- - 
 
 net 

 
 MY CONFESSION
 
 Cfe JSto tit n WSsam't 
 
 w ^o 
 
 OTHER TALES. 
 
 ROBERT " Here she comes." 
 
 [Enter Violante.'] 
 
 VIOLANTE " I pray you, gentlemen, pass me lightly by : I am too slight 
 a thing to dwell on." 
 
 Choice of a Wife. 
 
 to ^ U r k : 
 
 J. C. DERBY, 119 NASSAU-STREET. 
 
 BOSTON: PHILLIPS, SAMPSON A CO. CINCINNATI: H. W. DERBY. 
 
 1855.
 
 ENTERED according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by 
 
 J. C. DERBY, 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern Ditrict of New- York.
 
 Page 
 My Confession 9 
 
 Sybil Rivers 65 
 
 Lorraine Gordon, A Biography Ill 
 
 A Fragment of Autobiography 123 
 
 Zoe Bell's Birthday 171 
 
 An Old Man's Story 189 
 
 The Swallows in Mr. Pip's Chimney 207 
 
 The Story of Hagar 217
 
 MY CONFESSION. 
 
 " THOSE who iiave never loved as thou, 
 
 Will doubt in their dismay, 
 If Reason on thy burning brow 
 
 Poured its diviner ray ; 
 They only know that feeble Same 
 Which most may quench and all may tame, 
 
 In their less sensate clay ; 
 And deem the heart may calmly bear 
 The frenzied grief of love's despair." 
 
 WALTER COLTON. 
 "Silently fell the snow on her face, 
 Clothing her form in its stainless grace ; 
 As though God in his mercy had willed, that she 
 Should die in a garment of purity." 
 
 I AM a woman. I have been beautiful. As I deem 
 beauty the pride and glory of womanhood, I should 
 become insincere, if I disclaimed the fact of once pos- 
 sessing it. I have passed through many trials, and 
 endured much sorrow. I have sinned deeply, and in 
 my very sin found punishment. 
 
 For the sake of those who are rich in an innocent 
 youth, I shall lay bare my heart, and reveal, to the eyes 
 of the great world, THE HISTORY OF MY LIFE. My 
 
 1
 
 10 MY CONFESSION. 
 
 hand trembles as I begin to write ; but even if my self- 
 imposed task should cause me to shed tears of blood, I 
 will not falter in my undertaking. 
 
 Heaven help me to write the truth, the solemn 
 truth, and that only ! 
 
 My maiden name was Adzema V i. My 
 
 parents were Italians. Although I first saw the light 
 in that beautiful America, where I am now passing the 
 remainder of my burdensome existence, I speak the lan- 
 guage of my- forefathers purely and well. I do not 
 think I was ever young. As I look back upon my 
 youth, and compare it with the careless and gleeful 
 lives of children in general, I am sure that I was old 
 even then, old in head and heart experiences. Of the 
 plays and sports of other children, I knew nothing. I 
 was much alone and isolated, yet not always unhappy ; 
 for, by being thus left to myself, I acquired a habit of 
 intense thought, which, young as I was, proved a quiet 
 joy and companion. 
 
 What the circumstances were that thus made me 
 a careful, calculating, and reflecting woman, before I 
 reached girlhood, it is not in my power to state, for I 
 should then reveal things which are not and never were 
 my own secrets, although their consequences fell heavily 
 on my overburdened childish heart. The grave cov- 
 ers them now ; let me not disturb them in their repose, 
 or recall vain memories of a parent's misdeeds !
 
 MY CONFESSION. 11 
 
 We were poor, and poverty alone has enough wither- 
 ing power to shut out the natural joyousness of youth. 
 I was not an only child. I had one sister, younger 
 than myself by several years. She was beautiful as the 
 day, light-hearted as a bird, and the very opposite of 
 my reserved self. While all deemed me sullen and 
 haughty, she was beloved as the spirit of sweetness and 
 good-humor.' Never poet or painter conceived a more 
 perfect form and face than those of my sister ; Prome- 
 theus himself might have striven in vain to create a 
 lovelier ; yet this very loveliness awoke in our pa- 
 rents a dislike to its possessor. They were Italian ex- 
 iles, and had brought with them to their adopted coun- 
 try a strong love for that of their nativity. Long ab- 
 sence had strengthened, rather than weakened their 
 patriotism. When *Bianca opened her pale, blue eyes 
 to the light of day, my father looked at her in unfeign- 
 ed horror ; and as year after year developed the white 
 delicacy of her truly American beauty, both our pa- 
 rents grew to regard her with less love than they did 
 myself, whose passions and appearance already beto- 
 kened the fiery Italian blood. 
 
 Unnatural as it may seem, even this 'weak affection 
 faded away as Bianca approached girlhood ; and, had 
 she not been removed from their care at an early age, 
 I am confident she would have become, in the course 
 of time, an object of positive dislike to them.
 
 12 MY CONFESSION. 
 
 We were, as I said before, very poor ; and when 
 our landlord's childless wife offered to take my cheer- 
 ful little sister, and cherish her as her own child, our 
 father and mother gave a ready consent. So Bianca 
 left her home for one of greater luxury and wealth, ta- 
 king with her all the sunshine that illuminated our 
 desolate abode. Months passed before I grew accus- 
 tomed to her vacant place, OF ceased to miss her joy- 
 ous pleasantries. I was then just entering womanhood* 
 and she was still a child. A change soon fell upon us. 
 We often saw each other, but our affection became 
 very different from when we were children together. 
 The sunniness of Bianca's disposition caused her to 
 love every one around her ; but she was incapable, from 
 the very universality of her good-will, of loving any 
 one person deeply. 1 hope in saying so, I do not show 
 a want of sisterly regard for the memory of her who 
 will behold the light of this world no more. My own 
 strong nature required a warmer love than she had to 
 give me ; and so a coldness grew up between us, which 
 was accelerated, no doubt, by the disparity in our sta- 
 tions. 
 
 They say time has a balm for every wound ; that 
 there is no sorrow so severe as to be beyond the power 
 of his healing. With me, this has not been the case ; 
 that old rupture of a family tie, at as late a period as 
 this, has all the freshness of yesterday.
 
 MYCONFESSION. 13 
 
 I was born and bred a Roman Catholic. In my 
 earliest youth I was taught to turn to my religion for 
 consolation in affliction. When my trials were great- 
 er than I could bear, I found in it that balm and 
 peace which nothing but a religious belief can bestow. 
 
 Thus, under all my sorrows, I was not without a 
 Friend, a kind, loving Friend, to whom all earthlier 
 ones were valueless. 
 
 As far back as I can recollect, I always possessed 
 a peculiarly imaginative turn of mind ; consequently 
 the visible services of the Roman Church had for me 
 a singular attraction, fitting perfectly to my ideas of 
 divine worship. Indeed, at one time of my life, I was 
 so much guided by my imagination, that I am not 
 sure but my religion was a species of infatuated ro- 
 mance. Be that as it may, it was to me a haven of 
 rest, a Safety in which I put a holy trust. If I had 
 been told that I should one day refuse to believe in it, 
 I would have thrust away the impious insinuation in 
 horror. I will not dwell upon the earlier part of my 
 life ; it is hateful to myself, and can convey no in- 
 terest to my readers. I would not, willingly, place 
 before any one the harrowing details of an unhappy 
 childhood ; my record being, indeed, not of the child, 
 but of the woman. 
 
 Circumstances occasioned my marriage at an early 
 age, a marriage in which, however, my heart was
 
 14 MY CONFESSION. 
 
 not concerned ; that long before was given to one, 
 who, as I thought, despised the gift for was I not low- 
 born and poor, and he of a high name and higher es- 
 tate ? I loved him as only a woman can love, and as 
 even a woman loves but once. 
 
 When, attracted by my beauty, Ralph Carrington, 
 a man of wealth, intellect, and position, asked me for 
 his wife, my parents gave a ready consent ; and I, poor 
 fool, blinded by my wounded pride and bruised affec- 
 tions, yielded myself a willing sacrifice. 
 
 Unconstrained as I was in my decision upon this 
 marriage, I suffered much, more than I can tell, as the 
 time for its consummation approached. I well re- 
 member the agony I endured the night previous to 
 my wedding-day. During the whole afternoon I had 
 been wandering over our little house, in an uneasy 
 and disturbed state of mind, flitting hither and thither 
 like a troubled spirit. Finally, as twilight began to 
 darken, I went for a few moments' repose to my own 
 room. I was almost overcome by my aimless toil, 
 and the inward workings of my poor passiveness. 
 But, alas ! the sight of the many trifling things scat- 
 tered around it, which he had given me who was so 
 soon to be lost forever, caused my courage to fail, and, 
 overpowered by sweet and bitter memories, I threw 
 myself passionately on the floor, (no place was low 
 enough for my despair,) and wept as, I hope, but few
 
 MY CONFESSION. 15 
 
 women of twenty-three had wept before. My mothei 
 came to me, and begged me to arise and descend to re- 
 ceive the greetings of Mr. Carrington's parents. In 
 a fury of passion I refused to see them. I was delir- 
 ious under the great burden of my unpaid love. 
 
 The night passed, and day, when it dawned, found 
 me still lying there, moaning in childish helplessness, 
 and weak and ill from utter exhaustion. When the 
 faint streaks of golden sunlight came through the win- 
 dows, I tried to summon strength to rise and arrange 
 my disordered dress. My long, black hair was torn 
 from its fastenings, and my whole appearance more 
 that of a maniac than a woman in her senses. Stag- 
 gering to the glass, I beheld a sight which frightened 
 me the warring passions, the fiery emotions that 
 were there reflected, made me shudder. I looked like 
 a fiend, but a strangely beautiful one. I could not 
 but be conscious of my beauty, even in the despair of 
 the hour; and, with a loud cry, I smote myself on the 
 face, cursing the loveliness that had called forth the 
 hateful affection of the man to whom I was about 
 sacrificing myself an emotion unworthy the name of 
 love, for it was but a vile desecration of the pure real- 
 ity. 
 
 I opened a window, and the cool, morning air blew 
 on my face in welcome gusts. I grew more compos- 
 ed, my excitement passed partially away, and when I
 
 16 MY CONFESS ION. 
 
 heard the first faint stir of the family about the house, 
 I had become something more like my natural self. 
 
 BY this marriage I had two children, strong, robust 
 boys, whose great resemblance to their father shut 
 them out effectually from my hard, cold heart. I 
 could not love them, although, in my better moments, I 
 strove to do so to love them as much in reality as my 
 conscience compelled me, or appear to love their father. 
 For, being his wife, I endeavored to do my duty by him 
 as faithfully and scrupulously as mortal woman could. 
 
 Wretchedly, vainly, six years of my life flew away 
 bitter, hopeless years, in which I repented a hun- 
 dred thousand times the passionate error of my youth 
 that had made them so. 
 
 Who is there, if he could, would not undo past 
 deeds ? Who is there, as he looks back upon his van- 
 ished life, does not exclaim : " O, that I could live it 
 over again !" 
 
 During all these six fong years I had never seen 
 him in whose despite I had made to myself this 
 martyrdom. Shortly after my marriage, he sailed for 
 Europe. He never wrote to me ; but it was not mine 
 to forget, even though forgotten! Let me not be so 
 unjust to myself, however, as to insinuate that I ever 
 thought of him in any way as connected with the fu-
 
 MY CONFESSION. 17 
 
 ture, which my husband himself, jealous as was his 
 natural disposition, might have condemned. He had 
 known all at the time of our marriage. I was far too 
 proud to conceal from him not only that I did not love 
 him, but also that I loved another. Low as I valued 
 the nature of his love, and as I value it now, it must 
 have been intense and strong to have still compelled 
 him, after such an avowal, to wed me. 
 
 In the sixth year of our marriage, my husband, on 
 account of ill health, was ordered, by his medical ad- 
 visers, to a warmer and less variable climate than 
 that of North America. 
 
