the most important events of life ! The opportune blush of 
 Rosamond sealed her own destiny, and that of Cecil Dormer. 
 In less than one month the " sensible Benedict" was indeed a 
 married man, the husband of the young and happy Rosamond. 
 Seldom indeed was there a prouder and happier bride ambi 
 tion, pride, vanity, love all were gratified, and could she 
 have purchased the lease of immortality on earth, she would 
 have asked no other heaven. But, even in the fulness of 
 love's silver honeymoon, a dark cloud rose. The mother, who 
 had lived but for her, and who was basking in the blaze of her 
 daughter's prosperity, without one thought beyond it, was 
 stricken by a sudden and fatal disease, and Rosamond's bridal 
 paraphernalia was changed to the garments of mourning. It 
 was her first felt misfortune, for her father died in her infancy ; 
 and the blow was terrible. At any other time it would have 
 been so, but now this sudden and startling proof of mortality, 
 in the morn of her wedded felicity, was chill and awful. 
 Still there was a consolation in the sympathy of Cecil, that 
 disarmed sorrow of its keenest pang, and there were moments, 
 when she felt it even a joy to weep, since her tears were shed 
 on the bosom of a husband so passionately loved. The arrival 
 of Eugenia, a few weeks after this melancholy event, turned 
 her feelings into a new channel. Cecil had often asked of her 
 n description of Eugenia, whose letters, breathing so eloquently 
 of gratitude and afiection, and so indicative of enthusiasm and 
 refinement of character, had been a source of pleasure and 
 pride to him. " If her person has improved only half as much 
 is her mmd," he would say, "she cannot be ugly." Rosamond, 
 who had been her daily associate, was hardly sensible of the 
 gradual transformation that was going on in her external ap 
 pearance. The strength of her first impression remained, and 
 whenever she thought of Eugenia, she remembered her as she
 
 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 219 
 
 stood, pale and hollow-eyed, by her side, before the mirror, 
 which gave back the blooming image of her own juvenile 
 beauty. Still, though she felt her immeasurable superiority 
 to this poor, dependent girl, she was agitated at her coming, 
 and regretted the commanding claims she had on her husband's 
 kindness and protection. 
 
 " Can this indeed be Eugenia ?" exclaimed Cecil, in a tone 
 of delighted surprise, when, unbonneted and unshawled, she 
 stood before him, tearful, smiling, and agitated. " Rosa 
 mond, are we not deceived ? Tell me, can this indeed be our 
 Eugenia ?" 
 
 " It is indeed that Eugenia whom your bounty has cherished, 
 the child whom you" Eugenia paused in unconquerable emo 
 tion, and clasped her hands together with characteristic fervour 
 and grace. Cecil was deeply affected. He recollected the 
 little girl whose emaciated features told a tale of such un 
 utterable woe, whose shoulders were furrowed with bleeding 
 streaks, whose cries of agony had pierced the silence of his 
 evening walk. He contrasted the image drawn on his remem 
 brance, with the figure of exquisite symmetry, the face moulded 
 into the softness of feminine loveliness, the eyes of such rare 
 beauty and lustre, that they actually illuminated her whole 
 countenance. His heart swelled with the consciousness of 
 rewarded benevolence, it softened into tenderness towards every 
 human being, and overflowed with a love for Rosamond, such 
 as he had never felt before. So true it is that the exercise of 
 every kind and generous affection increases the soul's capacities 
 for loving, instead of draining and impoverishing them. " You 
 must henceforth be sisters," said he, taking a hand of each, 
 and seating himself between them. " I need not tell you to 
 love each other as such. I am sure that injunction is unneces 
 sary. But there is one task I must impose upon you, Rosa- 
 mond. You must teach Eugenia to look upon me as a brother, 
 a friend, not as a benefactor, for I feel repaid a thousand times 
 over, for all I have done for her, in the happiness of this 
 moment. Let the idea of obligation be banished for ever, and 
 we can be the happiest trio in the universe, bound together by 
 a threefold and indissoluble cord." 
 
 " My mother !" ejaculated Rosamond, and drawing away 
 ner hand from her husband, she covered her face and wept. 
 He reproached himself for his transient oblivion of her sorrow, 
 and in endeavouring to soothe it, Eugenia was for a while 
 forgotten. But he little dreamed of the fountain of Rosamond's
 
 220 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 
 
 tears. It would have been difficult for herself to have ana 
 lyzed the strange feelings struggling within her. The bosom 
 serpent,. of -whose existence she had been previously unconscious, 
 then wound its first cold coil in her heart, and instead of 
 shuddering at its entrance, and closing its portals on the deadly 
 guest, she allowed it to wind itself in its deepest foldings, 
 where its hissings and writhings were no less terrible, because 
 unheard and unseen. Rosamond from earliest childhood had 
 been the object of exclusive devotion from those she loved. 
 She had never known a sharer in her mother's love, for un 
 happily she was an only child. The undivided fondness of her 
 husband had hitherto been all that her exacting heart required. 
 Now, she must admit an acknowledged sharer of his thoughts 
 and affections, not as an occasional visiter, but as an constant 
 inmate, an inseparable companion. The hallowed privacy of 
 the domestic altar was destroyed, for the foot of the stranger 
 had desecrated it. She could no longer appropriate to herself 
 every look and smile of him, whose glances and smiles she be 
 lieved her own inalienable right. If she walked abroad, 
 another beside herself, must henceforth lean upon his arm. 
 If she remained at home, another must also be seated at his 
 side. And this invasion of her most precious immunities, was 
 not to be endured for a short season, for weeks or months, 
 but years, perhaps for life. These new and evil anticipations 
 swept darkly across the troubled surface of Rosamond's mind, 
 as she gazed on the varying countenance of Eugenia, and 
 wondered she had never thought her handsome before. The 
 gratitude and sensibility that beamed from her eyes whenever 
 they turned on her benefactor, seemed to her diseased imagina 
 tion the harbingers of a warmer emotion, and the constitu 
 tional ardour and frankness of her expressions were indicative 
 of the most dangerous of characters. It was well for Rosamond 
 that the recent death of her mother was a legitimate excuse 
 for her pensiveness and gloom, as the incipient stage of the 
 malady that was beginning to steal into her soul must other 
 wise have been perceived. Cecil, frank, confident, and un 
 suspecting, never dreamed that every attention bestowed on 
 Eugenia was considered as a robbery to herself. Eugenia, 
 warni-hearted, impulsive, and grateful, as little imagined that 
 the overflowings of her gratitude were construed into feelings 
 she would have blushed to have cherished. Cecil was passion 
 ately fond of music. Since her mother's death, Rosamond 
 could not be prevailed upon to touch the keys of the instru-
 
 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 221 
 
 rnent, and he was too kind to urge upon her a task repugnant 
 to her feelings. But when Eugenia discovered that she pos 
 sessed an accomplishment capable of imparting pleasure to him 
 who had given her the means of acquiring it, she was never 
 weary of exercising it. She sang too with rare sweetness and 
 power, and never refused to sing the songs that Cecil loved 
 to hear. Rosamond could not sing. She had never mourned 
 over this deficiency before, but now she could not bear to think 
 that another should impart a pleasure to her husband, she had 
 not the means of bestowing. She forgot that she had selfishly 
 denied to gratify his taste, in the way she had the power of 
 doing, because it would have interrupted the indulgence of her 
 filial grief. Another thing deeply wounded Rosamond's feel 
 ings : always accustomed to being waited upon by others, to 
 have all her wishes anticipated, she never thought of showing 
 her love by those active manifestations which most men love 
 to receive. She would have laid down her life for her hus 
 band, if the sacrifice were required, but she never thought of 
 offering him a glass of water with her own hand, because it 
 was the office of the servants to supply his recurring wants. 
 Never till she saw these attentions bestowed by another who 
 was not a menial, did she imagine that affection could give an 
 added relish, even to a cup of cold water, when offered to the 
 thirsty lip. One warm, sultry day, Cecil entered after a long 
 walk, and throwing himself on a sofa exclaimed, " Give me 
 some drink, Titania for I faint even as a sick girl." Rosa 
 mond smiled at his theatrical assumption of Caesar's dignity, 
 and reaching out her hand, rang the bell. Eugenia flew out 
 of the room, and returned long before a servant could answer 
 the summons, with a glass of water, and bending one knee to 
 the ground, with sportive grace she offered it to his accept- 
 .ance. 
 
 " Eugenia !" cried Rosamond, colouring very high, u we 
 have no lack of servants. I am sure there is no necessity of 
 your assuming such a trouble." 
 
 " Oh ! but it is such a pleasure !" exclaimed Eugenia, 
 springing up, and placing the empty glass on the sideboard. 
 " It is all I can do. You would not deprive me of the privi 
 lege if you knew how dearly I prize it." 
 
 Had Cecil observed the heightened colour of Rosamond, he 
 
 might have conjectured that all was not right in her bosom, 
 
 but she sat in the shadow of a curtain, and her emotion was 
 
 anperceived. A few evenings afterwards, they were walking 
 
 115
 
 222 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 
 
 together, when they met a woman bustling through the streets, 
 with her arm a-kimbo, and an air of boldness and defiance, 
 that spoke the determined Amazon. Eugenia clung closely 
 to Cecil's arm as she approached, and turned deadly pale; 
 she recognised in those stony eyes and iron features the dreaded 
 Mrs. Grundy, the tyrant of her desolate childhood, and she 
 felt as if the thong were again descending on her quivering 
 flesh, and the iron again entering into her soul. Such a rush 
 of painful recollections came over her, she was obliged to leau 
 against a railing for support, while Cecil, who saw what was 
 the cause of her agitation, gave a stern glance at the woman, 
 who had stopped, and was gazing in her face with an undaunted 
 stare. 
 
 " Heyday !" cried she, " who's this ? 'Tisn't Griny, sure 
 enough ? I never should have thought of such a thing, if it 
 hadn't been for the gentleman. Well ! can't you speak to a 
 body, now you have got to be such a fine lady ? This is all the 
 gratitude one gets in the world." 
 
 " Gratitude !" repeated Cecil, " how dare you talk of 
 gratitude to her, before me ? Pass on and leave her, and be 
 thankful that your sex shields you a second time from my 
 indignation." 
 
 " Well you needn't bristle up so, sir," cried she, with a sneer. 
 " I'm not going to kill her. I suppose you've got married to 
 her by this time. But you'd better look sharp, lest she gets 
 into a rambling way, as her mother did before her." With a 
 malignant laugh the virago passed on, delighted to find that 
 she had drawn quite a crowd to the spot where Eugenia still 
 leaned, incapable of motion, and Rosamond stood, pale as a 
 statue, brooding over the words of the woman, as if, like a Del 
 phian priestess, she had uttered the oracles of fate. 
 
 " Why should she imagine her to be his wife," whispered 
 the bosom serpent, subtle as its arch prototype in the bowers 
 of Eden, " if she had not witnessed in him evidences of tender 
 ness, such as a husband only should bestow ? That random 
 sentence spoke volumes, and justifies thy fearful suspicions. 
 Alas for thee, Rosamond ! The young blossoms of thy happi 
 ness are blighted in the sweet springtime of their bloom. There 
 is no more greenness or fragrance for thee better that thou 
 hadst died, and been laid by thy mother's side, thun live to 
 experience the bitter pangs of deceived confidence and unre 
 quited love." 
 