 We went to Italy, balmy, poetic Italy the native 
 land of my exiled parents my own ideal of an earth- 
 ly paradise ! 
 
 The first breath of real happiness that I had drawn 
 for many a day was when, indistinctly and in the dis- 
 tance, I beheld the blue, curving lines of the Italian 
 shores. My rapture settled down to a still and in- 
 ward joy, when, after travelling, by slow degrees, 
 through the most interesting portions of the country, 
 we at length took up our residence in a fantastically 
 charmimg villa near Rome. Speaking Italian, I soon 
 grew as accustomed to Italian life as if I had known no 
 other. My husband's lavish expenditure on the reali- 
 zation of my slightest whim, surrounded me with every 
 luxury that had ever entered the imagination of man. 
 
 1*
 
 18 MY CONFESSION. 
 
 If I had not been happy before, I was happy then. 
 Beautiful, beautiful Italy ! never shall my sinful eyes 
 grow purer by looking on you again ! 
 
 Two years, brief as they were delightful, passed 
 thus. 
 
 One night (how well I remember it !) as I was being 
 dressed for afeledl'Anglaise which was to take place in 
 my own house, a servant came to inform me that a man 
 desired to see me, and was waiting for that purpose 
 in one of the smaller drawing-rooms. I was engaged, 
 (Rosina, my maid, was just arranging my hair,) and 
 thinking the request might, after all, resolve itself into 
 a genteel petition for alms, (I was subject to appeals of 
 this kind,) I sent the servant down to give the man 
 some money, and bid him go away. Presently he re- 
 turned bearing a slip of paper, on which the following 
 words were traced in English, and in a handwriting I 
 recognised immediately, although I had not seen it for 
 years : 
 
 " Adzema, I beg of you to see me for old acquaint- 
 ance sake. 
 
 PAUL REMBRANDT." 
 
 Had the pride which actuated me in my marriage 
 sustained me then, I should have refused to see him ; 
 but my only thought was a wild longing to look on 
 him again.
 
 MY CONFESSION. 19 
 
 Rosina hastily banded up my hair ; I slipped on the 
 dress I was to wear for the evening, and hurried down 
 stairs. 
 
 I cannot describe our meeting ; indeed, I have al- 
 most forgotten it, for thirty years of sorrow have pass- 
 ed over my head since then. I only remember that he 
 hurriedly told me he had come to beg a night's shelter 
 of my husband ; that he was a fugitive, and, in conse- 
 quence of an offence against the government, was flee- 
 ing for his life. Ralph was away on a journey of a 
 few days, and having been detained, was not at home 
 to help me do the honors of my fete. Notwithstand- 
 ing his absence, I assured Rembrandt of a perfect wel- 
 come to the hospitality and shelter of the house, in 
 my own name, as well as in that of its absent master. 
 
 He had greatly changed since I had last seen him ; 
 he looked fully fifteen years older. His hair was almost 
 grey, and the expression of his face much careworn,. 
 Involuntarily I asked myself if I too had changed; 
 but my conscious matron pride gave me answer, that 
 my beauty was as undimmed, as radiant as ever. 
 With joy I hailed the welcome truth ; for did it not 
 prove to him that his rejection of my love had not been 
 an unbearable sorrow ? 
 
 He noticed this himself, and said, as he looked at me 
 earnestly ' 
 
 " Adzema, how very, very little you have altered."
 
 20 MY CONFESSION. 
 
 "And you, oh! how differently" I stopped, half 
 ashamed of the impulsive words. 
 
 " Yes," he said, smiling sadly, " I feel I am not the 
 same being I was eight years ago. Some day, if you 
 will listen to my melancholy story, I will tell you all. 
 You who were so full of sympathy for the unfortunate 
 in by-gone days, will surely bestow a little on an old 
 friend now." 
 
 Tears rose to my eyes unbidden. He spoke so very 
 sadly, that there came before me the wretched picture 
 of my lonely girlhood, when I had loved him hopeless- 
 ly, passionately, and, in vain ! Suddenly I started 
 up. Some fiend, some devil from hell itself, must have 
 possessed me. In burning words, whose meaning I 
 did not myself know until they were uttered, I poured 
 forth to him the tale of that miserable secret. Woman- 
 ly modesty, womanly self-respect xvas forgotten. I 
 was crazed, I was wild ; I knew not what my lips said. 
 I, so cold, so haughty, so scornful of all the unhallowed 
 love offered at the shrine of my beauty since my mar- 
 riage /, poor fool, blinded and reckless, laid my heart 
 open, unsolicited, to the eyes of him who had once de- 
 spised it. 
 
 As I proceeded, the fiery eagerness of my manner 
 increased. Regardless of every thing, even his amaze- 
 ment, on on I went with the rush of a swollen torrent, 
 whose course was already too long impeded. Yet I
 
 MY CONFESSION. 21 
 
 distinctly remember, even at this remote time, that I 
 spoke only of a love that had been, and not of one that 
 was. 
 
 Oh ! how he looked at me when I had done, when, 
 at last, I stood there in silence, humiliated at my folly 
 and madness ; worse, my sin, for such I deem it now. 
 How pityingly he looked at me, how tenderly, and yet 
 how wildly! Love, surprise and fear, blended in his 
 pure eyes, a fear great and deep for the preservation 
 of his strength. Then, too late, I became aware of my 
 childishness. Bowing my face in my hands, I could 
 only weep. Such tears ! blood would not have so taken 
 the life from my heart as they. 
 
 And then he told me, in words as sorrowful as they 
 were few, how once, a long while before, he had loved 
 me, but imagined he loved in vain ! 
 
 I repeated scornfully this word "imagined" from 
 between my clasped hands. He paused, hesitated a 
 moment, and then said calmly 
 
 " And yet not altogether imagined, Adzema, for 
 those near and dear to you told me your affections 
 were already given away. We have thus both suffer- 
 ed alike. Let us forget and forgive all of pain we 
 may unconsciously have occasioned each other." 
 
 I took away my hands and looked at him. O good, 
 great man, how well I recollect the horror with which 
 he appeared filled at the confession he had just spoken.
 
 22 MYCONFESSION. 
 
 He seemed as though he hated himself for it ; although 
 / had lost sight of the delicacy of a wedded wife, he 
 had not ; he had respected it far more than I had re- 
 spected it myself. 
 
 Guests were beginning to arrive. I heard their feet 
 pass up the broad stair-case to the dressing-rooms. 
 Suddenly I became aware that it was necessary I 
 should receive them, and just then a brisk tap at the 
 door gave warning that Rosina had come to inform 
 me my duties as hostess were already too long de- 
 ferred. I ran to open it, but instead of Rosina, saw 
 the angry flushed countenance of Ralph. He entered. 
 I understood so well the jealous disposition of my hus- 
 band, that instinctively I dreaded the meeting of these 
 two men. Well I might, for Ralph arriving but a few 
 moments before, had gone to my room, and found 
 there, instead of myself, Paul Rembrandt's note lying 
 on my dressing-table. 
 
 Knowing nothing of the circumstances under which 
 it was written, and remembering Rembrandt only as 
 one who had possessed my love, heated and displeased, 
 he had come to seek me in person. 
 
 Rembrandt advanced to meet him with a somewhat 
 embarrassed, but warm greeting a warmth which I 
 knew his generous soul really felt. Ralph received 
 him haughtily and coldly. This reception prepared me 
 too well for his consequent inhospitality. I do not
 
 MYCONFESSION. 23 
 
 feel myself capable of giving the scene which followed 
 in detail. My memory fails me on some points, and 
 on others I will not even permit myself to think, for 
 they make my breast burn anew with its old dislike 
 for him whom I once vowed to love and obey. What 
 mockery of words ! 
 
 It is enough to state, that Ralph refused the shelter 
 of his roof to his astonished countryman, and that, in 
 language, which any one less excitable than Paul 
 Rembrandt would at once have resented. 
 
 Ralph was violently angry, and evidently thought 
 Mr. Rembrandt's story a ruse to hide the suspicious 
 appearance of a discovered meeting. For once, my 
 presence of mind and strength of purpose deserted 
 me. I dared not plead to my husband for Rembrandt, 
 or assert, as I would have done in a calmer moment, 
 my right to extend to an old friend the refuge he so 
 much needed. 
 
 Loftily and proudly Rembrandt left the room, and it 
 was not until I saw the door close upon him, that my 
 senses returned. I heard the echo of his feet up the 
 graveled walks to the carnage way beyond, and I 
 heard, too, the rain pattering in torrents upon the 
 ground. He was gone, and in that terrible storm ! 
 
 Before morning he might be in the hands of his pur- 
 suers ; I knew too well the awful after fate of all poli- 
 tical offenders against the despotic government of 
 Italy.
 
 24 MY CONFESSION. 
 
 What could I what should I do, passed like light- 
 ning through my brain. I flew, rather than walked, up 
 stairs to my own apartments. I knew Rosina to be a 
 girl entirely devoted to my interests, I determined 
 to make use of her services in recalling Rembrandt. 
 A promised reward and a whispered caution had all 
 the effect I could desire, and not stopping even to 
 throw a hood over her well-shaped Italian head, she 
 sprang down the stairs to the back entrance, and was 
 soon lost to view in the night and rain. In twenty 
 minutes of suspense she re-entered my dressing-room. 
 The rain had by this time abated, yet the poor child 
 was dripping wet. 
 
 "Signora," slie exclaimed, breathless with haste, 
 " the Signer would not return with me as you desired ; 
 but he bade me say, if you have any message to send 
 him, he will await me just without the gates." 
 
 There w r as no help for it ! I must save him ! I tried 
 to persuade myself that, for the sake of by-gone times, 
 it was my duty to snatch him from his impending fate. 
 Pausing long enough to envelope myself in a mantle, 
 I started out to seek him myself. Gathering up my 
 satin ball-robe, I ran along the paths and through the 
 gardens with fevered eagerness. The stars were be- 
 ginning to appear through the dispersing clouds, and 
 by their dim light I found him leaning, with folded 
 arms, against the pillars of the entrance.
 
 MYCONFESSION. 25 
 
 Never shall I forget the surprise, the grateful amaze- 
 ment with which he recognized me. He took my 
 cold hands in his, and while he blessed me again and 
 again, with mingled gentleness and firmness bade me 
 go immediately back. In vain I implored him to re- 
 turn with me. 
 
 " What," said he proudly, " shall I take by stealth 
 the hospitality denied me openly ? You do not know 
 me, Adzema, if you consider me capable of such an 
 action/' 
 
 Once more I forgot myself. My old love came 
 gathering around my heart. I threw myself before 
 him on the wet grass, and begged him, for my sake, to 
 avoid so great and fearful a danger, as detection must 
 inevitably prove. 
 
 " For my sake, Paul," I cried wildly, " for the sake 
 of the love I once bore, and still bear you, yield these 
 false feelings of pride." 
 
 It was a wicked speech, reader ; I am well aware of 
 that ; but possibly the open manner in which I confess 
 it, may create excuse for me in your eyes. I can 
 have no object in writing this slight autobiography to 
 conceal anything from you, or make my offences 
 against God or man less palpable than they are. 
 
 By the tones of his voice, when next he spoke, 
 rather than the expression of his face, for that, by the 
 the faint light, I could scarcely see, I knew his resolu-
 
 26 MYCONFESSION. 
 
 tion was staggered. I saw my advantage, and con- 
 tinued to plead, as a drowning man might, for a last 
 attempt at his rescue ; he yielded, yielded to my will, 
 blindly and wholly. Happy as I felt then, there 
 mingled with my joy a sense of humiliation, such as I 
 never but once afterwards experienced. Though cir- 
 cumstances were extenuating, and I had done evil 
 that good might come of it, I still felt myself an hum- 
 bled and ignoble .temptress. 
 