 Cecil, unconscious of the secret enemy that was operating
 
 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 223 
 
 eo powev/ully against him in the breast of Rosamond, wondeied 
 at her coldness to Eugenia; a coldness which became every 
 day more apparent, and was even assuming the character of 
 dislike. It bCtmed so natural in one so young and affectionate 
 as Rosamond, io wind her affections round a being of corre 
 sponding youth and sensibility, so foreign to her gentle nature 
 to treat one entiioly dependent on her kindness, with such 
 reserve and distrust ie wondered, regretted, and at length 
 remonstrated. Eugena had just anticipated a servant's move 
 ments in bringing him d book from the library, which he 
 expressed a desire to see, And he had taken it from her hand 
 with a smile of acknowledgment, when the instantaneous 
 change in the countenance ol Rosamond arrested his attention. 
 It was so chilling, so inexplictille, he dropped the book to the 
 ground in his confusion, which Eugenia, with her usual grace 
 ful readiness, again lifted and laid upon his knee. In raising 
 her face from her bending positiou, she encountered the glance 
 of Rosamond, which seemed to ha^e upon her the momentary 
 effect of fascination. She stood as if rooted to the spot, 
 gazing steadfastly on her, then with a cheek as hueless aa 
 ashes, turned and precipitately left tke apartment. Cecil and 
 Rosamond looked at each other without speaking. Never had 
 they exchanged such a look before. " Good heavens I" he 
 exclaimed, rising and walking two o* three times across the 
 apartment, with a resounding tread. " Good heavens ! what 
 a transformation ! I must know the cause of it. Tell ine, 
 Rosamond, and tell me truly and undeservedly, what means 
 your mysterious and unkind behaviour to one who never can 
 have offended you ? What has Eugenia done to .forfeit your 
 affection as a friend, your consideration as a guest, your respect 
 to the claims of your husband's adopted sister ?" 
 
 " It were far better to subject your own heart and conscience 
 to this stern inquisition, than mine, Cecil/' replied Rosamond 
 bitterly. " Had you informed me sooner of the length and 
 breadth of my duties, I might have fulfilled them better 
 I did not know, when Eugenia was received into our house 
 hold, how overwhelming were her claims. I did not know 
 that I was expected to exalt her happiness on the ruins of my 
 own." 
 
 " Rosamond ! Rosamond !" interrupted Cecil, vehemently 
 " Beware what you say beware lest you strike a death 
 blow to our wedded love. I can bear anything in the world 
 but suspicion. Every feeling of my heart has been laid
 
 224 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 
 
 before you. There is not a thought that is not as open to your 
 scrutiny as the heavens in the blaze of noonday. How unworthy 
 of yourself, how disgraceful to me, how wounding to Eugenia, 
 this unjustifiable conduct !" 
 
 Every chord of Rosamond's heart quivered with agony at 
 this burst of indignant feeling from lips which had never 
 before addressed her but in mild and persuasive tones. Had 
 he wealth of worlds been laid at her feet, she would have 
 given it to recall the last words she had uttered. Still, in the 
 midst of her remorse and horror, she felt the overmastering 
 influence of her imagined wrongs, and that influence triumphed 
 over the suggestions of reason and the admonitions of pru 
 dence. 
 
 "It is ungenerous it is unmanly," she cried, "to force 
 me into the confession of sentiments which you blame me for 
 declaring I had said nothing, done nothing yet you arraign 
 me before the bar of inexorable justice, as the champion of the 
 injured Eugenia. If the sincerity of my countenance offends 
 you, it is my misfortune, not my fault. I cannot smile on the 
 boldness I condemn, or the arts I despise." 
 
 " Boldness ! arts !" repeated Cecil. " If there was ever an 
 unaffected, impulsive child of nature, it is she whom you so 
 deeply wrong; but you wrong yourself far more. You let 
 yourself down from the high station where I had enthroned 
 you, and paid you a homage scarcely inferior to an angel of 
 light. You make me an alien from your bosom, and nourish 
 there a serpent which will wind you deeper and deeper in its 
 envenomed folds, till your heart-strings are crushed beneath its 
 coils." 
 
 " I am indeed most wretched," exclaimed Rosamond ; " and 
 if I have made myself so, I deserve pity rather than upbraid 
 ing. Cecil, you never could have loved me, or you would not 
 so lightly cast me from you." 
 
 Cecil, who had snatched up his hat, and laid his hand on 
 the latch of the door, turned at the altered tone of her voice. 
 Tears, which she vainly endeavoured to hide, gushed from her 
 eyes, and stole down her colourless cheeks. 
 
 " Rosamond," said he, in a softened tone, approaching her 
 as he spoke, " if you believe what you last uttered, turn away 
 from me, and let us henceforth be strangers to each other; 
 but if your heart belies their meaning, if you can restore me 
 the confidence you have withdrawn, and which is my just due, 
 if you are willing to rely unwaveringly on my integrity, my
 
 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 225 
 
 honour, and my love, come to my arms once more, and they 
 shall shelter you through life with unabated tenderness and 
 undivided devotion." 
 
 Poor, foolish Rosamond ! she had wrought herself up to a 
 state bordering on despair, and the revulsion of her feelings 
 was so great that she almost fainted in the arms that opened 
 to enfold her. Her folly, her madness, her injustice and 
 alfishness stared her so fearfully in the face, she was appalled 
 nd self-condemned. Like the base Judean, she had been 
 about to throw away from her " a gem richer than all its tribe," 
 a gem of whose priceless worth she had never till this moment 
 been fully conscious. She made the most solemn resolutions 
 for the future, invoking upon herself the most awful penalties 
 if she ever again yielded to a passion so degrading. But pas 
 sion once admitted is not so easily dispossessed of its hold. 
 Every self-relying effort is but a flaxen withe bound round the 
 slumbering giant, broken in the first grasp of temptation. 
 Jealousy is that demon, whose name is Legion, which flies 
 from the rebuking voice of Omnipotence alone. Rosamond 
 did not say, " If God give me strength, I will triumph over 
 my indwelling enemy." She said, " The tempter shall seek 
 me in vain I am strong, and I defy its power." Rosamond 
 was once more happy, but she had planted a thorn in the 
 bosom of another, sharp, deep, and rankling. No after kind 
 ness could obliterate the remembrance of that involuntary, 
 piercing glance. It was but the sheathing of a weapon. 
 Eugenia felt that the cold steel was still lurking in the scab 
 bard, ready to flash forth at the bidding of passion. A few 
 evenings after the scene just described, when she had been 
 playing and singing some of Cecil's favourite songs, at the 
 magnanimous request of Rosamond, she turned suddenly to 
 Cecil and said 
 
 " I think I overheard a friend of yours say to you the other 
 "lay, that I might make my fortune on the stage. Now," 
 added she, blushing, " I do not wish to go upon the stage, but it 
 iny musical talents could give me distinction there, they migh 
 be made useful in the domestic circle. I have been told of a 
 lady who wishes an instructress for her daughters. Suffer me 
 to offer myself for the situation. If through your bounty I am 
 possessed of accomplishments which may be subservient to 
 myself or others, is it not my duty to exercise them ? I should 
 have done this sooner I have been too long an idler." 
 
 " Nc, no, Eugenia," said Rosamond, warmly, every good
 
 226 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 
 
 and generous feeling of her heart in full and energetic opera 
 tion " we can never sanction such a proposition. Is not this 
 your home as well as mine ? Are you not our sister ? Re 
 member the threefold cord that never was to be broken." She 
 pressed Eugenia's hand in both her own, and continued, in a 
 trembling voice " If I have ever seemed cold or unkind, for 
 give me, Eugenia, for I believe I am a strange, fitful being. You 
 found me a sad mourner over the grave of my mother, with 
 weakened nerves and morbid sensibilities. My mind is getting 
 a healthier tone. Remain with us we shall be happier by 
 and by." 
 
 Completely overcome by this unexpected and candid avowal, 
 Eugenia threw her arms round Rosamond's neck, and exclaimed 
 " I shall be the happiest being in the world, if you indeed 
 love me. I have no one else in the world to love but you and 
 my benefactor." 
 
 Cecil felt as if he could have prostrated himself at Rosa 
 mond's feet, and thanked her for her noble and generous con 
 duct. He had waited in trembling eagerness for her reply. 
 It was more than he expected. It was all he wished or re 
 quired. 
 
 " Be but true to yourself, my beloved Rosamond," said he, 
 when he was alone with her, " and you can never be unjust 
 to me. Continue in the path you have now marked out, and 
 you shall be repaid not only with my warmest love, but with 
 my respect, my admiration, and my gratitude." 
 
 Thus encouraged, Rosamond felt new life flowing in her 
 veins. Though she could not sing according to scientific 
 vules, her buoyant spirit burst forth in warbling notes, as she 
 moved about her household duties, with light, bounding steps, 
 rejoicing in the consciousness of recovered reason. Week 
 after week glided away, without any circumstance arising to 
 remind them of the past. Indeed all seemed to have forgotten 
 that anything had ever disturbed their domestic peace. 
 
 " Oh ! what beautiful flowers !" exclaimed Rosamond, as, 
 riding with her husband, on a lovely autumnal evening, they 
 passed a public garden, ornamented with the last flowers of 
 the season. " I wish I had some of them. There are the 
 emblems of love, constancy, and devotion. If I had them now. 
 I would bind them on my heart, in remembrance of this en 
 chanting ride." 
 
 " You shall have them speedily, dear Rosamond," replied he,
 
 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 227 
 
 " even if, like the gallant knight who named the sweet flower 
 Forget-me-not, I sacrifice my life to purchase them." 
 
 Rosamond little thought those flowers, sought with such 
 childish earnestness, and promised with such sportive gallantry, 
 were destined to be so fatal to her newly acquired serenity. 
 As soon as they reached home, Cecil returned to seek the 
 flowers which Rosamond desired, and selecting the most beau 
 tiful the garden afforded, brought them with as much enthusiasm 
 of feeling as if it were the bridegroom's first gift. When he 
 entered the room Eugenia was alone, Rosamond being still en 
 gaged in changing her riding apparel. 
 
 " Oh ! what an exquisitely beautiful nosegay," cried Euge 
 nia, involuntarily stretching out her hand u how rich, how 
 fragrant !" 
 
 "Yes! I knew you would admire them," he replied "I 
 
 brought them expressly for " Rosamond, he was just 
 
 going to add, when he was suddenly called out, leaving the 
 flowers in the hand of Eugenia, and the unfinished sentence 
 in her ear. Not knowing anything of their appropriation, 
 Eugenia believed the bouquet a gift to herself, and she 
 stood turning them to the light in every direction, gazing on 
 their rainbow hues with sparkling eyes, when Rosamond en 
 tered the apartment, with a cheek glowing like the roses before 
 her. 
 
 "See what beautiful flowers your husband has just given 
 me," cried Eugenia "be must have been endowed with second 
 sight, for I was just yearning after such a bouquet." 
 
 Had Rosamond beheld the leaves of the B >hon-Upas, instead 
 of the blossoms she loved, she could not have experienced a 
 more sickening sensation. She had bagged for those flowers 
 she had pointed out their emblematic beauties had pro 
 mised to bind them to her heart, and yet they were wantonly 
 bestowed on another, as if in defiance of her former wretched 
 ness. She grew dizzy from the rapidity of the thoughts that 
 whirled through her brain, and leaning against the mantel 
 piece, pressed her hand upon her head. 
 
 " You are ill, dear Rosamond," cried Eugenia, springing 
 towards her " lean on me you are pale and faint." 
 
 Rosamond recoiled from her touch, as if a viper were 
 crawling over her. She had lost the power of self-control, and 
 the passion that was threatening to suffocate her, found vent 
 in language. 
 
 " Leave me," cried she, "if you would not drive me mad.
 
 228 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 
 
 You have destroyed the peace of ray whole life. You have 
 stolen like a serpent into my domestic bower, aud robbed me 
 of the affections of a once doting husband. Take them openly, 
 if you will, and triumph in the possession of your ill-gotten 
 treasure." 
 
 " Rosamond !" uttered a deep, low voice behind her. She 
 started, turned, and beheld her husband standing on the 
 threshold of the door, pale, dark and stern as the judge who 
 pronounces the doom of the transgressor. Eugenia, who had 
 dropped the flowers at the commencement of Rosamond's 
 indignant accusation, with a wild, bewildered countenance, 
 which kindled as she proceeded, now met her scorching 
 glance, with eyes that literally flashed fire. Her temple veins 
 swelled, her lip quivered, every feature was eloquent with 
 scorn. 
 
 "Rosamond," said she, "you have banished me for ever. 
 You have cruelly, wantonly, causelessly insulted me." She 
 walked rapidly to the door, where Cecil yet stood, and glided 
 by him before he could intercept her passage. Then suddenly 
 returning, she snatched his hand, and pressed it to her fore 
 head and to her lips. 
 
 " My benefactor, brother, friend !" cried she, " may Heaven 
 for ever bless thee, even as thou hast blessed me !" 
 
 " Stay, Eugenia, stay !" be exclaimed, endeavouring to detain 
 her but it was too late. He heard her footsteps on the stairs, 
 and the door of her chamber hastily close, and he knew he 
 could not follow her. 
 
 " Rash, infatuated girl !" cried he, turning to Rosamond, 
 " what have you done ? At a moment too when my whole 
 heart was overflowing with tenderness and love towards you. 
 Remember, if you banish Eugenia from the shelter of my roof, 
 I am bound by every tie of honour and humanity still to protect 
 and cherish her." 
 
 "I know it well," replied Rosamond; "I remember too 
 that it was to give a home to Eugenia you first consented to 
 bind yourself by marriage vows. That home may still be hers. 
 I am calm now, Cecil you see I can speak calmly. The cer 
 tainty of a misfortune gives the spirit and the power of en 
 durance. Those flowers are trifles in themselves, but they 
 contain a world of meaning." 
 
 " These worthless flowers !" exclaimed Cecil, trampling 
 them under his feet till their bright leaves lay a soiled and 
 indistinguishable mags" and have these raised the whirlwind
 
 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 229 
 
 of jealous passion ? These fading playthings, left for a mo 
 ment in another's keeping, accidentally left, to be immediately 
 reclaimed !" 
 
 " You gave them to her with her own lips she told me 
 rapture sparkling in her eyes." 
 
 " It was all a misunderstanding an innocent mistake. Oh, 
 Rosamond ! for a trifle like this you could forget all my faith 
 and affection, every feeling which should be sacred in your 
 eyes forget your woman's gentleness, and utter words which 
 seem branded in my heart and brain in burning and indelible 
 characters. I dare not go on. I shall say what I may bitterly 
 repent. I wish you no punishment greater than your own 
 reflections." 
 
 Rosamond listened to his retreating footsteps, she heard 
 the outer door heavily close, and the sound fell on her ear 
 like the first fall of the damp clods on the cofiin, the signal of 
 mortal separation. She remained pale as a statue, gazing on 
 the withering flowers, counting the quick beatings of her lonely 
 heart, believing herself doomed to a widowhood more cruel 
 than that the grave creates. Cecil's simple explanation, 
 stamped with the dignity of truth, had roused her from the 
 delirium of passion, and seeing her conduct in its true light, 
 she shuddered at the review. Her head ached to agony one 
 moment she shivered with cold, the next the blood in her veins 
 seemed changed to molten lead. " I feel very strangely," 
 thought she " perhaps I am going to die, and when I am 
 dead, he will pity and forgive me." She had barely strength 
 to seek her own chamber, where, throwing herself on the bed, 
 she lay till the shades of night darkened around her, conscious 
 of but one wish, that her bed might prove her grave, and 
 Cecil, melted by her early fate, might shed one tear of forgive 
 ness over the icy lips that never more could open to offend. 
 The bell rang for supper she heeded not the summons. A 
 servant came to tell her that Mr. Dormer was below. Her 
 heart bounded, but she remained immovable. Again the 
 ervant came. 
 
 " Shall I make tea for Mr. Dormer ?" she asked. " Miss 
 Eugenia is gone out." 
 
 Rosamond started up, and leaned on her elbow. " Gone !" 
 repeated she, wildly " when ? where ?" 
 
 " I don't know, ma'am," replied the girl ; " she put on her 
 bonnet and shawl an hour ago and went out through the back 
 gate."
 
 230 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 
 
 " Does Mr. Dormer know it ?" asked Rosamond faintly. 
 
 " I don't know, ma'am he has just come in," was the reply. 
 " I saw him reading a note he found on the table in the 
 hall, and he seemed mightily flustered." 
 
 There was an insolent curiosity in the countenance of tlie 
 
 girl, who had hitherto been respectful and submissive. She 
 
 laced the lamp near the bedside and left the mom ; and 
 
 Imost simultaneously, Cecil entered, with an open note in his 
 
 . and, which he threw upon the bed without speaking. She 
 
 seized it mechanically, and attempted to read it, but the letters 
 
 seemed to move and emit electric sparks, flashing on her 
 
 aching eyeballs. It was with difficulty that she deciphered 
 
 the following lines, written evidently with a trembling 
 
 hand : 
 
 " Farewell, kindest, noblest, and best of friends ! May the 
 happiness which I have unconsciously blighted, revive in my 
 absence. I go, sustained by the strength of a virtuous resolu, 
 tion, not the excitement of indignant passion. The influence 
 of your bounty remains, and will furnish me an adequate 
 support. Seek not, I pray you, to find the place of my abode. 
 The Heaven in which I trust will protect me. Farewell 
 deluded, but still beloved Rosamond ! Your injustice shall 
 be forgotten, your benefits remembered for ever." 
 
 Rosamond dropped the letter, cast one glance towards her 
 husband, who stood with folded arms, pale and immovable, at 
 the foot of the bed, then sinking back upon her pillow, a mist 
 same over her eyes, and all was darkness. 
 
 When she again recovered the consciousness of her exist 
 ence, she found herself in a darkened chamber, the curtains 
 of her bed closely drawn, saving a small aperture, through 
 which she could perceive a neat, matronly figure, moving with 
 soft, careful steps, and occasionally glancing anxiously towards 
 the bed. She attempted to raise herself on her elbow, but she 
 had not strength to lift her head from the pillow ; she could 
 scarcely carry her feeble hand to her forehead, to put back the 
 moist hair which fell heavily over her brow. 
 
 " How weak I am !" said she faintly. " How long have I 
 slept ?" 
 
 " Be composed," said the stranger, approaching her gently, 
 "and do not speak. You have been very ill. Everything 
 depends on your keeping perfectly quiet." 
 
 Rosamond began to tremble violently as she gazed up in 
 the stranger's face. Why was she committed to her charge ?
 
 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 
 
 Was she forsaken by him whom awakening memory brought 
 before her as an injured and perhaps avenging husband ? 
 
 " Where is he ?" cried she, in a voice so low, the woman 
 bent her ear to her lips, to hear. 
 
 " The doctor ?" replied she. " Oh, he will soon be here. 
 He said if you waked, no one must come near you, and you 
 must not be allowed to speak one word. It might cost you 
 your life." 
 
 Rosamond tried to gasp out her husband's name, but her 
 parched lips were incapable of further articulation. Her eyes 
 closed from exhaustion, and the nurse, supposing she slept, 
 drew the curtains closer, and moved on tiptoe to the window. 
 At length the door slowly opened, and the footstep of a man 
 entered the room. Rosamond knew it was not her husband's 
 step, and such a cold feeling fell on her heart, she thought it 
 the precursor of death. She heard a whispered conversation 
 which set every nerve throbbing with agony. Then the cur 
 tains were withdrawn, and she felt a stranger's hand counting 
 the pulsations of her chilled veins. " I am forsaken," thought 
 she, " even in my dying hour. Oh God ! it is just." Again 
 the chamber was still, and she must have fallen into a deep 
 slumber, for when she again opened her eyes, she saw a lamp 
 glimmering through the curtains, and the shadow of her nurse 
 reflected in them, seated at a table, reading. She was reading 
 aloud, though in a low voice, as if fearful of disturbing the 
 slumbers she was watching. Rosamond caught the sound, 
 " I the Lord thy God am a jealous God." She repeated it 
 to herself, and it gave her an awful sensation. The com 
 manding claims of her Maker upon her affections, for the first 
 time rose before her in all their height, depth, power, and 
 majesty. " A jealous God I" How tremendous, how appalling 
 the idea. If she, a poor worm of the dust, was so severe and 
 uncompromising in her demands upon a fellow being, what 
 terrible exactions might a neglected Deity make from the crea 
 ture he had formed for his glory ? She remembered the com 
 mand from which that fearful sentence was extracted. She 
 had broken it, trampled it under her feet. She had bowed 
 down in adoration to an earthly idol, and robbed her God, her 
 jealous God, of the homage due to his august name. The 
 light that poured in upon her conscience was like the blazing 
 of a torch through a dark mine. She bad felt before the 
 madness of her bosom passion, she now felt its sin and its 
 sacrilege. "I am forsaken," again repeated she to herself,
 
 232 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 
 
 " but I had first forsaken thee, my God ! Thou art draw 
 ing me home unto thee." Tears gathering thick and fast, 
 fell down her pale cheeks, till the pillow they pressed was wet 
 as with rain-drops. She wept long, and without one effort 
 to restrain the gushing forth of her melting heart, .when 
 exhausted nature once more sought relief in sleep. Her first 
 consciousness, on awakening, was of a soft hand laid gently on 
 her brow, a warm breath stealing over her cheek, and a trem 
 bling lip gently pressed upon her own. Had she awakened in 
 the abodes of the blest, in the midst of the hierarchy of heaven, 
 she could hardly have experienced a deeper rapture than that, 
 which flooded her breast. Slowly, as if fearing to banish by the 
 act the image drawn on her now glowing heart, she lifted her 
 eyes, and met the eyes of her husband looking down upon her, 
 no longer stern and upbraiding, but softened into woman's 
 tenderness. The next moment he was kneeling by the bed 
 side, his face buried in the covering, which shook from the 
 strong emotion it concealed. 
 
 When Rosamond learned that Cecil, instead of having' left 
 her to her bitter consequences of her rashness, in just and un 
 appeasable resentment, had never left her in her unconscious 
 ness, and since her restoration to reason had hovered near the 
 threshold of her chamber day and night, forbidden to enter, 
 lest his presence should produce an agitation fatal to a frame 
 apparently trembling on the brink of the grave, she again re 
 proached herself for believing he could have been capable of 
 such unrelenting cruelty. When she was assured too that 
 Eugenia was safe under the protection of an early friend, 
 whom she had most unexpectedly encountered, and only 
 waited a passport from the physician, to come to her bedside, 
 her soul swelled with gratitude that found no language but 
 prayer. 
 
 " I have sinned against Heaven and thee, my husband !'* 
 exclaimed Rosamond, from the depth of a penitent and chasL- 
 ened spirit " I am no more worthy to be called thy wife." 
 
 " We have both erred, my beloved Rosamond ; we have lived 
 too much for the world and ourselves, regardless of higher 
 and holier relations. Never, till I feared to lose thee for 
 ever, did I feel the drawings of that mighty chain which links 
 us inseparably to Him who created us. Let us both commence 
 life anew awakened to our responsibilities as Christians, and, 
 profiting by the sad experience of the past, let us lay the 
 foundations of our happiness too deep and broad for the storms
 
 THE BOSOM SERPENT. 233 
 
 of passion to overthrow. Let us build it on the Kock of 
 Ages." 
 
 And who was the friend whom Eugenia had so providen 
 tially discovered ? When she left the dwelling of Cecil Dormer, 
 to seek the lady who wished for an instructress for her 
 daughters, one of the first persons who crossed her path was 
 the terrific Mrs. Grrundy. This woman, whose hatred for her 
 seemed implacable as the injuries she had "oflicted were deep, 
 seeing her alone and in evident disorder of mind, began to 
 revile and threaten her. A stranger, observing the terror and 
 loathing with which a young and attractive-looking girl shrunk 
 from a coarse and masculine woman, paused and offered his 
 protection. The remarkable resemblance which Eugenia 
 bore to her ill-fated mother led to a discovery as unexpected 
 as it was interesting. The melancholy stranger was no other 
 than her own father, who believed his wife and child had 
 perished in their flight, having heard of the destruction of 
 the boat in which they fled. Thus mysteriously had Providence 
 transmuted into a blessing, what seemed the greatest misfor 
 tune of her life. 
 
 The history of Mr. St. Glair and his unfortunate wife, 
 which he subsequently related to Cecil and Rosamond, was 
 fraught with the most intense interest. Like Rosamond, he 
 hacT'eherished a bosom serpent, remorseless as death, " cruel as 
 the grave " but he had not, like her, found, before it was too 
 late, an antidote for its deadly venom.
 