 Adjoining the villa was a -high and pleasantly slop- 
 ing hill. At its base were the remains of an old tomb 
 or vault, which, years before, had been the burial 
 ground of the first owners of the mansion. I knew it 
 to be well concealed by trees and shrubbery, and hor- 
 rible as the idea appeared, I determined to make it 
 Rembrandt's hiding-place ; well convinced, should his 
 pursuers track him to the villa, that it would be the 
 last spot which they would search, if they even dis- 
 covered its existence. I conducted him passively to 
 it ; with trembling hands, refastened the half worm- 
 eaten door, and hastened back to the house. I was 
 wrought up to great nervous excitement. How I 
 managed to elude the prying eyes of the servants, on 
 my return, I know not. 
 
 Exhausted as I was, I began a change of toilette, 
 and, with Rosina's assistance, soon exchanged my wet 
 and mud-stained robe for one fresh and dry. With
 
 MY CONFESSION. 27. 
 
 hypocrisy on my face, and a smiling lie on my lips, I 
 descended to my guests. Out of very defiance to 
 nature, I exerted myself to appear unconcerned and 
 at my ease. I saw Ralph was keeping a strict and 
 stern watch upon my movements, and for that reason, 
 1 strove to be apparently more gay and joyous than 
 usual. Should a dejected mem show him how he had 
 triumphed over me ? No ! my share of woman's 
 pride was too, great for that. Never were more 
 admiring eyes bent on me ; never did I so stoop to 
 conciliate favor ; never was I as merry, as careless, 
 and gleeful, all with a hidden worm gnawing my 
 heart-strings. Gracefully as I possessed the power, I 
 enacted the part of an affable hostess, until, at last, 
 the " wee sma' hours" found my husband and myself 
 alone in our deserted banquet-rooms. Coldly, and 
 with a mutual sense of estrangement, we separated 
 for the night, neither dreaming what events the next 
 day was to bring forth. 
 
 Excitement then gave way to a feeling of intense 
 exhaustion. Still dressed in the mockery of the even- 
 ing, I flung myself on my bed, and tried to rest. 
 Sleep did not visit my eyes. What a night was that ! 
 I seemed to live anew the days of the regretted Past 
 that fearful monster, who had buried in its deepest 
 tomb, my faith in happiness and my youth. Gone 
 were they both, never to be mine again ! My humble
 
 28 MY CONFESSION. 
 
 home came before me, as though its presence might be 
 attested by the senses ; there arose, too, a sweet vision 
 of Bianca and our early years of sisterhood. Many 
 scenes of my girlish days were renewed ; as I lay 
 there, hot and feverish, the woman was wholly lost in 
 recollections of the girl. 
 
 Morning dawned, and with it vanished my half- 
 crazed visions. At the breakfast table Ralph was 
 absent and abstracted ; there was a stiff coldness in 
 his attentions during the meal, that I could not but re- 
 mark, and which proved to me, that my offence (if it 
 were one) was not to be forgiven. 
 
 On retiring to my dressing-room, I immediately 
 took Rosina to my counsel again. My difficulty now 
 was to transmit food to Mr. Rembrandt, without 
 observation. To do so, seemed to my guilty con- 
 science an impossibility ; but it must be done, and, 
 with Rosina's assistance, it was done ! Food, dry 
 raiment, and fire-wood, were secretly conveyed to the 
 old tomb ; but all attempts that I made to visit it my- 
 self were vain, because Ralph's stern eyes were ever 
 upon me. 
 
 A new excitement, a new subject for alarm, was 
 soon created. About four o'clock in the afternoon we 
 were disturbed by the arrival of some half dozen 
 Italian officials, who had traced Mr. Rembrandt to our 
 villa. Ralph, of course, gave them indignant permis-
 
 M CONFESSION. 20 
 
 sion to search the place from roof to cellar ; and, con- 
 sequently, a thorough examination took place, thank 
 heaven, ' without success ! After overturning the 
 whole arrangement, of the house, they at last de- 
 parted ; and shortly after, in the first dusk of the 
 evening, I found an opportunity to absent myself 
 unobserved. 
 
 As I reached the vault, I was startled by perceiving 
 the figure of a man standing at the entrance. The 
 first moment of affright over, I recognized, in the uncer- 
 tain light, my poor prisoner engaged in fastening the 
 door. Seeing me, he turned and came to meet me. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Rembrandt," I cried, " are you crazy that 
 you thus risk your life ? Have you not heard, even 
 here, something of the tumult that has just passed ? 
 Do you not know the house has been searched by 
 men, who will give you over to almost sure destruc- 
 tion if they discover your hiding-place ? Back, back, 
 I implore you back, as you value your life!" 
 
 " I had rather, Adzem-a," he answered, solemnly, " I 
 had rather a thousand times put myself in their hands 
 voluntarily, than act again, for a single hour, the un- 
 just part which, to-day, I have acted against you" 
 He took my hand as he spoke, drew me within the 
 gray old tomb, and closed the door, which was half 
 unhung, from its rusty hinges. 
 
 What a scene was that within ! In the middle of
 
 30 MYCONFESSION. 
 
 the stone floor burned a flickering fire, that lit up, at 
 fitful intervals, this dismal abode of death and corrup- 
 tion. The ghastly light, playing over the damp and 
 mildewed walls, frightened me in spite of myself, and 
 made the drops of moisture upon them glitter like so 
 many fiery eyes. In one corner lay the remains of 
 what I suppose must once have been human bones, 
 looking all the more hideous by the red light. What- 
 ever rny foot touched, as Rembrandt led me towards 
 the fire, made me recoil with the idea that it had once 
 been animate with human breath. Notwithstanding 
 my fear, my lips were not idle. I begged him to wait 
 but a little while, and give his pursuers time to get 
 somewhat out of his way. My words were wasted 
 and useless. He told me that it was impossible to re- 
 main there longer, "yes," said he, "even if certain 
 death were the consequence. I despise myself for 
 having consented to come here at all, and have waited 
 impatiently for night and darkness to cover my flight. 
 Words, my dearest friend, cannot express my thanks 
 to you, but a sense of right compels me to go ; my 
 lingering here, in this doubtful and secret way, un- 
 known to your husband, compromises your dignity, 
 and exposes you to the misconstructions to which a 
 discovery of my retreat would most certainly give 
 rise." 
 
 Scarcely had the words left his lips, when the door
 
 M\ CONFESSION. 31 
 
 was suddenly thrust aside with the fury of one in the 
 fiercest and hottest of wraths, and, quivering with ex- 
 citement, my husband strode into the tomb. 
 
 " So," cried he, " most unworthy of women, this is 
 the way you guard the honor of your husband ! This 
 is the way you obey him to whom you have sworn 
 obedience shameless, unfaithful wife \" 
 
 He grasped me by the arm as he spoke, and flung 
 me violently against the side of the vault ; then con- 
 fronting Rembrandt, he poured out a torrent of invec- 
 tive, and denounced him by the vilest names that one 
 of God's creatures ever cast upon another. For some 
 moments, the violence of the shock prevented utter- 
 ance. When physical anguish permitted me to speak, 
 I clung to my husband, and besought him to hear me. 
 
 Once again he thrust me passionately away ; and it 
 was the last time his hand ever touched mine. Had I 
 known that then, I might, perhaps, have quelled the 
 demon which that cruel blow made to rise up withinme. 
 
 I must have fainted from the effects of my fright 
 and pain, because I know nothing more of this terrible 
 scene. When I awoke to consciousness, I was in my 
 own room, Itosina bending anxiously over me. Look- 
 ing into her kind Italian eyes, as they gleamed down 
 pityingly in mine, I bade her tell me what had 
 happened, and how I came there. She only answered 
 with sighs and tears. At last she burst forth :
 
 32 MY CONFESSION. 
 
 " O Signora, dearest Signora, the Signer is very, very 
 ill. The Padre is here to confess him, and the avvo- 
 cato to draw the will. O Signora, Signora, the good 
 Virgin look down on you both !" 
 
 Gradually I gathered, from the confused and fright- 
 ened exclamations of the girl, that Ralph had broken 
 a blood-vessel, and was not expected to survive the 
 night. I recall to mind, most vividly, the effect these 
 tidings had upon my frame in its weakened and 
 enfeebled state. I neither wept nor spoke. My sen- 
 sations were those of one suddenly stunned. For 
 hours I lay as in an incomprehensible dream. I could 
 not command my thoughts sufficiently to realize in 
 the least degree the threatened calamity. 
 
 I did not awake from my trance till Rosina, in great 
 dismay, summoned to my aid the physician who was 
 attending my poor husband, and entreated him, with 
 clasped hands and streaming eyes, to save me per 
 l-amore di Dio. A refreshing powder soon had a bene- 
 ficial effect on my system. My tardy senses were 
 opened to the truth. 
 
 They would not admit me to my husband's cham- 
 ber, when I tried to go to him. At the close of the 
 next day, however, the venerable Padre came to con- 
 duct me to him. 
 
 " Walk and speak gently, daughter," he whispered, as 
 I entered the room; "we know not on how frail a 
 thread his life may depend."
 
 MY CONFESSION. 33 
 
 I went to him with a softened and tender heart ; 
 but I soon saw that my visit was not intended to be 
 one of explanations or pardon. 
 
 As I approached the bed on which my husband re- 
 clined, supported in half sitting posture, he motioned 
 me, with white and bloodless hand, to a chair, and 
 slightly bowed his head, as a signal to the avvocato who 
 stood near him. 
 
 Astonished at the sight of so many witnesses of the 
 interview, (his nurse and doctor were also in attend- 
 ance,) I sank, faint with my own illness, to the seat de- 
 signated. 
 
 He was changed O, how changed ! His face was as 
 white as the pillows on which it lay ; his eyes, darker 
 than I had ever seen them, were deeply sunken, and 
 glowed with unearthly brilliancy. Every few mo- 
 ments that transparent hand carried a handkerchief to 
 his lips, and brought it away with a fatal spot of deli- 
 cate pink on its white folds. 
 
 For a few moments silence reigned in the room, 
 unbroken, save by the rustling of the. lawyer's papers, 
 as he spread them out on a little stand at the side of 
 the sick man's bed. 
 
 When all was ready, at a sign from Ralph, the av- 
 vocato turned towards me, and said, in a professional 
 manner and tone 
 
 " I am commissioned by your husband, Signora, to 
 2
 
 34 MY CONFESSION. 
 
 acquaint you with the contents of his will, which I 
 have this day drawn up. The conditions attached to 
 it are somewhat unusual, and it is for the purpose of 
 ascertaining whether you are willing to comply with 
 them, that I now read it aloud in your presence before 
 it is signed by witnesses. Such is the express desire 
 of your husband." The man spoke without any of the 
 feeling natural to the circumstances ; but it was not 
 that which enchained me motionless to my seat. Pre- 
 sentiments, vast and shadowy, were growing out of this 
 strange scene, and fastening on me. The will was 
 read. I scarcely heard it, but one single sentence 
 entered my brain 
 
 " I give and bequeath to my wife, Adzema, my es- 
 tates, &c., &c., on condition that she never marry 
 again, otherwise I leave her nothing more than the 
 law insists." 
 
 The conflicting emotions that filled my heart can 
 better be imagined than described. My recollections 
 of them now are like those of some frightful and op- 
 pressive dream. I knew, without seeing, that Ralph 
 was watching my slightest movements and gesture, 
 and I fell, too, that his glance was both stern and cold, 
 even in its intensity. Presently the lawyer ceased 
 reading ; there was a pause ; Ralph seemed to wait 
 for, and expect my answer. 
 
 I arose from my seat. For a moment I did not
 
 MY CONFESSION. 35 
 
 speak ; I could not. I tried to tell him, in fiery words, 
 of my utter regardlessness of all he might do, but they 
 came not ; and I stood there before him, sick and be- 
 wildered. Very soon my strength returned. The 
 restrained passions, the agonies of years, burst forth 
 from the poor breast that could no longer contain 
 them. 
 