 MY GRANDMOTHER'S BRACELET. 
 
 WE were all seated in a piazza, one beautiful summer's 
 night. The moonbeams quivered through the interlacing vines 
 that crept fantastically over the latticework that surrounded 
 it. My grandmother sat in an arm-chair in the centre of the 
 group, her arms quietly folded across her lap, her hair white 
 and silvery as the moonbeams thut lingered on its parted folds. 
 She was the handsomest old lady I ever saw, my revered 
 grandmother, and in the spring of her years had been a reign 
 ing belle. To me she was still beautiful, in the gentle quietude 
 of life's evening shades, the dignity of chastened passions, 
 waiting hopes, and sustaining religious faith. I was her favour 
 ite grandchild, and the place near her feet, the arm laid across 
 her lap, the uplifted eye fixed steadfastly on her face, constant 
 as the recurrence of the still night hour, told a story of love 
 and devotion on my part, which defied all competition. As I 
 sat this night, leaning on her lap, I held her hand in mine, 
 and the thought that, a few more years, that hand must be cold 
 in the grave, incapable of answering the glowing pressure of 
 mine, made me draw a deep inspiration, and I almost imagined 
 her complexion assumed an ashen hue, prophetical of death. 
 The weather was warm, and she wore a large loose wrapper, 
 with flowing sleeves, left unconfined at the wrist. As I moved 
 her hand, the folds of the sleeve fell back, and something pure 
 and bright glittered in the moonlight. She made a movement 
 to draw down the sleeve, but the eager curiosity of childhood 
 was not to be eluded. I caught her wrist, and baring it to 
 ihe gaze of all, exclaimed 
 
 " Only think grandmother has got on a bracelet a pear* 
 
 (234)
 
 MY GRANDMOTHER'S BRACELET. 235 
 
 bracelet ! Who would think of her indulging in such finery ? 
 Here are two sweet pearl lilies set together in a golden clasp, 
 with golden leaves below them. Why, grandmother, you must 
 be setting up for a bride !" 
 
 " It was a bridal gift," replied she, sliding the bracelet on 
 her shrunken arm ; " a bridal gift, made long ago. It was a 
 foolish thought, child. I was looking over a casket, where I 
 have deposited the choicest treasures of my youth, and I 
 clasped it on my wrist, to see how my arm had fallen from its 
 fair proportions. My mind became so lost in thinking of the 
 story of this gem, I forgot to restore it to the place where it 
 has so long lain, slumbering with the hoarded memories of 
 other days." 
 
 " A story I" we all eagerly exclaimed, " please tell it you 
 promised us one to-night." 
 
 " Ah ! children, it is no fairy tale, about bright genii, and 
 enchanted palaces, and ladies so beautiful that they bewitch 
 every one who comes within the magic reach of their charms. 
 It is a true tale, and has some sad passages in it." 
 
 " Grandmother," said I, in a dignified manner, "I hope 
 you don't think me so silly as not to like anything because it 
 is true. I have got over the Arabian Nights long ago, and I 
 would rather hear something to make me feel sorry than glad 
 I always do feel sad when the moon shines on me, but I 
 can't tell the reason why." 
 
 " Hush ! Mina, and let grandmother tell her story you 
 always talk so much," said little Mitty, who sat on the other 
 side of her venerable relative. 
 
 The old lady patted with one hand the golden head of the 
 chider, but the arm clasped by the magic bracelet was still im 
 prisoned by my fingers, and as she proceeded in its history, 
 my grasp tightened and tightened from the intenseness of my 
 interest, till she was compelled to beg me to release her. 
 
 " Yes," said she, in a musing tone, " there is a story de 
 pending on this, which I remember as vividly as if the events 
 were of yesterday. I may forget what happened an hour ago, 
 but the records of my youth are written in lines that grow 
 deeper as time flows over them." 
 
 She looked up steadily for a few moments, appearing to my 
 imagination like an inspired sibyl, then began as follows : 
 
 " When I was a young girl, I had no brothers or sisters, as 
 you have, but was an only, I might say a lonely child, for my 
 father was dead and my mother an invalid. When I returned
 
 236 MY GRANDMOTHER'S BRACELET. 
 
 from school, I obtained permission to invite a sweet young 
 cousin of mine, whose name was Eglantine, to be my com 
 panion. We were affluent, she was poor; and when my mother 
 proposed to make our house her home, she accepted the offer 
 with gratitude and joy. She was an interesting creature, of 
 a peculiar temperament and exquisite sensibility. She was 
 subject to fits of wonderful buoyancy, and equal despondency; 
 sometimes she would warble all day, gay and untiring as the 
 bird perched on yonder spray, then a soft melancholy would 
 sit brooding on her brow, as if she feared some impending 
 misfortune. This was probably owing to the peculiar circum 
 stances of her infancy, for she was born during her mother's 
 widowhood, and nursed by a mother's tears. A poetical friend 
 had given her the name of Eglantine, and well did her beauty, 
 sweetness, delicacy, and fragility justify the name. In our 
 girlhood we grew together, like the friends of the Midsum 
 mer's Night, almost inseparable in body, and never divided in 
 heart, by those little jealousies which sometimes interpose their 
 barriers to young maidens' friendships. But I see little Mitty 
 has fallen asleep already. My story is too grave for the light 
 ears of childhood. I shall be obliged, too, to say something 
 about love, and even you, Mina, are entirely too young to 
 know anything of its influence." 
 
 " Oh ! but I do know something, grandmother," exclaimed 
 I, impulsively ; " that is, I have read I have thought" I 
 stammered and stopped, unable to express my own vague 
 ideas. 
 
 " You may not be too young to sympathize, but certainly 
 too young to feel," said my grandmother, mildly; "but, 
 ardent and sympathizing as your nature is, it will be hard for 
 you to carry back your mind to the time when all the warm 
 passions and hopes of youth were glowing in my bosom. It 
 is enough to say that there was one who came and rivalled 
 Eglantine in my affections, one to whom I was betrothed, and 
 to whom I was to be shortly wedded. It was on such an eve 
 as this, so clear and bright, that he gave me the pledge of our 
 betrothal, this bracelet of pearl, and clasped it on an arm which 
 then filled the golden circlet. Perhaps you wonder that the 
 first token of love should not have been a ring; but Ronald 
 did not like to follow the track of other men, and even in 
 trifles marked out for himself a peculiar and independent 
 course. That night, when I retired to my chamber, I found 
 Eglantine seated at the open window, apparently absorbed in
 
 MY GRANDMOTHER'S BRACELET. 237 
 
 the contemplation of the starry heavens. She sat in a loose 
 undress, her hair of paly gold hung unbound over her shoul 
 ders, and her head, being slightly thrown back, allowed the 
 moonlight to flood her whole face with its unearthly radiance. 
 
 " ' You look very beautiful and romantic, dear Eglantine,' said 
 I, softly approaching her, and throwing my arms round her 
 neck ; ' but come down from the stars a little while, my sweet 
 cousin, and share in my earthborn emotions.' My heart was 
 too full of happiness, my spirits too excited, not to overflow 
 in unreserved confidence in her bosom. She wept as I poured 
 into her ears all my hopes, my recent vows, and future schemes 
 of felicity. It was her usual manner of expressing deep sym 
 pathy, and I loved her the better for her tears. ' All I won 
 der at and blame in Ronald is/ and I spoke this in true sin 
 cerity, ' that he does not love you better than me. Never, 
 till this evening, was I sure of his preference.' 
 
 " Eglantine withdrew herself from my arms, and turned her 
 face to the shadow of the wall. There was something inex 
 plicable in her manner that chilled, and even alarmed me. A 
 thought, too painful to be admitted, darted for a moment to 
 my mind. Could she be jealous of Ronald's love for me ? 
 Was my happiness to be built on the ruin of hers? No! it 
 could not be. She probably feared my affections might be 
 come alienated from her in consequence of my new attach 
 ment. Such a fear was natural, and I hastened to remove it 
 by the warmest professions, mingled with covert reproaches for 
 her doubts and misgivings. 
 
 " I had a young waiting-maid, who, next to Eglantine, 
 was the especial object of my regard. She was the daughter 
 of a gentlewoman, who, from a series of misfortunes, was re 
 duced to penury, to which was added the helplessness of dis 
 ease. To relieve her mother from the pressure of immediate 
 want, the young Alice offered herself as a candidate for a sta f e 
 of servitude, and I eagerly availed myself of the opportunity 
 of securing the personal attendance of one so refined in man 
 ner and so winning in appearance. Alice now came forward, 
 as was her custom, to assist me in preparing for my nightly 
 rest. She was about to unclasp the bracelet from uiy wrist, 
 but I drew back my arm. 'No, no, Alice,' said I, 'this is 
 ar amulet. Sweet dreams will come to my pillow, beckoned 
 by its fairy power. I cannot sleep without it. See how beau 
 tifully the lilies gleam in the moonlight that gilds my couch.' 
 Alice seemed as if she could never weary in admiring the 
 116
 
 238 MY GRANDMOTHER'S BRACELET. 
 
 beauty of the ornament. She turned my arm to shift the rays, 
 and catch the delicate colouring of the pearls, and looped up 
 the sleeve of my night-dress in a fantastic manner, to display 
 it fully to her gaze. Once or twice I thought I saw the eyes 
 of Eglantine fastened upon it with a sad, wistful expression, 
 and the same exquisitely painful thought again darted to my 
 mind. I struggled against its admission, as degrading both to 
 myself and her, and at last fell asleep, with my arm thrown 
 on the outside of the bed, and the bracelet shining out in tha 
 pure night-beams. Alice slept in a little bed by the side of 
 mine, for I could not bear that a creature so young and deli 
 cate, and so gentle bred, should share the apartments devoted 
 to the servants, and be exposed to their rude companionship. 
 She generally awoke me with her light touch or gentle voice, 
 but when I awoke the next morning, I saw Alice still sleep 
 ing, with a flushed cheek and an attitude that betokened ex 
 citement and unrest. Eglantine sat at her window, reading, 
 dressed with her usual care by her own graceful fingers. In 
 the school of early poverty she had learned the glorious lesson 
 of independence, a lesson which, in my more luxurious life, 
 I had never acquired. ' Alice must be ill/ said I, rising, and 
 approaching her bedside ; ' she looks feverish, and her brows 
 are knit, as if her dreams were fearful.' I bent down over 
 her, and laid my hand upon her shoulder, to rouse her from 
 her uneasy slumbers, when I started for the precious bracelet 
 was gone. Eglantine laid down her book at my sudden ex 
 clamation, and Alice, wakening, looked round her with a be 
 wildered expression. ' My bracelet !' repeated I ( it is gone.' 
 I flew to my couch ; it was not there. I looked upon the carpet, 
 in the vain hope that the clasp had unloosed, and that it had 
 fallen during the night. ' Alice,' cried I, ' rise this moment, 
 and help me to find my bracelet. You must know where it is. 
 It never could have vanished without aid.' I fixed my eyes 
 steadfastly on her face, which turned as hueless as marble. 
 She trembled in every limb, and sunk down again on the side i 
 of the bed. ^ 
 
 " 'You do not think /have taken it, Miss Laura?" said 
 she, gasping for breath. f 
 
 " ' I do not know what to think/ I answered, in a raised 
 tone ; ' but it is very mysterious, and your whole appearance 
 and manner is very strange this morning, Alice. You must 
 have been up in the night, or you would not have slept so un 
 usually late
 
 MY GRANDMOTHER'S BRACELET. 239 
 
 " f Do not be hasty, Laura/ said Eglantine, in a sweet, 
 soothing voice ; ' it may yet be found. Perhaps it is clinging 
 to your dress, concealed in its folds. Let me assist you in 
 searching/ She unfolded the sheets, turned up the edges of 
 the carpet, examined every corner where it might have been 
 tossed, but all in vain. In the mean while Alice remained like 
 one stupefied, following our movements with a pale, terrified 
 countenance, without offering to participate in the search. 
 