 Fiercely I told him that I had not only never loved, 
 but at that moment I hated him. Unmindful of the 
 looks of mingled horror and compassion with*which 
 the attendants on my husband's death-bed eyed me, I 
 proceeded, loudly and passionately : 
 
 " Away with your hateful bribes," I cried. " I sold 
 myself for your money once, but, thank heaven, I will 
 not be bought or sold again, for the selfishness either 
 of life or death !" 
 
 He shuddered, and turned even paler than before. 
 I saw it. I rejoiced in it. A thrill of revengeful tri- 
 umph went through my whole frame. I cannot tell 
 what bitter things I said after this. When, outraged 
 by my words, they tried to take me from the room, I 
 cried out, with, all my voice : 
 
 " Let me alone ! I have borne with him during the 
 best and freshest part of my hie. I have never com- 
 plained or uttered aught against him ; let him bear with 
 me now. I must, I will speak." I turned towards
 
 36 MY CONFESSION. 
 
 him again, but they bore me away. / neve?- saw him 
 more. 
 
 During the long and sleepless night that followed, I 
 repented in sackcloth and ashes my savage words to a 
 dying man. I shrank in horror from the idea of that 
 being our last meeting on earth. Humbled to the dust, 
 meekly and penitently, in the darkness of night, I crept 
 down to his room, determined to speak with him once 
 more to ask him to forgive the violence into which I 
 had been hurried. They refused me admittance, just- 
 ly deeming that I was no fit visitant for a death-cham- 
 ber. I begged, prayed and entreated. I promised to 
 restrain myself; to say nothing ; to give up my hopes 
 of hearing him speak his earthly pardon, if they would 
 but let me see him. They denied me ; saying he was 
 not to be excited farther, that he was then dying. I 
 humbled myself as I had never been humbled, save to 
 my Creator, but gently they rejected my petition, and 
 then I knew it was because he had said so, and that he 
 dreaded to see me again. 
 
 I suffered tortures during the rest of that awful 
 night. I felt I deserved it all ; that much as I had 
 patiently endured throughout his life, I had, by final 
 passion, forfeited all right to be with him when he 
 died. And so it was. His eyes were closed by other 
 hands than mine.
 
 MY CONFESSION. 37 
 
 I have a faint recollection of the unnatural stillness 
 tliat for a long while afterwards reigned in the house, 
 and of the sad faces of the servants, as they moved to 
 and fro with slow and noiseless steps. I think my 
 senses must again have been numbed all this seemed 
 so unlike reality to me at the time. 
 
 As months passed on, Italy grew hateful to me. It 
 awoke too many unpleasant reflections, and I returned 
 to America. My father and mother were dead. With 
 my two boys I took up my residence in a pretty cot- 
 tage near Tarrytown, on the Hudson river. There, 
 on the income which the law allowed me from my 
 husband's property, I lived secluded and alone, brood- 
 ing over the past, and hoping happiness and domestic 
 love for the future. 
 
 AT length I married again. I married him with 
 whom my heart had always been, and with whom it 
 is now, although he, too, is in his grave. We were 
 very happy together in those few years. Happiness 
 is too tame a word for such overflowing bliss ! 
 
 Is there not more than happiness in the union of 
 perfect love and tastes, artistic and perfect in them- 
 selves ? 
 
 We were more, O, far more than merely happy ; 
 and when he died, great God ! I was unutterably more
 
 38 MYCONFESSION. 
 
 than unhappy ! I never desired to see the light again ; 
 I longed to die. More than once was I tempted to cast 
 back, myself, the gift of life to my Creator. God pity 
 me! What repose would have been sweeter to me 
 than that of death, if I but lay across the sods that 
 cover his breast ? Did I not have gentler thoughts 
 when, often, in those nights long with tears, my cheek 
 rested on that wet grass ? Did not my heart beat 
 with more resignation when so near you, Paul ? God 
 pity me, God pity me ! I am alone now. 
 
 IT was a sweet and quiet day in June. Earth, sky 
 and river shone as bright as when they first gleamed 
 out of chaos. I stood at the gate of our peaceful 
 country home to bid my husband God-speed on his 
 journey. My dark-eyed, rosy little girl his child 
 clung shyly around my knees, when her step-brothers 
 came to give their parting kiss, laughing and weeping 
 by turns as she saw them clamber into the tiny chariot. 
 They were going back to school after the spring holi- 
 days, and Paul, kind, generous Paul, ever more mind- 
 ful of others' pleasure than his own, was going to drive 
 them there in the pony carriage, as an agreeable varie- 
 ty from the usual mode in which they travelled to and 
 fro at each semi-yearly vacation. I watched the
 
 MX* CONFESSION. 39 
 
 chariot till the brisk ponies bore it out of the range of 
 vision. And then I sat down on the fresh spring 
 grass, and wove a crown of leaves for the hair of my 
 bright darling, who would scarcely stand still for pretty 
 childish tricks, while I wreathed it around her fair 
 head. As I looked at her, half dancing before my 
 pleased eyes, I thought my cup of bliss was surely 
 full. And before night the tidings came that dashed 
 it forever from my thirsting lips. A bridge, about 
 four miles distant, that spanned an inlet from the river, 
 had given away with the chariot upon it ; and the 
 exulting waters devoured those three lives one of 
 them dearer to me than my own ! 
 
 THERE, by the side of that dead man, whom alone of 
 all the whole world I had ever really loved, loved with 
 all the powers of my being, I made a solemn vow. A 
 fierce determination took possession of rny soul. I 
 vowed that my child should never feel aught of love 
 for either God or man ; never know of the existence of 
 that Deity who had, as I believed, forsaken me; and in 
 the uncertainties of an earthly affection, I also prom- 
 ised myself that her happiness should never become in- 
 volved. Alas ! what was I doing, but shutting her out 
 from the two glories of time and eternity !
 
 40 MY CONFESSION. 
 
 My mind was filled with a multitude of emotions. 
 I had suffered so much, so deeply, myself my affec- 
 tions had been so bruised, my whole life so miserable 
 that, in my grief, I rebelled against the hand that smote 
 me ; I denied my Lord ! 
 
 " If there were a God and^ Creator," I exclaimed, in 
 the bitterness of my wrath, " would he thus afflict a 
 poor creature, who has worshipped him with a life- 
 long devotion who has placed in him her all of hope 
 and confidence ; would He, who is represented as 
 great, good and holy, visit his humble disciple with 
 agonies which the fiend himself might bestow upon his 
 angels ? No ! there is NO God and no Creator ! I 
 DENY his existence ! A GOD would not send such undy- 
 ing anguish to one who ever knelt to him in prayer." 
 
 Many years of infidel hopelessness passed, in grief 
 that refused to be comforted. The smile of my Crea- 
 tor was never mine, His presence was never near me. 
 In hard, cold unbelief, my life went down to the past, 
 while the future loomed up amid a darkness deeper 
 than that of night. 
 
 I now come to a part of my life to which I revert 
 with agony of spirit. I would give all my hopes of 
 heaven, if I could wipe out its sins. I will write of it 
 briefly ; my pen and brain are alike wearied. 
 
 At my dear husband's death, I had sworn to guard 
 my child from the rocks on which her poor mother's
 
 MYCONFESSION. 41 
 
 hopes had been wrecked. I had vowed that she should 
 live ignorant of the existence of her God, and free from 
 the influence of mortal passion. 
 
 To accomplish my purpose, I purchased a quiet 
 tract of country in a part of western Ohio, which was 
 then almost removed from the knowledge of men. 
 There, I thought I might, myself, live and die in peace, 
 undisturbed and in perfect seclusion, and my child, my 
 tender-hearted Azalie grow up to become a happier and 
 purer minded woman than those bred in great cities. 
 My vow ! it, too, was there, and only there to be ful- 
 filled ! 
 
 It was a lovely spot, wild as nature made it, it 
 pleased me with its rugged beauty. Green with ven- 
 erable trees, lofty mountains rose on either side of it, 
 hiding all but heaven from the eye. 
 
 No road or footpath led to the little log-dwelling 
 that I caused to be erected. It was reached with 
 much difficulty, and being situated miles away from 
 other habitations, it was as secluded as if on an island 
 in the bosom of the ocean. 
 
 Along the mountain's sides I had some fields clear- 
 
 ed for cultivation. While I chose them with a 
 to a good sun exposure, I also took pains to select 
 them in a hollow, that concealed their existence. I 
 lived there, alone, for many years. I retained but one 
 servant, an aged man who had grown up in the ser- 
 
 2*
 
 42 M y (,' O N F E S S I O N . 
 
 vice of my husband's family, and who was devotedly 
 attached to me and my daughter. He was the only 
 partaker of my retirement ; my solitude was enliven- 
 ed by no other companion. Hundreds of miles away 
 from those who knew me, my child, my Azalie, was 
 my all. Every day strengthened my love for her; she 
 became my idol, my religion, my God ! 
 
 For her sake, all the toil and drudgery of that singu- 
 lar, life I cheerfully endured. With my own hands I 
 aided to cultivate the ground ; with the once delicate 
 members which, sparkling with jewels, princes, in 
 olden days, had kissed, I sowed and reaped, and gath- 
 ered in abundant harvests. Unwearied, I labored 
 early and late, for on my exertions, principally, de- 
 pended our daily bread ; Martin, dear old man, being 
 too old and feeble for an excessively active life. This 
 was of little moment, as I was prepared for all trials, 
 all labors, in the accomplishment of my purpose. I 
 doubt if I should have permitted 'even that venerable 
 and time-proved domestic to share my exile, were I 
 not continually tormented with the fear of suddenly 
 dying in that wood-solitude, and leaving my child to 
 perish of hunger, far removed from human aid. 
 
 I do not know, though, how I could have refused 
 his moving prayer, to remain in my service till he 
 died. " It will not be long, dear Mrs. Rembrandt," he 
 , beseechingly " I am very old. ; you will soon
 
 MYCONFESSION. 43 
 
 cease to be troubled with me. I was born in the ser- 
 vice of the Rembrandts, and, Lord willing, I shpuld 
 like to die in it. My kin are all dead ; I have not 
 another friend in the world but you !" Was it a won- 
 der he remained with me ? 
 
 How well I remember the fair, peaceful summer day 
 when he made me this humble petition. I had been 
 paying the other servants their wages, and giving 
 them their dismissals. It was just previous to my re- 
 moval to the West. Old Martin came slowly up the 
 steps to the long shady piazza on which I sat, and as 
 he fumbled with his rustic straw hat, spoke to me 
 those memorable words. I shall never forget them. 
 They touched the bottom of my heart. As the wind 
 tossed back his long, white locks from his wrinkled 
 forehead, I said to him, "Go, Martin, and be happy; 
 you shall remain with the last, poor remnant of the 
 noble family in which you were reared." 
 
 Without explaining my reasons for removing to that 
 distant Western home, I made him promise never to 
 mention, in Azalie's presence, the names of God or 
 heaven ; and, at the risk of quitting me forever, he 
 did so promise, although I could see it sorely troubled 
 his good old heart. In case of my death, he also pro r 
 mised to take my child immediately to her aunt 
 Bianca, who had given me a solemn vow, when I 
 visited her for the last time, previous to my going;
 
 44 MY CONFESSION. 
 
 away, that if Azalie ever became an orphan, she 
 wojjld take the guardianship of her, her fortune, and 
 of poor old Martin also. But I hoped to live for many 
 a year, and mould the heart of my daughter, as I be- 
 lieved, would fit her best for her life-battle with the 
 world. Fervently did I desire that my task might not 
 be interrupted that I might live till my undertaking 
 was completed ; then, I thought, she could go out and 
 mingle with her fellow-beings in safety, after I had 
 hardened her heart to God and man ! 
 
 Four times a year I made a journey to the nearest 
 settlement, which was situated about thirty-five miles 
 farther South. The only animal I employed on my 
 miniature farm, was the horse of which I made use on 
 these occasions. Martin was not able to bear the 
 fatigue of the long ride, and, to tell the truth, I pre- 
 ferred to go myself, assured that I could more easily 
 baffle curiosity than he. I usually returned well-load- 
 ed after these excursions, for they were the only 
 opportunities I possessed of providing my little family 
 with suitable clothing for the different seasons, and of 
 procuring those necessaries and luxuries which are not 
 the produce of an American farm. At these periods, 
 also, I posted and received letters, welcome enliveners 
 of my solitude. So devious and rough were the roads 
 that led to this settlement, independently of the diffi- 
 culty I found in getting from our cabin to the road
 
 MY CONFESSION. 45 
 
 itself, that many days of weariness invariably succeed- 
 ed the journey. Once I was overtaken by a storm, 
 and, having lost my way, wandered about for twelve 
 dreary hours, until both my own courage and my 
 patient steed's, gave way. Had not these visits been 
 absolutely necessary, I scarcely think I should ever 
 have ventured within sight of humanity. But we 
 could not live quite like savages, nor could I give up 
 the luxury of hearing occasionally from Bianca, and 
 some few other friends, who took sufficient interest in 
 my fate to write to me. 
 
 Thus, I existed for long, long years; I scarcely 
 know how many, for, in my strange and not unconge- 
 nial pursuits, I lost regard for the reckonings of time. 
 
 My daughter grew very beautiful. It filled me with 
 mad disappointment to see it. I had longed for her to 
 become a plain and unattractive woman, that she 
 might thus the better repel the attacks of that which I 
 then deemed woman's greatest enemy Love. She 
 grew very beautiful. Her large, wondering eyes were 
 of the brightest and most defiant hazel ; her features 
 were tenderly, not coldly classical ; and her black hair, 
 and white, open forehead, looked like an abrupt con- 
 trast of shadow and sunshine. 
 
 I educated her myself. Who else was there in that 
 wilderness to whom to entrust her instruction, and to 
 whom would I have entrusted it ? By degrees, I
 
 40 MYCONFESSION. 
 
 taught her all I knew that, alas ! was not much a 
 correct knowledge of the English and Italian lan- 
 guages forming the greatest features of her educa- 
 tion. 
 
 For her reading, I took the utmost pains to give her 
 only such books as would afford her harmless pleasure, 
 and yet contain no reference to religion. Travels, 
 and quiet domestic stories, were all I placed in her 
 hands. Here, let me distinctly state, that I had not 
 desired, at any period of her life, to inspire her with 
 a disgust for society, nor a hatred of her fellow- 
 creatures. Such a feeling I had never cultivated 
 myself, nor had it been any part of my object in her 
 seclusion. 
 
 It was wondrous what a fondness I acquired for this 
 desolate existence. I was contented and almost 
 happy ; as happy as I could be after the death of one 
 I loved as much as my dear husband. I grew stronger 
 and healthier than I remember having been before or 
 since. By constant labor in the open air, my hands 
 lost their delicacy, and my person its fragile appear- 
 ance ; but I was too earnest, too energetic in my pur- 
 pose, to care if all outward traces of the woman were 
 lost in the savage. I was fast becoming one a sav- 
 age in soul as well as body. My conscience could not 
 become entirely lulled as to the course I was pursuing. 
 Although I did not believe in the existence of a Deity,
 
 MYUONFESSION. 47 
 
 and wantonly allowed one of heaven's holiest spirits 
 to live unconscious of its Creator, I could not stifle 
 the occasional remorse that gave me warning of my 
 sin. Did I yield to it ? No ! ' I was not easily to be 
 turned aside from my aim. 
 
 Azalie was an uncommonly thoughtful child for her 
 years. Her desire for knowledge was great ; so much 
 so, that I often taxed my powers severely, in order to 
 gratify her natural curiosity, without revealing more 
 than I desired or believed. Like myself, she was of 
 an imaginative temperament. 
 
 It became remarkable, sometimes, how near she 
 frequently came in her search for information, to the 
 very subjects which, of all others, I wished to avoid. 
 One day we were walking homeward, from a long 
 ramble in the majestic old forests that surrounded my 
 little farm in all their undefiled beauty. As w r e neared 
 home, the west grew brilliant with sunset; every- 
 thing, as far as eye could reach, looked, in the faint 
 dimness of the softened light, as if gifted with a fresh 
 loveliness. 
 
 Coming to an opening in the wood, the child ap- 
 peared struck with the chastened magnificence of the 
 scene, and paused several times to look around her 
 and comprehend its subdued splendor. A new 
 thought striking her, suddenly, she turned quickly to- 
 wards me, and exclaimed :
 
 48 M Y C O N F R S B I O N 
 
 " How did the world get so beautiful as this, mother ? 
 What makes the sun gleam every night on the trees 
 in- this way? O, look at that great maple, see it 
 shine ! I wonder what made the sun to shine the 
 first, the very first time on the world !" 
 
 I tried to satisfy her curiosity, by telling her w r hat I 
 had forced myself to believe of the self-production of 
 the earth ; but she was not at all content with my ex- 
 planations, and walked along at my side, half murmur- 
 ing to herself the words, " I wonder who makes the 
 sun to shine !" 
 
 Instinct had already taught her that there must be 
 some high source whence everything that was won- 
 drous and beautiful in nature derived its wonder and 
 beauty. She seemed, thenceforth, to feel that there 
 had been a creation of the world by some Almighty, 
 invisible, but glorious Being. 
 
 Long after that summer day's ramble, I was able to 
 trace the workings of her young mind, by the imagin- 
 ative conjectures which frequently broke out in won- 
 dering utterance. 
 
 The wildest Indian that roamed our shores of old, 
 came into life with a like instinct. It is as natural to 
 humanity as the power of speech ; only death can 
 destroy it. Historians record it as a startling fact, 
 and travellers write in amazement, of its existence 
 among the most remote and barbarous of unknown 
 nations.
 
 MYCONFESSION. 49 
 
 Think of this, and ponder well on it, oh ! ye who 
 deny Him who called the earth out of chaos, and gave 
 its rich inheritance of human life ! 
 
 DAYS glided past ; months and years vanished. 
 Time told me I was growing old, and I felt the truth. 
 The cares and sorrows I had endured all my life now 
 began to manifest their effects outwardly. My beauty 
 was not only faded, but almost gone from me. Every 
 week added to the grey of my head and the deep fur- 
 rowed lines of my face. I can scarcely express how 
 much this gradual change affected me. I had so long 
 felt a triumph in my physical superiority over other 
 women, that it caused me more than humiliation to 
 see it thus pass away forever. In the time of my 
 youth and poverty I had defied wealth, dominion, and 
 luxury, through my beauty, and by it I had risen above 
 my obscure position. Though but the simple dower 
 of nature, through its means I had eclipsed those higher 
 born than myself, and won riches, power and love. 
 All the pride of my nature was based upon the con- 
 sciousness of my beauty a pride 'which had none of 
 the attributes of vanity, however but such a pride as, 
 in the days when I believed in God, had caused me to 
 bless Him for it in my nightly prayers. I felt that the
 
 50 MY CONFESSION. 
 
 angels in heaven were all beautiful, and it was a balm 
 of consolation to think that I was like them in some- 
 thing. 
 
 When this beauty began to fade, great, deep and 
 unbounded was my grief. There still hangs at the 
 side of my dressing-glass the same delicately executed 
 miniature, representing me in the bloom of my youth, 
 which long ago I placed there as a check on my re- 
 pining, that it might show, day by day, the stern and 
 increasing contrast between what I was, and what I 
 had been. 
 
 Thus I accustomed myself to age and wrinkles. It 
 was a victory worth double all it cost ! 
 
 ONE evening in the early Spring, (my sweet child- 
 daughter was sixteen or seventeen years old at the 
 time,) as we were about retiring for the night, there 
 arose a sudden and violent storm, that rocked the 
 cabin to its foundation. 
 
 The rain descended like one unbroken sheet of 
 water, and in the tempest of winds we could hear, with- 
 out, the crashing of the old forest trees, as they fell 
 uprooted to the ground. 
 
 Involuntary thoughts of death came over my infidel 
 mind, yet I tried to hide my alarm for the sake of my
 
 MY CONFESSION. 51 
 
 poor frightened Azalie, who clung to me as though I 
 possessed the power of protecting her from the warring 
 elements. Occasionally, the shriekings and howlings 
 of overtaken animals in drowning agonies smote pain- 
 fully on the ear ; but above everything, I heard the wild 
 dash of those mighty waters, and my guilty soul could 
 think of naught but them. Good God ! they were ac- 
 cumulating, they were rising, I saw it, by the stream 
 beginning to flow under the doors, slowly yet resist- 
 lessly ! I was nigh frantic. Even now the recollec- 
 tion of that appalling storm calls up a shudder. 
 
 Why, in that hour of affright, did 1 think so fear- 
 fully of the heaven-descending deluge that of old de- 
 stroyed men for their sins ? 
 
 In the very height of the tempest, just as old Martin' 
 was trying to prove to me that the excessively vivid 
 lightning and deafening peals of thunder were tokens 
 of a speedy abatement, we were startled by hearing 
 from without some half dozen furious attempts to force 
 the door, which being succeeded by clamorous and 
 roughly eager demands for admittance, left no doubt 
 that human beings had found their way to our solitary 
 abode. Moved by profoundest pity for the poor crea- 
 tures exposed to the fury of such a night, I flew to 
 unbar the door. Three men, half exhausted by a bat- 
 tle with the whirlwind, rushed, dripping wet, under the 
 offered shelter.
 
 52 MY CONFESSION. 
 
 They were evidently hunters, as I easily told by 
 their rifles and attire. Having lost their way in the 
 storm, they had been guided to temporary shelter by 
 our lighted windows. Two of them I saw, at once> 
 were of the usual class to which those rough, weather- 
 beaten men belong ; but the third had a more civilized 
 gleam in his dark eyes, and a something in his face 
 that raised it, in intellectual expression, infinitely above 
 those of his companions. 
 
 The glances of open and astonished admiration 
 which these men cast on my innocent child's beauty, 
 caused me at once to retire with her to the sleeping- 
 room above. 
 
 God knows I have cause to .remember that night for 
 more than the terrible storm it produced ! 
 
 Leaving the hunters to the good offices of Martin, 
 we sought our beds, but from great excitement, found 
 neither sleep nor rest. The morning broke, clear and 
 golden. Before I came down, our visitors of the pre- 
 vious night had departed. I experienced a feeling of 
 relief when I heard them leave the house, for never 
 but once before were we disturbed by the intrusion of 
 a white man, the frequent begging calls of the Indians, 
 however, being nothing uncommon. 
 
 As if to present the greatest of contrasts, that spring 
 day was as brightly clear as it was possible for day to
 
 MY CONFESSION. 53 
 
 be. There remained no cloud in the sky, no spot on 
 the earth, that was not all beauty and sunshine. 
 
 Not many days after this furious and memorable 
 tempest, I had occasion to go to the settlement of 
 
 , on one of my quarterly expeditions. I went 
 
 alone, as was my habit. 
 
 After attending to the various duties that brought 
 me there, I stopped at the post-office, so called proba- 
 bly from courtesy, for the mail-box occupied a corner 
 of a log cabin. Among a half dozen letters, some from 
 friends, and one from my lawyer, with its customary 
 remittance, I found one from my sister. 
 
 It was written incoherently and brokenly. The 
 hand-writing was scarcely legible ; but a postscript 
 from her husband, gave me more decisively the tidings 
 that she was ill, and desired to see me. 
 
 " For," wrote she, " I know I have not long to live, 
 and there is that on my mind, oh! my dear sister, which 
 I must tell you, before my soul goes up to be judged 
 before God ! So will it be lightened of half the sin- 
 load it will carry. O, Adzema, come to me ! come and 
 forgive !" 
 