 " ' There is no use in looking longer, Eglantine,' said I, 
 bitterly. ' I suspect Alice might assist us effectually to dis 
 cover it, if she would. Nay, I will not say suspect I believe 
 I dare to say, I know for conscious guilt is written in 
 glaring characters on her countenance/ 
 
 " 'Do not make any rash accusations, Laura/ cried Eglan 
 tine ; ' I acknowledge appearances are much against her, but 
 I cannot think Alice capable of such ingratitude, duplicity, 
 and meanness/ 
 
 " Alice here burst into a passionate fit of weeping, and de 
 clared, with wringing hands and choking sobs, that she would 
 sooner die than commit so base and wicked a deed. 
 
 " ' Oh ! Miss Eglantine,' she exclaimed, * didn't you take 
 it in sport ? It seems as if I saw you in a dream going up to 
 Miss Laura, while she was asleep, and take it from her wrist, 
 softly, and then vanish away. Oh ! Miss Eglantine, the more 
 I think of it the more I am sure I saw you, all in sport, I 
 know, but please return it, or it will be death to me/ 
 
 " The blood seemed to boil up in the cheeks of Eglantine, 
 so sudden and intense was the glow that mantled them. 
 
 " ' I thought you innocent, Alice/ said she, ' but I see, 
 with pain, that you are an unprincipled girl. How dare you 
 attempt to impose on me the burthen of your crime ? How 
 dare you think of sheltering yourself under the shadow of uiy 
 name ?' 
 
 " The vague suspicions which the assertion of Alice had 
 excited, vanished before the outraged looks and language of 
 the usually gentle Eglantine. Alice must have been the trans 
 gressor, and in proportion to the affection and confidence I had 
 reposed in her, and the transcendent value of the gift, was my 
 indignation at the offence, and the strength of my resolution 
 to banish her from me. 
 
 " ' Restore it/ said I, { and leave me. Do it quietly and 
 immediately, and I will inflict no other punishment than your 
 own reflections, for having abused so much love and trust/
 
 340 MY GRANDMOTHER'S BRACELET. 
 
 " ' Search me, if you please, Miss Laura, and all that be 
 longs to me/ replied Alice, in a firmer tone, ' but I cannot 
 give back what I have never taken. I would not, for fifty 
 thousand worlds, take what was not mine, and least of all from 
 you, who have been so kind and good. I am willing to go, 
 for I would rather beg my bread from door to door, than live 
 upon the bounty of one who thinks me capable of such guilt :' 
 with a composure that strangely contrasted with her late vio 
 lent agitation, she arranged her dress, and was walking towards 
 the door, when Eglantine arrested her 
 
 " ' Alice, Alice, you must be mad to persist in this course. 
 Confess the whole, return the bracelet, and Laura may yet 
 forgive you. Think of your sick mother. How can you go 
 to her in shame and disgrace ?' 
 
 " At the mention of her mother, Alice wept afresh, and 
 putting her hand to her head, exclaimed 
 
 " ' I feel very, very sick. Perhaps we shall die together, 
 and then God will take pity on us. The great God knows I 
 am innocent of this crime.' 
 
 " Grandmother," interrupted I, unable to keep silence any 
 longer, " tell me if she was not innocent. I know she must 
 have been. Who could have taken it ?" 
 
 " Do you think Eglantine more likely to have stolen it from 
 her cousin, who was to her, as it were, another soul and 
 being ?" 
 
 " Oh ! no," I replied, " but I shall feel unhappy till I dis 
 cover the thief. Please, grandmother, go on. Did Alice 
 really go away ?" 
 
 " Yes, my child," answered my grandmother, in a faltering 
 voice, " she went, though my relenting heart pleaded for her 
 to linger. Her extreme youth and helplessness, her previous 
 simplicity and truthfulness, and her solemn asseverations of 
 innocence, all staggered my belief in her guilt. It was a mys 
 tery which grew darker as I attempted to penetrate it. If 
 Alice were innocent, who could be guilty Eglantine ? Such 
 
 thought was sacrilege to her pure and elevated character, 
 her tried affection for me, her self-respect, dignity, and truth. 
 Alice returned to her mother, in spite of our permission for 
 her to remain till the subject could be more fully investigated. 
 
 " When the door closed upon her retreating form, I sat 
 down by the side of Eglantine, and wept. The fear that I 
 had unjustly accused the innocent, the possibility, nay, the 
 probability that she was guilty, the loss of the first pledge of
 
 MY GRANL-MOTHER'S BRACELET. 241 
 
 plighted love, indefinite terrors for the future, a dim shade of 
 superstition brooding over the whole, all conspired to make me 
 gloomy and desponding. We were all unhappy. Ronald tried 
 to laugh at my sadness, and promised me 'gems from the 
 mine, and pearls from the ocean/ to indemnify me for my loss, 
 yet I watched every change of his expressive countenance, and 
 knew he thought deeply and painfully on the subject. The 
 strange suspicion which had risen in my mind the preceding 
 night, with regard to Eglantine's feelings towards him, revived 
 when I saw them together, and I wondered I had not observed 
 before the fluctuations of her complexion, and the agitation of 
 her manner whenever he addressed her. He had always treated 
 her with the kindness of a brother that kindness now made 
 me unhappy. I was becoming suspicious, jealous, and self- 
 distrustful, with a settled conviction that some strange barrier 
 existed to my union with Ronald, a destiny too bright and too 
 beautiful to be realized in this world of dreams and shadows. 
 My mother was firm in her belief of the guilt of Alice, who 
 had never been a favourite of hers. Perhaps I lavished upon 
 her too many indulgences, which displeased my mother's so 
 berer judgment. She forbade all intercourse with her, aJl 
 mention of her name, but she was ever present to my imagina 
 tion ; sometimes the shameless ingrate and accomplished de 
 ceiver, at others the eloquent pleader of her outraged innocence 
 One day Eglantine came to me, and laid her hand on mino 
 with a look of unspeakable dismay 
 
 " ' I have heard/ said she, ' that Alice is dying. Let u 
 go to her, Laura, and save her, if it be not too late.' 
 
 " What I felt at hearing these words I never can tell, 
 they pressed upon me with such a weight of grief her inno 
 cence seemed as clear to me as noonday my own unkindnesi 
 as cruel as the grave. Quickly as possible we sought the cot 
 tage where her mother dwelt, and a piteous spectacle met our 
 eyes. There lay Alice, on a little bed, pale, emaciated, and 
 almost unconscious ; her once bright hair dim and matted ; 
 her sweet blue eyes sunk and half closed; her. arms laid list 
 lessly by her side, the breath coming faint and flutteringly 
 from her parted lips. On another bed lay her poor, heart 
 broken mother, unable to relieve the sufferings of her she would 
 gladly have died to save. Frantic with grief, I threw myself 
 by the side of Alice, and disturbed the solemn stillness of the 
 death-hour with my incoherent ravings. I declared her inno 
 cence; I called upon her to live, to live for my sake, ana
 
 242 MY GRANDMOTHER'S BRACELET. 
 
 throwing my arms wildly round her wasted form, struggled to 
 hold her back from the grave yawning beneath her. It was 
 in vain to cope with Omnipotence. Alice died, even in the 
 midst of my agonies, and it was long before I was able to 
 listen to the story of her illness, as related by her disconso 
 late mother. She had returned home sick and feverish, and 
 sick and feverish she evidently was on her first awakening, 
 and that wounded spirit, which none can bear, acting on a dis 
 eased frame, accelerated the progress of her fever till it settled 
 on her brain, producing delirium, and ultimately death. During 
 all her delirium, she was pleading her cause with an angel's 
 eloquence, declaring her innocence, and blessing me as her 
 benefactress and friend." 
 
 Here my grandmother paused, and covered her eyes with 
 her handkerchief. I laid my head on her lap, and the ring 
 lets of little Mitty's hair were wet with my tears. I felt quite 
 broken-hearted, and ready to murmur at Providence for placing 
 me in a world so full of error and woes. 
 
 " Did you ever feel happy again, dear grandmother ?" asked 
 I, when I ventured to break the silence, curiosity was com 
 pletely merged in sympathy. 
 
 " Yes, Mina, I have had hours of happiness, such as seldom 
 falls to the lot of woman, but those bright hours were like the 
 shining of the gold that comes forth purified from the furnace 
 of fire. The mother of Alice soon followed her to the grave, 
 and there they sleep, side by side, in the lonely churchyard. 
 Eglantine soothed and comforted me, and endeavoured to stifle 
 the self-upbraidings that ever sounded dolefully to my heart. 
 Alice had been the victim of inexplicable circumstances, and 
 so far from having been cruel, I had been kind and forbearing, 
 considering the weight of evidence against her. Thus rea 
 soned Eglantine, and I tried to believe her, but all my hopes 
 of joy seemed blighted, for how could I mingle the wreath of 
 love with the cypress boughs that now darkened my path ? 
 Ronald pressed an immediate union, but I shrunk with super 
 stitious dread from the proposition, and refused the ring, with 
 which be now sought to bind my faith. ' No, no,' I cried, 
 ' the pledges of love are not for me I will never accept an 
 other.' 
 
 " My mother grew angry at my fatalism. 'You are nursing 
 phantasies,' said she, ' that are destroying the brightness of 
 your youth. You are actually making yourself old, ere yet 
 in your bloom. See, if there are not actually streaks of gray
 
 MT GRANDMOTHER'S BRACELET. 243 
 
 threading your jetty hair.' I rose and stood before 'a mirror, 
 and shaking my hair loose from the confining comb, saw that 
 her words were true. Here and there a gleam of silver wan 
 dered through those tresses which had always worn that pur 
 ple depth of hue peculiar to the raven's plumage. The chill 
 that penetrated my heart on the death-bed of Alice, had thus 
 suddenly and prematurely frosted the dark locks of my youth. 
 My mother became alarmed at my excessive paleness, and pro 
 posed a journey for the restoration of my spirits and health. 
 Ronald eagerly supported the suggestion, but Eglantine de 
 clined accompanying us. She preferred, she said, being alone. 
 With books at home, and Nature, in the glory of its summer 
 garniture, abroad, she could not want sources of enjoyment. I 
 did not regret her determination, for her presence had become 
 strangely oppressive to me, and even Ronald's manners had 
 assumed an embarrassment and constraint towards her very 
 different from their usual familiarity. The night before our 
 departure I felt more melancholy than ever. It was just such 
 a night as the one that witnessed our ill-starred betrothal. The 
 moon came forth from behind a bed of white clouds, silvering 
 every flake as it floated back from her beauteous face, and dif 
 fusing on earth the wondrous secret of heavenly communion. 
 I could not sleep ; and as I lay gazing on the solemn tranquil 
 lity of the night heavens, I thought of the time when ' those 
 heavens should be rolled together as a scroll, and the elements 
 melt with fervent heat,' and I, still thinking, living, feeling, 
 in other, grander, everlasting scenes, the invisible dweller of 
 my bosom's temple assumed such magnitude and majesty in 
 my eyes, the contemplation became overwelming and awful. 
 The sublime sound of the clock striking the midnight hour 
 and all who have heard that sound in the dead silence of the 
 night, can attest that it is sublime broke in on my deep ab 
 straction. Eglantine, who had lain wrapped in peaceful slum 
 bers, here softly drew back the bed-cover, and rising slowly, 
 walked round with stilly steps to the side where I reclined, 
 and stood looking fixedly upon me. ' Eglantine !' I exclaimed, 
 terrified at her attitude and singular appearance. ' Eglantine, 
 what is the matter ?' She answered not, moved not, but re 
 mained standing, immovable, with her eyes fixed and expres 
 sionless as stone. There she stood, in the white moonlight, 
 in her long, loose night-dress, which hung around her, in hei 
 stillness, like the folds of the winding-sheet, her hair stream- 
 ing down her back in long, lifeless tresses, and lighted up oa
 