 I was filled with amazement on reading these and 
 other, to me, mysterious words. What had the pure- 
 minded, happy Bianca done to me of wrong, that my 
 forgiveness was necessary to the peace of her dying 
 bed ? Nothing, nothing, I was assured ; and yet I felt
 
 54 MY CONFESSION. 
 
 I must see her, for her husband wrote that her days 
 were numbered. Notwithstanding my anxiety to fly 
 to her sick-room, the thought of Azalie, alone in that 
 western wild, rose prominently before me. How could 
 I leave her ? Yet I determined to go. Although I had 
 never been separated from her for more than a day, 
 my duty in this case was too imperative to be neg- 
 lected. 
 
 Besides, what was there to fear beyond the Indians, 
 and had not they always shown themselves friendly 
 and peaceable in their almost weekly visits ? Had not 
 gifts of mutual satisfaction often passed between us ? 
 
 I flung the thought of danger from me, and mount- 
 ing my horse, rode as fast as possible over the weary 
 thirty-five miles that lay between home and me, making 
 up my mind on the way how to break the news to my 
 child, and how best to pacify her when its full mean- 
 ing dawned upon her. 
 
 The next day I set out. Azalie and Martin attend- 
 ed me as far as the horse-path that led to the open 
 road ; then, after many tears and embraces from my 
 dear daughter, and some misgivings on my own part, 
 I quickened Lady Jane's speed, (though the poor beast 
 had not recovered the fatigue of the day before,) and 
 soon found myself fairly on my journey. 
 
 Azalie's sobs were the last sounds I heard as I made 
 a sudden turn in the wood-path.
 
 MY CONFESSION. 55 
 
 Arriving at , I procured shelter and care for 
 
 my horse until my return, and secured farther travel- 
 ling accommodations to the open and settled part of 
 the country. More than once my feelings so nearly 
 overpowered me, that I was on the point of return- 
 ing. 
 
 I would a thousand times that I had ! 
 
 Travelling in those days was not what it is now. 
 I think I was over ten days in reaching my sister's 
 residence a distance which, at the present time, could 
 be gone over in as many hours. 
 
 ALL these details trouble my brain and spirit. I have 
 tried to forget them for so many years, that to call 
 them up now, seems like tearing open old wounds. 
 But they must be written must be sent out to the 
 world as part of the experiences of a woman whose 
 passions misled her. 
 
 I reached Bianca just at twilight on theltenth day. 
 Her husband a man of sterling worth met me on 
 the threshold of his costly city residence. He appear- 
 ed glad, gratefully glad to see me. 
 
 " Thank God ! you have come in time," he fervently 
 ejaculated, as he led me to the room prepared for my 
 reception. " For the last three hours we have minute-
 
 56 MY CONFESSION. 
 
 1 Y expected her to breathe her last ; but she said she 
 could not, would not die till she had seen you." 
 
 When she heard of my arrival, Bianca sent for me 
 with eager joy. Our meeting was affecting in the 
 extreme, and to me most painfully so. As soon as it 
 was over, scarcely giving herself time to recover from 
 its agitating effects, she abruptly ordered her attend- 
 ants from the apartment, and when her husband still 
 lingered, with natural unwillingness, she begged him 
 in wild impatience to leave her " alone with Adzema." 
 
 Her great beauty was not all gone. Her eyes had 
 still their blue-sky lustre, her skin its white transpa- 
 rency. Sickness and the lapse of years had impaired, 
 not robbed her of her charms. 
 
 Never can the intensity of her manner fade from my 
 memory, as, half elevating herself on her wasted arm, 
 she said, " Promise me, dear Adzema, promise me be- 
 fore heaven, you will forgive me, or I cannot tell you 
 what is to be forgiven ! Promise me, as if all heaven 
 and its angels heard your vow." 
 
 "Dear Bianca, do not agitate yourself thus. I 
 promise solemnly, although for me there exists no 
 heaven. If all sisters had as little to forgive as 
 
 " As you," she interrupted vehemently " you have 
 to forgive me the ruin of your soul. You have to for- 
 give me sending you astray from that heaven which
 
 MY CONFESSION. 57 
 
 only now you denied. Listen quick, for my strength 
 fails, and I cannot die with my unforgiven sin, and its 
 fearful consequences. Oh! how it has haunted me 
 ever since you took Azalie to Ohio, to educate her in 
 ignorance of God and religion ; for that, too, is on my 
 soul. You know what it was to love him ; you alone 
 can tell the temptations that beset me. How could I 
 help loving him was not he good, and pure, and noble- 
 minded ? Was not he all that was oh, God ! and 
 yet he never loved me ! I saw he worshipped you 
 from the first ; I exerted myself to entice him away 
 from you. I was more beautiful than you ; I tried to 
 allure him by that beauty, and all the while, Adzema, 
 I saw you returned his passion ! Was I not base was 
 I not viler than the worms of the earth ? An evil 
 spirit took possession of me. When I became aware 
 that his love for you was unchangeable, I declared in 
 my degradation, that you should never marry him. I 
 could not bear the thought of your some day becoming 
 his wife. I poisoned his mind with falsehoods, and so 
 adroitly did I manage, that he believed me as readily 
 as hewould have believed an angel. I told him you 
 were already the betrothed of Ralph Carrington ; and 
 great joy was it to me then to see him suffer what I 
 had so long suffered, hopelsss, undying adoration! 
 Oh ! my sister, my only sister you whom I have so 
 wronged, what might have been your fate, had not I 
 
 3
 
 58 MYCONFESSION. 
 
 stepped in your path to mar your happiness ! I, sur- 
 rounded with wealth, and you, learning the hard les- 
 sons of poverty in a youth made doubly wretched by 
 care and trouble ! Oh ! listen, this is not all ! Look at 
 the consequences of my ignoble, unwomanly false- 
 hoods ! Look at the consequences more than the sin 
 itself! Had you married Paul Rembrandt then, you 
 would have lived for many years a life of affection 
 and peace. I separated you for a worse fate than that 
 of a mere passing love-disappointment. Your im- 
 petuous nature took fire. Your passion lay deeper 
 than I thought, and, in very despite, you consented to 
 unite yourself to Ralph. What has your life been 
 since ! look at it, and see how it cries out against me! 
 I have done it all ; I have made you what you are ! 
 On my soul hangs the guilt of your Atheism, the mon- 
 strousness of your child's heathen ignorance. Oh, sis- 
 ter ! Oh, Adzema, pardon me, forgive me for his sake 
 / loved him, too ; cannot that make some pity for me in 
 your breast ? Look at me see this wasted form 
 this pallid, fleshless face ! They tell me it is disease 
 that has made me thus, but I know it is agony of mind 
 wearing out the body. 
 
 "You have been avenged! Like you, I married a 
 man for whom I experienced nothing but indifference, 
 and for years on years, added to the misery that that 
 union has produced, I have carried in my heart a fire
 
 MYCONFESSION. 59 
 
 of retribution for my crime against you, burning, burn- 
 ing, burning oh, God ! I feel it consuming me now !" 
 
 I was deeply agitated. As I looked at her, half sit- 
 ting on the bed, with her eyes flashing forth an un- 
 earthly splendor, and her thin, white hands gesticulating 
 violently before her, I began to weep. They were the 
 first tears I had shed for many long months ; and, as 
 they flowed, seemed to give me an unmeasurable re- 
 lief. A feeling of indignation oppressed me for one 
 moment, this confession was so new, so unexpected ; 
 but the next, my good angel befriended me and bore 
 it away. I thought only of Bianca and myself as little 
 children, and then softening, I pressed my two arms 
 gently round that fragile form, and told her to think of 
 her sorrow no more, that I loved her well, and always 
 should as long as my life lasted. A faint smile played 
 over her lips, and then she softly uttered, " that is not 
 enough, sister. Say to me the words, ' I forgive you, 
 as I hope God will forgive me.' " 
 
 " There would be no virtue in them if 1 did, dear 
 Bianca, you know I do not believe in God." 
 
 Her face darkened again. " But you must believe 
 in God!" Then more softly she urged "Oh, do not 
 spurn an immortality! Let me make all right that 
 which I once made so wrong. I cannot go down to 
 my grave in peace and leave you in such night as this !
 
 60 MYCONFESSION. 
 
 Sister, dear sister, listen to my prayer, as you would to 
 a voice from the dead." 
 
 MUCH more she said to me before she died. But 
 there was a rock of iron in my bosom on which her 
 voice beat as a wave upon a stony shore. Yet as 
 her last troubled breath went from her, she blessed me. 
 
 WITH a chastened, but not a subdued spirit, I turned 
 towards my western home. Henceforth my child was 
 indeed to be my all ; I had just buried the last of my 
 kindred. Brooding gloomily over my desolate situa- 
 tion in the wide world, I pursued my way back again 
 to solitude. There, in those wilds of nature, I still de- 
 sired to bury myself and my misfortunes from all my 
 kind. As I journeyed slowly along, half unconscious- 
 ly, I reviewed my past life. Recalling its few joys 
 and many griefs, I uttered a fervent hope that my 
 child's fate might differ from mine. " Rather," 1 
 thought, " would I see her in her grave !" 
 
 It was early morning when I neared home. The 
 sun was scarcely up, for in my impatience to see 
 Azalie, I had ridden all night. Lady Jane drooped
 
 MY CONFESSION. 61 
 
 her proud head in utter fatigue, as we emerged from 
 the dark forest into the open fields that led to the log- 
 cabin. Its doors and windows were still closed, and 
 there was nothing astir without, that gave token of 
 either Martin or Azalie having risen. 
 
 Bounding from my horse, I knocked loudly, and 
 called to them to open to me. 
 
 It seemed an age (for I was half wild with, eager- 
 ness), before Martin unbarred the door. Startled by 
 his solemn air, and pale, haggard countenance, I 
 pushed past him into the room. My child was not 
 there to meet me ; everything was silent as death. A 
 presentiment of evil hovered over me, as I cried in 
 agony 
 
 " Oh ! Martin, Martin, where is Azalie ?" 
 He sank down fainting before me, and moaned out : 
 " Oh, my lady, she has gone and left you ; she has 
 gone and left you, and only God knows where !" 
 
 "MOTHER, dear, darling, beautiful mother," (thus 
 the note run which my innocent child had left for me,) 
 " do not weep, for I shall be home soon, and then we 
 will be happier than we have ever been before. Philip 
 loves me so much, dear mother, that he says he will 
 come and live with us always, and love you and dear
 
 62 MY CONFESSION. 
 
 old Martin just as I do. And I would not have gone 
 away at all, only he said I should be here again almost 
 as soon as you. Do you remember that awful storm 
 just before you went away ? 
 
 " That was when Philip Randel first saw me, and he 
 says he loved me even then. We have met often in 
 the woods since, sometimes down by the brook, and 
 sometimes near the old blasted cedars. He did not 
 like to come to the cabin, because he thought perhaps 
 Martin would not like it, I do not know why though, 
 I am sure Martin could not help liking him. I go 
 away, dear mother, to return again very, very soon. 
 
 " O do not be displeased with me. I cannot but love 
 him ; and if I do, Philip says I should be willing to 
 marry him. And so I am. 
 
 " O, darling mother, do not feel badly about me, you 
 will love him too, when we come back to you." 
 
 DAYS and weeks rolled away ; to me they passed in 
 a whirlwind of agony, for they brought no tidings of 
 my lost child. My punishment was indeed greater 
 than I could bear. The tortures of the Inquisition 
 were nothing to those I endured in my broken-hearted 
 suspense. 
 
 I caused the country to be scoured in all directions 
 by the Indians, dazzling them with promises of great 
 rewards in return for the least news of my daughter
 
 MYCONFESSION. 63 
 
 and her destroyer, for such was my terrible convic- 
 tion. I offered all I possessed for the discovery of her 
 abode. In vain. The wily hunter had hidden her too 
 securely or too far away for effort of mine to reach 
 her. I know not how my hand can write of this man 
 so calmly, man, are fiends men ? 
 
 I never heard if it was as my mother's heart feared. 
 I never knew the history of her wrongs, nor whither 
 she went. But I do know, and the knowledge is awful 
 with significance, that before the day of her flight 
 reached its anniversary, she returned to her home in 
 the bosom of that snow-covered wild, and in the piti- 
 less wintry night-time died upon the threshold of its 
 barred door. Died of cold, exhaustion and hunger ! 
 Died, oh God ! in blind ignorance of Thee ! Died to 
 earth, and died to heaven ! 
 
 Death alienated me from God, and death returned 
 me td Him. In that time of fearful affliction, He 
 opened my eyes to my crime. There came upon me 
 the sudden consciousness of a heavy guilt. I felt I 
 had destroyed an immortal spirit. Too late, the enor- 
 mity of my wickedness dawned upon me. Appalled 
 by the blackness of its reality, I fell upon my knees 
 unto Him whom I had outraged, and prayed for mercy ; 
 mercy for my dead child mercy for myself! 
 
 All this was years ago. A flourishing town now 
 stands over the spot where we made Azalie's forest- 
 grave.
 
 64 MYCONFESSION. 
 
 Religion has taught me resignation, although time 
 has but deepened my remorse. By humble and holier 
 deeds than those here chronicled, I strive to atone for 
 that past, whose phantom memories haunt me forever. 
 
 I have given up solitude. Amid city life, surround- 
 ed by blessed human faces, I am gradually approach- 
 ing my end. In my old age, God has led me from the 
 dangers of that faith whose strength lies in its imagi- 
 native fascinations, to that One Religon of which He 
 is the Head and All. When I close my weary eyes 
 upon this world, may it be my safety for eternity ! 
 
 But one remnant of the faith of my youth do I still 
 cherish. It is a solemn belief in the efficacy of Prayer 
 for the Dead. 
 
 I have finished. I trust that this brief STORY OF A 
 LIFE may go forth, winged with a blessing from hea- 
 ven, and be productive of unbounded good.
 
 SYBIL RIVERS. 
 
 " SAVE me from the past, good angel, 
 This is all I ask of thee ! " 
 
 ALICE CAREY. 
 
 " Thy voice is on the rolling air ; 
 
 I heard Thee where the waters run ; 
 Thou standest in the rising sun, 
 And in the setting thou art fair." 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 ON the yellow sands of the New-Jersey shores 
 stood one day a young girl watching the progress of a 
 steamship that was putting out to sea. Her gaze was 
 fastened steadfastly upon it, as on an object of uncom- 
 mon interest, and she shaded her eyes with her hands 
 that she might behold it more clearly. 
 
 Fainter and fainter grew the outlines of the vessel, 
 fading gradually away, until it was lost upon the vast 
 reach of water, and vanished in the distance. 
 
 Then the girl threw herself wildly on the wet sand, 
 and wept. " Gone," she cried, " gone away forever 
 gone, and my very life with him ! Oh, Ormon Mor- 
 ton, God alone knows the wealth of love I bear you !"
 
 66 SYBIL RIVERS. 
 
 She rose up, and tearing a single letter from her bo- 
 som, rent it in fragments, and scattered them to the 
 winds and waves. Her hat had fallen off, and her 
 black hair blew in disordered masses over her face, 
 which, if not beautiful, was by no means an uninterest- 
 ing one. As the torn paper floated around her in the 
 breeze, she smote her breast fiercely, and murmured 
 
 " So should my unknown, unpaid love perish too ! I 
 cannot, I ought not live in such humiliation, I must 
 become without reproach in my own eyes. I will go 
 away, I will find employment where association can- 
 not lend aid to memories bitter enough in themselves. 
 Any where any where but here ! 
 
 She stooped to reach her crumbled bonnet, and with 
 slow steps, and bent, thoughtful head, walked up the 
 sloping shore to the green fields beyond. 
 
 Scarcely was she gone, when, from a clustering 
 groop of fir trees under the edge of the bank, emerged 
 the figure of a man. As he neared where the young 
 girl had stood, he turned to look after her retreating 
 form, and when a bend in the path hid her from his 
 eyes, he cried in triumph 
 
 " Sybil Sybil Rivers ! as you have spurned my 
 love, so will I find means to humble you by your own !
 
 SYBILR1VERS. 67 
 
 THREE years passed. 
 
 " There they come ! there they come !" was the 
 joyful cry that arose from the Oaks (a pretty villa on 
 the banks of the Hudson), as, at the close of a bright 
 day, a carriage broke to view from a rolling cloud of 
 dust on one of the adjacent roads. 
 
 The Colonel shouted to Jacob to be ready to open 
 the gates. Mrs. Morgan ran to take a last peep at the 
 rooms prepared for her guests, and Miss Rose danced, 
 and flitted about the piazza, in delighted expectation. 
 
 A moment more, and the great gates were thrown 
 back, and the carriage rolled up the avenue. 
 
 Then ensued greetings, inquiries, and embraces, 
 which I will not attempt to describe. 
 
 It was the arrival of Mrs. Morton, and her daughter 
 Silvia, that we have just chronicled. Mrs. Morgan 
 and Mrs. Morton were sisters. Each had been heir- 
 esses and belles in their youth, and since their respec- 
 tive marriages had never met. 
 
 Mrs. Morgan was the wife of a Northern gentleman 
 of education and fortune, and Mrs. Morton the widow 
 of a Southern planter. 
 
 Shortly after the settlement of her husband's entan- 
 gled affairs, Mrs. Morton had decided to take up her 
 residence, for some little time, in Colonel Morgan's 
 family. Rose and Silvia had nerer seen each other. 
 Their first kiss of cousinship was given on the piazza
 
 68 SYBILRIVERS. 
 
 of the Oaks, Colonel Morgan's country-seat. Though 
 in different styles, the two girls were remarkably alike. 
 They were nearly of the same age. Rose was a little 
 jetty beauty, with flashing black eyes, glossy raven 
 curls, and the air and complexion of an Egyptian 
 princess, petite and plump though she was. Silvia 
 had a more delicate frame than her cousin, more lan- 
 gour in her brown eyes, more simplicity in her general 
 appearance. She was rather slenderly formed, and 
 somewhat German in expression, her grandfather hav- 
 ing come from that people. Rose was good-natured, 
 merry and light-hearted ; Silvia, quiet and retired. 
 Despite their many contrasts, no one could mistake 
 the likeness between them. Both were only daughters. 
 
 Rose's welcome to her cousin was the acme of cor- 
 diality. She put her little brown arms around Sil- 
 via's neck, and nearly smothered her with caresses. 
 Silvia took this reception very passively. She kissed 
 her cousin in return on one of her rosy cheeks, and 
 calmly disengaging herself from the embrace of those 
 pretty arms, turned to greet her aunt and the Colonel. 
 
 The meeting between the two sisters was touching 
 to look upon. Their youth had departed, their beauty 
 had faded, children had been born, and death had be- 
 reaved them since last they were together. The tears 
 of the good ladies flowed freely, as they were again 
 pressed in each other's arms.
 
 SY1U.L, RIVERS. 69 
 
 Colonel Morgan was one of those men who hate to 
 look upon the tears of women. His mind was not 
 quite fine enough to understand them, and his sunny, 
 careless humor, too antagonistic to any such sorrowful 
 proceeding to countenance them. In the present in- 
 stance, he speedily put an end to them, by suddenly 
 clasping his wife and sister-in-law tightly around the 
 waist, an arm for each, and vowing to kiss them till 
 their weeping ceased. Now, the Colonel wore a huge 
 moustache, the application of which, on the cheek, 
 was by no means agreeable ; as his sister-in-law had 
 already discovered this fact, she wisely dried her 
 tears. 
 
 Shortly afterward Mrs. Morgan led the way to the 
 rooms prepared for her visitors. They were pleasant 
 and retired, adjoined one another, and were furnished 
 with tasteful, costly elegance. The window-curtains 
 were of the richest and rarest fabrics, veiling land- 
 scapes, even richer and rarer still ; while the furniture, 
 although new, was in choice antique patterns, elabo- 
 rately carved and inlaid ; the walls were hung with 
 tapestry. 
 
 Mrs. Morgan remembered something of her sister's 
 regal tastes in the days of their youth; she had 
 spared neither time nor expense in fitting up these 
 rooms for her and her daughter. It had been a labor 
 of love.
 
 70 SYBILRIVERS. 
 
 As the group of ladies entered, a young person, who 
 was arranging a vase of flowers in one of the broad 
 window-sills, advanced, and was introduced by Mrs. 
 Morgan as, 
 
 " My daughter's friend and governess." 
 
 She was tall, by no means handsome, but of an 
 erect and distingue carriage, that well supplied the 
 place of mere beauty of face. She bowed slightly, 
 but rather proudly, and left the apartment. 
 
 Rose assisted her cousin to change her travelling 
 attire, chatting all the while at the full speed of her 
 tongue a brilliantly witty one it chanced to be just at 
 that time and then the bell signalled tea. 
 
 " SILVIA," asked Rose about a week after the arrival 
 at the Oaks, " what do you say to a quiet ride down 
 to Meadowside this afternoon. I can order the horses 
 this minute if you like. Shall I ?" 
 
 Silvia slowly raised her brown^ eyes from the work 
 on her lap, and said, without the slightest display of 
 pleasurable animation 
 
 " I should like to go ;" and Rose went to bespeak the 
 horses, gaily singing, as she went, 
 
 " I love nobody, 
 Nobody loves me "
 
 SYBILRIVERS. 71 
 
 When her cousin returned, Silvia begged pardon 
 for her thoughtlessness in not remembering she had 
 given away her riding habit, on leaving Florida, and 
 coldly hoped to be forgiven for occasioning the unne- 
 cessary trouble of ordering the horse. 
 
 " But Miss Rivers will lend you her habit. Will 
 you not, Sybil ?" asked Rose, disappointed. 
 
 " Certainly," replied her governess, with that* air of 
 calm good-breeding, which Silvia had more than once 
 remarked " will you allow me to get it for you, Miss 
 Morton ? Our figures are something alike ; I am 
 quite sure it will fit you." 
 
 Rose was just in the act of triumphantly carrying 
 off her cousin nolens volens, when, to her surprise, 
 Silvia drew herself up haughtily, and said 
 
 " Excuse me, I cannot accompany you." 
 
 A light dawned on Rose. She saw her cousin in a 
 new phase of character. She was proud. 
 
 Rather than stoop to borrow a dress of her cousin's 
 governess, a creature generally looked down upon at 
 the South as a betweenity, vibrating above the slave, 
 and below the housekeeper, Silvia Morton determin- 
 ed to forego her ride. 
 
 And she did. 
 
 Rose's tender eyes opened to their full extent. A 
 feeling of indignation choked her for a moment, but 
 she very sensibly conquered it ; took no farther notice
 
 72 SYBIL RIVE US. 
 
 of Silvia's refusal, and going up to her governess, 
 asked if she would accompany her to Meadowside. 
 
 Miss Rivers, of course, had felt the slight. Very 
 collectively, yet, at the same time, with a half smile of 
 intelligence at her pupil's open-hearted face, she de- 
 c'ined going. Rose, however, was not to be thwarted 
 a second time ; besides, she wanted the malicious satis- 
 faction of entreating her governess before Silvia, 
 whom she remembered she had not urged at all. 
 
 Miss Rivers yielded. I know not how it happened, 
 for she was generally very firm in adhering to a first 
 determination. 
 