 244 MY GRANDMOTHER'S BRACELET. 
 
 her brow with a kind of supernatural radiance and then those 
 death-resembling eyes ! I trembled, and tried to draw the sheet 
 over my face, to shut out the appalling vision. After a few 
 moments, which seemed interminable to me, she bent over me, 
 and taking my right hand, felt of my wrist again and again. Her 
 fingers were as cold as marble. My very blood seemed to con 
 geal under her touch. * It is gone,' murmured she, ' but it 
 is safe I have it safe. It fits my wrist as well as hers.' Ter 
 rified as I was at this unexpected apparition, my mind was 
 clear, and never were my perceptions more vivid. The mys 
 tery of the bracelet was about to be unravelled. Poor Alice's 
 assertion that she had seen Eglantine standing by my side, 
 and taking the bracelet from my wrist, came back thundering 
 in my ears. ' It is gone,' replied Eglantine, in tu same low, 
 deep voice, ' but I know where it is laid j where the bride 
 groom or the bride can never find it. Perhaps the moon sbines 
 too brightly on it, and reveals the spot.' Thus saying, she 
 glided across the floor, with spirit-like tread, and opening the 
 door, disappeared. In the excess of my excitement I forgot 
 my fears, and hastily rising, followed her footsteps, determined 
 to unravel the mystery, if I died in the act. I could atch 
 the glimpses of her white garments through the shadows of 
 the winding staircase, and I pursued them with rapid stps, 
 till I found myself close behind her, by the door which opened 
 into the garden. There she stood, still as a corpse, and again 
 the cold dew of superstitious terror gathered on my brow. I 
 soon saw a fumbling motion about the keyhole, and the door 
 opening, she again glided onward towards the summer-house, 
 my favourite retreat, the place where I had received this mys 
 terious bracelet the place where Flora had collected all her 
 wealth of bloom. She put aside the drooping vines, sending 
 out such a cloud of fragrance on the dewy air, I almost fainted 
 from their oppression, and stooping down over a white rose- 
 Dush, carefully removed the lower branches, while the rose- 
 leaves fell in a snowy shower over her naked feet. ' Where is 
 it?' said she, feeling about in the long grass. 'It isn't in the 
 <ipot where I hid it. If she has found it, she may yet be a 
 nkide, and Ronald still her own.' She stooped down lower 
 over the rose-bush, then rising hastily, I saw, with inexpressi 
 ble agitation, the lost bracelet shining in the light that quivered 
 with ghostlike lustre on her pallid face. With a most un 
 earthly smile she clasped it on her wrist, and left the arbour, 
 muttering in a low voice, ' I will not leave it here lest shj
 
 MY GRANDMOTHER'S BRACELET. 245 
 
 find out where it lies, and win back her bridal gift. I will 
 keep it next my own heart, and she cannot reach it there.' 
 Once more l*followed the gliding steps of Eglantine, through 
 the chill silence of night, till we ascended the stairs, and en 
 tered our own chamber. Quietly she laid herself down, as if 
 she had just risen from her knees in prayer, and I perceived 
 by her closed lids and gentle breathing, that a natural sleep 
 was succeeding the inexplicable mysteries of somnambulism." 
 
 " She was walking in her sleep, then, grandmother !" I ex 
 claimed, drawing a long breath. " I thought so all the time ; 
 and poor Alice was really innocent ! And what did Eglantine 
 say the next morning, when she awaked, and found the brace 
 let on her arm ?" 
 
 " She was astonished and bewildered, and knew not what to 
 think; but when I told her of all the events of the night, the 
 truth of which the bracelet itself attested, she sunk back like 
 one stricken with death. So many thoughts crowded upon 
 her at once in such force, it is no wonder they almost crushed 
 her with their power. The conviction that her love for Ronald 
 could no longer be concealed, the remembrance of the accusa 
 tion of Alice, which she had so indignantly repelled, the ap 
 parent meanness and turpitude of the art, though performed 
 without any conscious volition on her part, the belief that 
 another had been the victim of her involuntary crime, all united 
 to bow her spirit to the dust. My heart bled at the sight of 
 her distress, and, every feeling wrought up to unnatural strength 
 by the exciting scenes I had witnessed, I promised never to 
 wed Ronald, since the thought of our union had evidently 
 made her so unhappy. Eglantine contended against this reso 
 lution with all her eloquence, but, alas ! she was not destined 
 long to oppose the claims of friendship to the pleadings of 
 love. Her constitution was naturally frail, a fragility indicated 
 by the extreme delicacy and mutability of her complexion, and 
 the profusion of her pale golden hair. Day by day she faded 
 night by night she continued her mysterious rambles to the 
 spot where she had first deposited the bracelet, till she had 
 no longer strength to leave her bed, when her soul seemed to 
 commune with the cherubim and seraphim, which, I doubt 
 not, in their invisible glory surrounded her nightly couch. Aa 
 she drew near the land of shadows, she lost sight of the phan 
 tom of earthly love in aspirations after a heavenly union. She 
 mourned over her ill-directed sensibilities, her wasted oppor 
 tunities, her selfish brooding over forbidden hopes and imagin-
 
 246 MY GRANDMOTHER'S BRACELET. 
 
 ings. She gave herself up in penitence and faith to her Re 
 deemer, in submission to her Father and her God ; and her 
 soul at last passed away as silently and gently as the perfume 
 from the evening flower into the bosom of eternity." 
 
 " Oh ! grandmother, what a melancholy story you have 
 told," cried I, looking at the bracelet more intently than ever, 
 the vivid feelings of curiosity subdued and chastened by such 
 sad revealings ; " but did not you marry Ronald at last. ?" 
 
 " Yes," replied she, looking upward with mournful earnest 
 ness ; " the beloved grandfather, who has so often dandled you 
 in his arms, in this very spot where we are now seated, whose 
 head, white with the snows of threescore years and ten, now 
 reposes on the pillow all the living must press, who now awaits 
 me, I trust, in the dwellings of immortality, was that once 
 youthful Ronald, whose beauty and worth captivated the affec 
 tions of the too sensitive Eglantine. Many, many years of 
 happiness has it been my blessed lot to share with him on 
 earth. The memories of Alice and Eglantine, softened by 
 time, were robbed of their bitterness, and only served to en 
 dear us more tenderly to each other. The knowledge we had 
 gained of the frailty and uncertainty of life, led us to lift our 
 views to a more enduring state of existence, and love, hallowed 
 by religion, became a sublime and holy bond, imperishable as 
 the soul, and lofty as its destinies. I have lived to see my 
 children's children gather around me, like the olive branches 
 of scripture, fair and flourishing. I have lived to see the 
 companion of my youth and age consigned to the darkness of 
 the grave, and I have nothing more to do on earth but to fold 
 the mantle of the spirit quietly around me, and wait the 
 coming of the Son of Man." 
 
 I looked up with reverence in my grandmother' & face aa 
 Bhe thus concluded the eventful history of the Pearl Bracelet, 
 and I thought what a solemn and beautiful thing was old age 
 when the rays of the Sun of Righteousness thus illumed its 
 hoary hair, and converted it into an emblematic crown of 
 glory.
 
 THE 
 
 MYSTERIOUS RETICULE. 
 
 "I OWN/' said Fitzroy, "that I have some foolish preju 
 dices, and this may be one. But I cannot bear to see a lady 
 with a soiled pocket-handkerchief. I never wish to see any 
 thing less pure and elegant than this in the hand of a beauti 
 ful maiden." He lifted, as he spoke, a superb linen handker 
 chief, decorated with lace, that lay carelessly folded in the lap 
 of Mary Lee. 
 
 " Ah, yes," exclaimed her cousin Kate, laughing, " it looks 
 very nice now, for she has just taken it from her drawer. See, 
 the perfume of the lavender has not begun to evaporate. But 
 wait till to-morrow, and then it will look no nicer than mine." 
 
 "To-morrow!" cried the elegant Fitzroy, with an expression 
 of disgust ; " surely no lady would think of using a handker 
 chief more than once. If I were in love with a Venus de 
 Medici herself, and detected her in such an unpardonable act, 
 I believe the spell would be broken." 
 
 " I would not give much for your love, then," cried Kate, 
 " if it had no deeper foundation would you, Mary ?" 
 
 Mary blushed, for she was already more than half in lov 
 with the handsome Fitzroy, and was making an internal reso 1 
 lution to be exceedingly particular in future about her pocket- 
 handkerchiefs. 
 
 Fitzroy was a young man of fashion and fortune, of tine 
 person, elegant manners, cultivated mind, and fastidiously re 
 fined taste. He had, however, two great defects one was, 
 attaching too much importance to trifles, and making them tfio 
 criterion of character; the other, a morbid suspicion of tho 
 
 (247)
 
 248 THE MYSTERIOUS RETICULE. 
 
 sincerity of his friends, and a distrust of their motives, which 
 might become the wildest jealousy in the passion of love. He 
 had a most intense admiration of female loveliness, and looked 
 upon woman as a kind of super-angelic being, whose food 
 should be the ambrosiae and nectar of the gods, and whoso 
 garments the spotless white of vestal purity. He had never 
 known misfortune, sickness, or sorrow, therefore had never 
 been dependent on those homely, domestic virtues, those tender, 
 household cares, which can alone entitle woman to the poetical 
 appellation of a ministering angel. He was the spoiled child of 
 affluence and indulgence, who looked, as Kate said, " as if he 
 ought to recline on a crimson velvet sofa, and be fanned with 
 peacocks' feathers all the day long." He was now the guest 
 of Mr. Lee, and consequently the daily companion of the 
 beautiful, sensitive Mary and her gay cousin. With his pas 
 sionate admiration for beauty, it is not strange that he should 
 become more and more attracted towards Mary, who never 
 forgot, in the adornments of her finished toilet, the robe of 
 vestal white and the pure, delicate, perfumed handkerchief, 
 which Fitzroy seemed to consider the ne plus ultra of a lady's 
 perfections. The cousins walked, rode, and visited with the 
 elegant stranger, and never did weeks glide more rapidly away. 
 Mary was happy, inexpressibly happy, for life began to be in 
 vested with that soft, purple hue, which, like the rich blush 
 of the grape, is so easily brushed away, and can never be re 
 stored. 
 
 Fitzroy had often noticed and admired, among the decora 
 tions of Mary's dress, a beautiful reticule of white embroidered 
 satin. One evening, on returning from a party, Mary's brow 
 became suddenly clouded. " Oh, how could I be so careless?" 
 exclaimed she, in a tone of vexation ; " I have left my reticule 
 behind. How unfortunate !" 
 
 Fitzroy immediately offered his services, but Mary persisted 
 in refusing them, and dispatched a servant in his stead. 
 
 " You must have something very precious in that bag," said 
 Kate. " I have no doubt it is full of billetdoux or love-let 
 ters. I intend to go after it myself, and find out all Mary's 
 secrets." 
 
 " How foolish !" cried Mary. " You know there is no such 
 
 thing in it nothing in the world but " She stopped, in 
 
 evident embarrassment, and lowered her eyes, to avoid Fitz- 
 Joy's searching glance.
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS RETICULE. 249 
 
 The servant came without the bag, and again Fitzroy renewed 
 his offers of search in the morning. 
 
 " No, indeed," said Mary ; " I am very grateful, but I can 
 not allow you to take that trouble. It is of no consequence ; 
 I insist that you do not think of going. I am very sorry I 
 said anything about it." 
 
 Mary's ill-concealed embarrassment and flitting blushes 
 awakened one of Fitzroy's bosom enemies. Why this strange 
 anxiety and confusion about a simple reticule ? It must be the 
 receptacle of secrets she would blush to have revealed. Kate's 
 suggestion was probably true. It contained some confessions 
 or tokens of love which she was holding in her heart's trea 
 sury, while her eye and her lip beamed and smiled encourage 
 ment and hope of him. 
 
 The next morning he rose from his bed at an early hour 
 with a feeling of restlessness and anxiety, and resolved to go 
 himself in search of the lost treasure. He found it suspended 
 on the chair in which he remembered to have seen her last 
 seated, leaning against the window, with the moonbeams shining 
 down on her snowy brow. The soft satin yielded to his touch, 
 and the exquisite beauty of the texture seemed to correspond 
 with the grace and loveliness of the owner. He was begin 
 ning to be ashamed of his suspicions, when the resistance of 
 a folded paper against his fingers recalled Kate's laughing as 
 sertions about love-letters and billetdoux, and jealous thoughts 
 again tingled in his veins. For one moment he was tempted 
 to open it and satisfy his tantalizing curiosity, but pride and 
 honour resisted the promptings of the evil spirit. 
 
 Poor Mary ! had she known what sweeping conclusions he 
 brought against her during his homeward walk, she would have 
 wished her unfortunate bag in the bottom of the ocean. She 
 was false, coquetish, and vain ! He would never bestow an 
 other thought upon her, but bid adieu, as soou as possible, to 
 her father's hospitable mansion, and forget his transient fasci 
 nation. When he entered the room where Mary and Kate 
 were seated, Mary sprang forward with a crimsoned cheek and 
 extended her hand with an eager, involuntary motion. " I 
 thank you," said she, coldly ; " but I am very, very sorry you 
 assumed such unnecessary trouble." 
 
 She thanked him with her lips, but her ingenuous counte 
 nance expressed anything but gratitude and pleasure. Fitzroy 
 gave it to ner with a low, silent bow, and threw himself wea 
 rily on the sofa.
 
 250 THE MYSTERIOUS RETICULE. 
 
 " I will know what mystery is wrapped up in this little 
 bag !" exclaimed Kate, suddenly snatching it from her hand. 
 " I know it contains some love talisman or fairy token." 
 
 " Ah, Kate, I entreat, I pray you to restore it to me," 
 cried Mary. 
 
 " No no no," answered Kate, laughing, and holding it 
 iigh above her head. 
 
 Mary sprang to catch it, but Kate only swung it higher 
 and higher with triumphant glee. Fitzroy looked on with a 
 scornful glance ; Mary's unaffected alarm confirmed all hia 
 suspicions, and he felt a selfish gratification in her increasing 
 trepidation. 
 
 " Kate, I did not think you could be rude or unkind be 
 fore," said Mary, looking reproachfully at Fitzroy, for not 
 assisting her in the contest. 
 
 " Since Miss Lee evidently endures so much uneasiness lest 
 the mysteries of her bag should be explored," cried Fitzroy, 
 with a sarcastic smile, "I am sure her friends must sympathize 
 in her sufferings." 
 
 " Oh, if you are in earnest, Mary," cried Kate, tossing the 
 reticule over her head, " I would not make you unhappy for 
 the world." 
 
 There was a beautiful child, about two or three years old, 
 a little sister of Kate's, who was playing on the carpet with 
 the paraphernalia of her dolls. The bag fell directly in her 
 lap, and she caught it with childish eagerness. " I got it I 
 got it !" cried she, exultingly ; and before Mary could regain 
 possession of it, she had undrawn the silken strings, and 
 emptied the contents in her lap a parcel of faded rose-leaves 
 scattered on the floor, from a white folded paper that opened 
 as it fell. Fitzroy beheld it, and his jealous fears vanished 
 into air; but another object attracted his too fastidious gaze 
 a soiled, crumpled pocket-handkerchief lay maliciously dis 
 played in the little plunderer's lap, and then was brandished 
 in her victorious hand. Mary stood for a moment covered 
 vyith burning blushes, then ran out of the room, stung to the 
 soul by the mocking smile that curled the lip of Fitzroy. 
 
 11 Cousin Mary been eating cake," said the child, exposing 
 the poor handkerchief still more fully to the shrinking, ultra- 
 refined man of taste and fashion. 
 
 The spell was broken, the goddess thrown from her pedestal 
 the charm of those exquisite, transparent, rose-scented hand- 
 jterchitifs for ever destroyed. Kate laughed immoderately at
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS RETICULE. 251 
 
 the whole scene. There was something truly ridiculous to her 
 in the unfathomable mystery, Mary's preposterous agitation, 
 and Fitzroy' s unconcealed disgust. There was a very slight 
 dash of malice mingled with the gayety of her character, and 
 when she recollected how much Fitzroy had admired and Mary 
 displayed her immaculate and superb handkerchiefs, pure from 
 all earthly alloy, she could not but enjoy a little her present 
 mortification. She ridiculed Fitzroy po unmercifully that he 
 took refuge in flight, and then the merry girl sought the 
 chamber of Mary, whither she had fled to conceal her mortifi 
 cation and tears. 
 
 " Surely you are not weeping for such a ridiculous cause ?" 
 said Kate, sobered at the sight of Mary's real suffering. " I 
 had no idea you were so foolish." 
 
 Mary turned away in silence ; she could not forgive her for 
 having exposed her weakness to the eyes of Fitzroy. 
 
 " Mary," continued Kate, " I did not mean to distress you ; 
 I did not imagine there was anything in the bag you really 
 wished concealed, and I am sure there was not. What induced 
 you to make such a fuss about a simple pocket-handkerchief? 
 It looks as nice as mine does, -I dare say." 
 
 " But he is so very particular," sobbed Mary, " he will 
 never forget it. I have always carried a handkerchief in my 
 bag for use, so that I could keep the one which I held in my 
 hand clean and nice. I knew his peculiarities, and thought 
 there was no harm in consulting them. He will never think 
 of me now without disgust." 
 
 " And if he never will," cried the spirited Kate, with flash 
 ing eyes, " I would spurn him from my thoughts as a being 
 unworthy of respect or admiration. I would not marry such 
 a man were he to lay at my feet the diadem of the East. For 
 give me for having made myself merry at your expense, but 
 I could not help laughing at your overwrought sensibility. 
 Answer me seriously, Mary, and tell me if you think that if 
 Fitzroy really loved you, and was worthy of your love, he 
 would become alienated by a trifle like this ?" 
 
 Mary began to be ashamed of her emotions in the presence 
 of her reasonable cousin ; she was ashamed, and endeavoured 
 to conceal them, but they were not subdued. She was con 
 scious she must appear in a ridiculous light in the eyes of the 
 scrupulously elegant Fitzroy, whose morbid tastes she had so 
 unfortunately studied. When they met again, it was with 
 feelings of mutual estrangement. She was cold and con-
 
 252 THE MYSTERIOUS RETICULE. 
 
 strained he polite, but reserved. Mary felt with anguish 
 that the soft, purple hue which had thrown such an enchant 
 ment over every scene, was vanished away. The realities of 
 existence began to appear. 
 
 Fitzroy soon after took his leave, with very different feel 
 ings from what he had once anticipated. He blamed himself, 
 but he could not help the chilled state of his heart. Mary 
 was a mortal r after all; she ate cake, drank lemonade, and 
 used her handkerchiefs like other ladies, only she kept them 
 out of sight. Her loveliness, grace, and feminine gentleness 
 of manner no longer entranced him. He departed, and Mary 
 Bighed over the dissolving of her first love's dream ; but not 
 withstanding her weakness on this subject, she had a just esti 
 mation of herself, and a spirit which, when once roused, guided 
 her to exertions which astonished herself. Her gay cousin, 
 too, departed, and she was thrown upon her own resources. 
 She read much, and reflected more. She blushed for her past 
 weakness, and learned to think with contempt upon the man 
 who had so false an estimate of the true excellence and glory 
 of a woman's character. " Oh," repeated she to herself a 
 hundred times, as, interested in domestic duties, she devoted 
 herself to the comfort of her widowed father, " how misera 
 ble I should have been as the wife of a coxcomb, who would 
 desire me to sit all day with folded hands, holding an embroi 
 dered handkerchief, with fingers encased in white kid gloves ! 
 tlow could I ever have been so weak and foolish ?" Mary 
 generally concluded these reflections with a sigh, for Fitzroy 
 was handsome, graceful, and intellectual, and he was, more 
 over, the first person who had ever interested her young 
 heart. 
 
 The following summer she accompanied her father to a 
 fashionable watering-place. She was admired and caressed, 
 but she turned coldly from the gaze of admiration, and cared 
 not for the gayety that surrounded her. While others hurried 
 to the ball-room, she lingered over her book, or indulged in 
 meditations unfamiliar to the lovely and the young. One even 
 ing, when she had been unusually dilatory, she heard her father 
 call, and taking a lamp, began to thread the passage, which 
 led through a long suite of apartments occupied by the visiters 
 of the spring. As she passed by one of the rooms, the door 
 of which was partially opened, she heard a faint, moaning 
 sound, and paused to listen. It returned again and again, and 
 *he was sure some stranger was suffering there, probably for-
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS RETICULE. 253 
 
 gotten in the gay crowd that filled the mansion. Her first 
 impulse was to enter, but she shrunk from the thought of 
 intruding herself, a young maiden, into the apartment of a 
 stranger. " My father will go in and see who the sufferer is," 
 cried she, hastening to meet him on the stairs. 
 
 Mr. Lee required no entreaties from his daughter, for his 
 kind and humane feelings were immediately excited by the 
 idea of a lonely and perhaps dying stranger, in the midst of a 
 heartless crowd. Mary gave the lamp into her father's hand, 
 and stood in the passage while he entered. A sudden excla 
 mation, echoed by a faint low voice, made her heart palpitate 
 with vague apprehensions. Who could this lonely stranger 
 be whom her father evidently recognised ? She stood hold 
 ing her breath painfully, fearing to lose the sound of that 
 faint voice which awakened strange emotions within her, when 
 her father suddenly came to the door and beckoned her to 
 him. " I do believe he is dying," said he, in an agitated tone. 
 " It is Fitzroy himself! You must come to him, while I call 
 a physician." 
 
 Mary almost mechanically obeyed the summons, and stood 
 the next moment, pale and trembling, by the bedside of the 
 man she had once loved. Could that, indeed, be the elegant 
 Fitzroy ? with disordered hair, half-closed eyes, parched and 
 trembling lips, which now vainly endeavoured to articulate a 
 sound? the pillows tossed here and there, as if in wrestling 
 with pain ; the white counterpane twisted and tumbled were 
 these the accompaniments of this fastidious exquisite ? These 
 thoughts darted through Mary's mind, as the vision of her 
 soiled handkerchief came ghost-like before her. But she was 
 no longer the weak girl who wept tears of bitter agony at the; dis 
 covery that she was made of mortal mould ; she was a woman 
 awakened to the best energies and virtues of her sex She 
 found herself alone with the sick man, for her father had flown 
 for the assistance he required, and left her to watch till his 
 return. She saturated her handkerchief with cologne, and 
 bathed his burning temples and feverish hands. Her hear 1 
 softened over the invalid in his prostrate and dependent stxte 
 "Ah, proud Fitzroy," thought she, "this handkerchief i 
 now more soiled and defaced than the one which alienated youi 
 fancy from me, and yet you shrink not from its contact. No 
 pride or scorn now flashes from those dim eyes, or curl those 
 pallid lips. Alas ! he is very, very ill I fear even unto 
 df-ath " The tears gathered into her eyes at this appalling 
 117
 
 254 THE MYSTERIOUS RETICULE. 
 
 idea, and even mingled with the odorous waters with which she 
 embalmed his forehead. 
 
 Her father soon came in with the physician, and Mary re- 
 ligued her watch by his bedside. She withdrew to her own 
 Apartment, and waited with intense anxiety the tidings which 
 lie promised to bring her. She was surprised at her own emo 
 tions. She thought Fitzroy perfectly indifferent to her nay, 
 more, that she disliked him; but now, when she saw him in 
 suffering and danger, she remembered the charm with which 
 her imagination had once invested him, and accused herself 
 of harsh and vindictive feelings. 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Lee, in answer to her earnest inquiries, 
 " he is very ill dangerously ill. Imprudent exposure to the 
 burning mid-day sun has brought on a sudden and violent 
 fever, the consequences of which are more to be dreaded, as 
 he has never been sick before. Could he have commanded 
 immediate attention, perhaps the disease might have been 
 arrested. But in this scene of gayety and confusion though 
 got up for the express accommodation of invalids Heaven 
 save the sick and the dying." 
 
 "Who will take care of him, father? He has no mother or 
 sister near. Oh, surely we must not let him die for want of 
 these !" 
 
 "I know what you are thinking of, Mary," said Mr. Lee, 
 shaking his head; "but I cannot consent to it. The fever 
 may be contagious, and you are too young and too delicate for 
 such a task. Besides, there might be remarks made upon it. 
 No ; I will remain with him to-night, and to-morrow wo will 
 Bee what can be done for him." 
 
 " But to-night may be the crisis of his fate," pleaded Mary ; 
 " to-morrow it may be too late. You are very kind, father, 
 but you are not a woman, and you know there are a thousand 
 gentle cares which only a woman's hand can tender. I am a 
 stranger here ; I don't care if they do censure me. Let me 
 act a true woman's, a kind sister's part. You know, by your 
 own experience, what a skilful nurse I am." 
 
 Mary pleaded earnestly, and wound her arms caressingly 
 around her father's neck, and looked up into his face with such 
 irresistible eyes, that he could not refuse her. The pallid face 
 of Fitzroy seemed to be leaning beside her own, clothed with 
 that authority which sickness and approaching death impart. 
 So Mary twisted up her shining ringlets, and took the rings 
 from her jeweled fingers, and donned a loose, flowing robe.
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS RETICULE. 255 
 
 Behold her, one of the loveliest nurses that ever brought the 
 blessings of Hygea to the chamber of disease. There is a 
 great deal said in romances of the interesting appearance of 
 invalids, of a languor more lovely than the bloom of health, 
 of a debility more graceful than the fullness of strength j but 
 this is all romance. It has been said by one of the greatest 
 moralists of the age, that the slow consuming of beauty is one 
 of the greatest judgments of the Almighty against man for 
 sin. Certainly a sick chamber is not the place for romantic 
 beings to fall in love, but it is the place where love, once 
 awakened, can exert its holiest influences, and manifest its 
 death-controlling power; it is the place where religion erects 
 its purest altar, and faith brings its divinest offerings. Yea, 
 verily, it is hallowed ground. Thus Mary thought through 
 the vigils of that long night. She had never been danger 
 ously sick herself, but she felt the entire dependence of one 
 human being upon another, and of all upon God. She felt, 
 too, a kind of generous triumph, if such an expression may 
 be used, in the conviction that this proud and over-sensitive 
 being was so completely abandoned to her cares. Fitzroy lay 
 in the deep lethargy of a burning fever, unconscious whose 
 soft footsteps fell " like snow on snow" around his bed. " He 
 never shall know it," said Mary, to herself. " He would pro 
 bably feel disgust, instead of gratitude. If he saw this hand 
 kerchief, all impregnated with camphor, and stained with 
 medicine, he might well think it unfit for a lady's hand. 
 Shame on me, for cherishing so much malice against him he 
 so sick and pale !" 
 
 For more than a week Fitzroy languished in that almost 
 unconscious condition, and during that interval Mary conti 
 nued to lavish upon him every attention a kind and gentle 
 sister could bestow. At length he was declared out of dan 
 ger, and she gradually withdrew from her station in the sick 
 chamber. Her mission was fulfilled, and an angelic one it had 
 been. The physician, her father, and a youthful, unimpaired 
 constitution accomplished the rest. 
 
 " What do I not owe you ?" said Fitzroy, when, liberated 
 from confinement, he was slowly walking with her through 
 one of the green, shady paths of the enclosure. Now he, in 
 deed, looked interesting. The contrast between his dark brown 
 hair and pale cheek was truly romantic. That dark hair once 
 more exhaled the odours of sweet-scented waters, and his black 
 dress and spotless linen were as distinguished for their elegance
 
 256 THE MYSTERIOUS RETICULE. 
 
 as in former days. " What do I not owe you ?" repeated he, 
 with more fervour. 
 
 Mary smiled. " You were sick, and I ministered unto you. 
 I only obeyed a divine command. A simple act of obedience 
 deserves no reward." 
 
 " Then it was only from a sense of duty that you watched 
 ever me so kindly ?" repeated he, in a mortified tone. " You 
 vould have done the same for any stranger ?" 
 
 " Most certainly I would," replied Mary; "for any stranger 
 as helpless and neglected as you appeared to be." 
 
 " Pardon me," said he, evidently disconcerted, " but I thought 
 I dared to think that " 
 
 Mary laughed, and her rosy lip began to curl with a slight 
 expression of scorn. She was a woman, and her feelings had 
 once been chafed, humiliated through him, if not by him. 
 Her eyes sparkled, not vindictively, but triumphantly. " You 
 dared to think that I was in love with you ! Oh, no ; that is 
 all passed long, long ago." 
 
 " Passed ? Then you acknowledge that you have loved ?" 
 
 " Yes," replid she, in the same laughing tone, though she 
 blushed deeply all the while ; " I did love you, Fitzroy, and 
 I could have loved you with a life-long passion. To win your 
 affection I tried to pass myself off as an angel, to whose gar 
 ments the dust of mortality never adhered. You discovered 
 my folly, and turned from me in contempt. It was a bitter 
 lesson at first, but I thank you for it now. I am not the fool 
 ish girl that I was when I first knew you, Fitzroy. You must 
 not think that I am " 
 
 "And Jam not the fool I was then," interrupted he. "I 
 know now what constitutes the perfection of a woman's charac 
 ter. You only captivated my fancy then, now you have won 
 my whole heart." 
 
 " Better lost than won," cried Mary, in the same careless 
 accents. " I could not keep the treasure, and I cannot take 
 it. You think you love me now, but I might fall sick, you 
 know, and people do not look so pretty when they are sick, 
 and you might not like the scent of camphor and medicine, 
 and then one's handkerchiefs get so terribly soiled !" 
 
 She stopped, and looked archly at Fitzroy's clouded coun 
 tenance. 
 
 " I understand it all," cried he, bitterly ; " you pitied me in 
 sickness, and watched over me. But I must have looked
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS RETICULE. 257 
 
 shockingly ugly and slovenly, and you became disgusted. I 
 cannot blame you, for I deserve such a punishment." 
 
 " No, no not ugly, Fitzroy, but helpless, weak, and de 
 pendent, proud man that you are. But, oh ! you ought to 
 know that this very helplessness and dependence endear the 
 sufferer ten thousand times more to a fond woman's heart than 
 all the pride of beauty and the bloom of health. I have had 
 ny revenge; but believe me, Fitzroy, the hours passed in 
 our chamber of sickness will be remembered as the happiest 
 of my life." 
 
 The tone of playful mockery which she had assumed, sub 
 sided into one of deep feeling, and tears gathered in her down 
 cast eyes. Fitzroy but it is no matter what Fitzroy said 
 certainly something that pleased Mary, for when they return 
 ed, more than an hour afterwards, her cheeks were glowing 
 with the roses of Eden. 
 
 It was about six months after this that Cousin Kate visited 
 Mary but not Mary Lee once more. Fitzroy, who now 
 often complained of a headache, was leaning back in an easy 
 chair, and Mary was bathing his temples, which she occasion 
 ally pressed with her linen handkerchief. 
 
 " Oh, shocking I" exclaimed Kate ; " how can you bear to 
 see Mary touch anything so rumpled and used, about your 
 elegant person ?" 
 
 "The hand of affection," replied Fitzroy, pressing Marys 
 gently on his brow, " can shed a beautifying influence over 
 every object. Mary is a true alchemist, and has separated the 
 gold of my heart from the worthless dross that obscured its 
 lustre. She put me in the crucible, and I have been purifhd 
 by the fires through which I passed." 
 
 THE END 
 
 *
 
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 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS' PUBLICATIONS. 5 
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 CHARLES DICKENS' WORKS. 
 
 4*- GREAT REDUCTION IN THEIR PRICES. -^ft 
 
 PEOPLE'S DUODECIMO EDITION. ILLUSTRATED. 
 
 Reduced in price from $2.50 to $1.50 a volume. 
 
 Thit edition is printed on fine paper, from large, clear type, leaded, that 
 all can read, containing Two Hundred Illustrations on tinted paper. 
 
 Our Mutual Friend, Cloth, $1.50 
 
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 Nicholas Nickleby, Cloth, 1.50 
 
 Great Expectations, Cloth, 1.50 
 
 David Copperfield, Cloth, 1.50 
 
 Oliver Twist, Cloth, 1.50 
 
 Bleak House, Cloth, 1.50 
 
 A Tale of Two Cities,. ..Cloth, 1.50 
 
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 Christmas Stories, Cloth, 1.50 
 
 Sketches by " Boz," Cloth, 1.50 
 
 Barnaby Rudge, Cloth, 1.50 
 
 Martin Chuzzlewit, Cloth, 1.50 
 
 Old Curiosity Shop, Cloth, 1.50 
 
 Dickens' New Stories,..Cloth, 1.50 
 
 Mystery of Edwin Drood; and Master Humphrey's Clock, Cloth, 1.50 
 
 American Notes; and the Uncommercial Traveller, Cloth, 1.50 
 
 Hunted Down; and other Reprinted Pieces, Cloth, 1.50 
 
 The Holly- Tree Inn; and other Stories, Cloth, 1.50 
 
 The Life and Writings of Charles Dickens, Cloth, 2.00 
 
 Price of a set, in Black cloth, in twenty-one volumes, $32.00 
 
 " " Full sheep, Library style, 42.50 
 
 11 " Half calf, sprinkled edges, 53.00 
 
 " " Half 3Wf, marbled edges, 58.00 
 
 " " Half calf, antique, or half calf, full gilt backs, etc. 63.00 
 
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 Price $40 a set, and each set put up in a neat and strong box. This is 
 the handsomest and best edition ever published for the price. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED DUODECIMO EDITION. 
 
 Reduced in price from $2.00 to $1.50 a volume. 
 
 This edition is printed on the finest paper, from large, clear type, leaded, 
 that all can read, containing Six Hundred full page Illustrations, on 
 tinted paper, from designs by Cruikshanlc, Phiz, Browne, Maclise, 
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 tains all the original illustrations, 09 selected by Mr. Charles Dickens. 
 The following are each contained in two volumes. 
 
 Our Mutual Friend, Cloth, $3.00 
 
 Pickwick Papers, Cloth, 3.00 
 
 Tale of Two Cities, Cloth, 3.00 
 
 Nicholas Nickleby, Cloth, 3.00 
 
 David Copperfield, Cloth, 3.00 
 
 Oliver Twist, Cloth, 3.00 
 
 Christmas Stories, Cloth, 3.00 
 
 Bleak House, Cloth, $3.00 
 
 Sketches by "Boz," Cloth, 3.00 
 
 Barnaby Rudge, Cloth, 3.00 
 
 Martin Chuzzlewit, Cloth, 3.00 
 
 Old Curiosity Shop, Cloth, 3.00 
 
 Little Dorrit, Cloth, 3.00 
 
 Dombey and Son, Cloth, 3.00 
 
 The following are each complete in one volume. 
 
 Oreat Expectations, $1.50 | Dickens' New Stories,. ..Cloth, $1.50 
 
 Mystery of Edwin Drood; and Master Humphrey's Clock,. ...Cloth, 1.50 
 
 American Notes; and the Uncommercial Traveller, Cloth, 1.50 
 
 Hunted Down: and other Reprinted Pieces, Cloth, 1.50 
 
 The Holly-Tree Inn; and other Stories, Cloth, 1.50 
 
 The Life and Writings of Charles Dickens, Cloth, 2.00 
 
 Price of a set, in thirty-five volumes, bound in cloth, $50.00 
 
 " " Full sheep, Library style, 68.00 
 
 " " Half calf, antique, or half calf, full gilt backs, etc. 100.00 
 
 JllO)
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 NOV 9 1972 
 
 REC*0 ID 
 
 SEP 
 
 AUG25 
 
 JRt 
 
 07 
 977 
 
 Form L9-32m-8,'57(,C8680s4)444
 
 love after marriag< 
 
 3 1158 00191 1592 
 
 PS 
 
 1919 
 Hh l 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A A 000035022 3
 
 BaiSBiaH 
 
 mmm