 They were soon equipped, governess and pupil, each 
 in black cloth habits and straw riding-hats, trimmed 
 with long tresses of narrow scarlet ribbon, that had 
 the effect of plumes, without their heaviness. They 
 were both young, both striking looking, and both prac- 
 ticed and self-possessed horsewomen. 
 
 Rose Morgan was much attached to this governess 
 of hers. There was not enough difference in their 
 ages to mar the similarity of their tastes and pursuits ; 
 Miss Rivers being about twenty-six, and her pupil 
 some seven or eight years younger. There existed 
 perfect harmony between them ; the influence of the 
 governess over the student was by no means weaken- 
 ed as a consequence of their sisterly intercourse. 
 
 Sybil Rivers was poor and proud. Early left an
 
 SYBIL RIVERS. 73 
 
 orphan, she had been bred for the state in life which 
 she then occupied. She appreciated it and herself; 
 she felt herself to be a true lady, notwithstanding her 
 position, and not unfrequently encountered those 
 whose fortunes were greatly superior to her own', 
 on whom she looked down in an intellectual point 
 of view. This fact served to increase the hauteur 
 which her circumstances engendered. No one was 
 able to say, however, that Sybil R ivers over-stepped 
 the boundaries of her position. 
 
 She was perfectly educated. 
 
 Followed by Jacob, the coachman, the two young 
 ladies set out on their ride. Rose had a few pur- 
 chases to make in the village, and one or two calls on 
 some of her many " dear, dear friends." 
 
 " How do you like Silvia ?" she abruptly asked Miss 
 Rivers, as they rode along the pleasant, rural highway, 
 overshadowed by venerable trees. 
 
 " Very well," was the brief answer. It surprised 
 Rose, because she knew her governess never dissimu- 
 lated. 
 
 " And why, Sybil ? how can you like her after such 
 treatment as you received from her ?" 
 
 " My dear," responded Miss Rivers, laughing, " I 
 like her for the very anti-democracy she displays to- 
 wards me. I like her because she resembles myself; 
 I am far from being democratic in my ideas. We are 
 proud alike.
 
 74 SYBILRIVERS. 
 
 " I do not like her at all !" cried Rose, impulsively. 
 " Before she came I thought I should love her, and so 
 I might if she had allowed me ; but I cannot bear 
 these cold, calculating creatures, that never speak a 
 word, without weighing it in their minds for five 
 minutes. And as for her pride, Sybil, 1 do not 
 dignify it by the name, it is merely a combination of 
 vanity and disdain. Now acknowledge, don't you 
 think her disdainful ?" 
 
 " Yes, rather ; but then she is so beautiful, it sits 
 well upon her." 
 
 " Mother says she is engaged, although she has not 
 herself honored me with her confidence. Her fiance, 
 and her brother, Ormon, are expected to join them 
 very soon." 
 
 Rose dropped her bridle, clapped her hands, and 
 laughed. 
 
 Miss Rivers was too much accustomed to such un- 
 expected ebullitions to be much astonished. She 
 merely turned her stately head, half smiled at the 
 pretty fairy at her side, and inquired what was the 
 subject of her merriment. 
 
 " Oh," cried Rose, " I was just thinking of the man- 
 ner in which Silvia will probably receive her lover. 
 There came a picture before me of two dignified peo- 
 ple shaking hands very calmly and coldly, and saying 
 nothing in particular. Oh, Sybil ! what a splendid
 
 SYBIL RIVERS. 75 
 
 thing it must be to have a real earnest, honest lover ! 
 When / get one such, I'll not keep it a secret, you 
 may be sure, like my cousin, oh no. I'll post the 
 fact up at all the corners of the streets, and let every- 
 body see I am not the least bit ashamed !" 
 
 Sybil laughed, and said she doubted not she would 
 live to change her mind. 
 
 " No, indeed," cried Rose, indignantly, " never." 
 
 " Yes you will, my dear," remarked Miss Rivers, 
 "/have. I used to think just like you when I was 
 your age." 
 
 "You do not mean to say you have ever been 
 in love," demanded Rose, with a look of mock won- 
 der. " I can very easily imagine people loving you, 
 but as for the condescension of a return on your part, 
 I don't believe a word of it. Why the very way you 
 look at men shows you consider them an inferior race. 
 I suppose there is not the least bit of use in insinuat- 
 ing that I should like to know something of your 
 heart affairs ?" 
 
 " No, not the least use," laughed Sybil. " Do you 
 think I want the whole world to hear the news? 
 When I do, I will tell you. Rose, you are a veritable 
 magpie." 
 
 But Rose heard not the reproof. A side road dis- 
 closing some acquaintances, she had cantered away to 
 meet them.
 
 76 SYBIL RIVERS. 
 
 Sybil looked after her, and sighed. There was 
 something so fresh, so guileless about her pupil, that 
 she could not but remark the contrast between them, 
 and that with an inward prayer that, on Rose's part, 
 it might never be less. 
 
 Sybil Rivers had. loved, loved with a sincerity, an 
 intensity, far beyond Rose Morgan's comprehension. 
 But it was a silent love, unknown even to its object. 
 
 Rose soon parted from her friends, and returned 
 with an added color on her cheeks, and a smile upon 
 her lips. 
 
 "Bell Riker's pic-nic is decided at last, Sybil. 
 She and Gilbert were just going to the Oaks, with in- 
 vitations for Silvia and us, I am glad of anything to 
 vary the monotony of this stupid country life. The 
 pic-nic is for to-morrow evening. Shall you go ?" 
 
 " I think so ; although unlike you, I do not need it 
 as a variety in this ' stupid country life.' I was in- 
 tended for a country girl, I think." 
 
 " Whereas / was born for the city, and find myself 
 compelled to pass one half the year in this horrid, 
 dusty, good gracious, Sybil, who was that ?'' 
 
 Miss Rivers concluded her bow to a gentleman who 
 had paused to claim it as he rode by, and then answer- 
 ed 
 
 "An old acquaintance of mine, a Mr. Allandorph." 
 
 " del, what eyes ! An old lover, did you say, Sybil ?"
 
 SYBIL RIVERS. 77 
 
 But Sybil was too busy whipping down an apple 
 from a branch that hung over the road, to hear the 
 question. 
 
 The distance from the Oaks to Meadowside was 
 some four or five miles. An unrivalled road for a ride 
 it was, too, even as planking, and commanding views 
 of more than common loveliness, views of wood and 
 mountain, river and valley. The sun grew near sit- 
 ting, and the extreme heat of the day was beginning 
 to be relieved by the early cool of coming twilight. 
 
 Touching up their horses, the two girls hastened on 
 to Meadowside, followed closely by Jacob, who had 
 too poor an opinion of " the ridin' of wimmin," to 
 trust his young mistress out of sight for one instant. 
 Reaching the village, Rose made her purchases, and 
 they turned homeward. It was then too late to make 
 the intended calls, and from the effects of disappoint- 
 ment Rose was very quiet all the way. Miss Rivers 
 was silent too, not, however, like Rose, from vexation ; 
 her nobler nature was subdued by the solemn beauty 
 of the scene, and of the deepening twilight. 
 
 It was late when they reachsd the Oaks. The stars 
 were out, and the dews falling heavily. 
 
 As Rose and her governess passed up the wide stair- 
 case to don their usual evening dresses, they saw 
 through the open doors that the family was already at
 
 78 SYBIL RIVERS. 
 
 tea, and Rose's quick orbs noted in an instant the 
 presence of a stranger at the table. 
 
 Rose was a little of a coquette. She took especial 
 pains with her toilet that night, and succeeded in look- 
 ing as fresh and pretty as possible. Every one knows 
 there is nothing like an object as incentive for exer- 
 tion. Rose believed that the gentleman of whom she 
 had caught a glimpse in the tea-room, was either the 
 brother or lover of Silvia Morton, in both cases a 
 good impression was desirable. She knew that in 
 black she appeared to more advantage than in colors, 
 so she attired herself in a black barege, with a glossy 
 under-skirt of white silk, and in her curls placed some 
 unearthly flowers, whose pendant scarlet tendrils dal- 
 lied over her bare shoulders. Very fantastic, but very 
 pretty, looked Rose Morgan as she descended to the 
 tea-room. 
 
 Miss Rivers did not take the same time or pains 
 with her attire as her pupil, for Rose found her at the 
 table as she entered, and what was more, she was con- 
 versing with the visitor quite at her ease. By the 
 light of the wax candles, Rose saw at a glance that he 
 was no other than the gentleman they encountered 
 during their ride. 
 
 Mrs. Morgan introduced him as the Reverend John 
 Allandorph. Rose and he exchanged bows, and the
 
 SYBIL RIVERS. 79 
 
 conversation, that had been interrupted by her en- 
 trance, was resumed. 
 
 The Reverend Mr. Allandorph was very handsome. 
 Many other people had thought so before Rose Mor- 
 gan. He was rather portly in appearance, about thirty- 
 five or six years of age, and anything but clerical-look- 
 ing, that, is to say, he neither wore a white necker- 
 chief, nor, affecting the mannerisms of the profession, 
 crossed his hands when they were not otherwise oc- 
 cupied. 
 
 He and the Colonel got on admirably together. 
 They had travelled over the same ground, read the 
 same books, and met the same people. Much to Rose's 
 chagrin, they monopolized the whole conversation 
 with discussions on foreign countries, and the litera- 
 ture belonging to them. Just as they were leaving the 
 table, however, a well-turned compliment, on the fear- 
 lessness and style of her own and Miss Rivers' riding, 
 made ample amends for previous neglect. 
 
 In the drawing-room the evening passed delightfully. 
 Colonel Morgan was sincerely hospitable ; his house 
 was always open ; his purse and table ever ready. He 
 was one of those men who divide all their happiness 
 with their families, and do not seek for pleasures 
 abroad which are not shareable with the home circle. 
 Blessings on all such men, say I ! 
 
 Silvia was very still. Generally quiet, this night
 
 80 SYBILRIVERS. 
 
 she was unusually so. She did not join in the music 
 of the evening, nor indeed did she seem even to listen 
 to Rose's or Miss Rivers' brilliant and effective play- 
 ing. 
 
 It seemed as though all her faculties had one centre, 
 and that was the Reverend John Allandorph. Where- 
 ever he moved, her eyes followed him in dreamy ab- 
 
 * 
 
 straction. 
 
 Silvia Morton was naturally of an affectionate dispo- 
 sition, but the circumstances of her early life had com- 
 bined to make her cold, suspicious and haughty. 
 
 Her father had been the cause of much sorrow to 
 his family. He was originally a gay, generous man, 
 and evil associations had turned that generosity, that 
 cheerfulness of disposition, into wrong. 
 
 He perished miserably, a roue and drunkard, leav- 
 ing his wretched wife to rejoice at a release from her 
 own living death. Silvia's childhood had been witness 
 of terrible scenes. Her youth was crushed from her, 
 she was a woman in feeling when an infant in years. 
 Yet, though outwardly cold, she possessed a capacity 
 for strong and passionate attachment. Mr. Allan- 
 dorph she had loved very deeply for many months be- 
 fore he offered her his hand, and since, her affection 
 for him had grown like a portion of her life. He was 
 some fourteen or fifteen years her elder she venera-
 
 SYBIL RIVERS. 81 
 
 t ed him for his profession, years and intellect, as much 
 as she worshipped him as her lover. 
 
 Notwithstanding the neglected state of Mr. Mor- 
 ton's affairs at the time of his death, Silvia was an 
 heiress. When the final settlements were made, much 
 of his former fortune was unexpectedly found to re- 
 main to his widow and children, and a portion of it 
 was expressly willed by him to his daughter. 
 
 "Silvia," asked Rose, "did you know Miss Rivers 
 and Mr. Allandorph had met before ?" 
 
 Poor Rose could not have asked a question with 
 more innocence, yet its effect on her cousin was start- 
 ling. She glanced at the piano, where sat Sybil dal- 
 lying with the white keys, while talking earnestly to 
 Mr. Allandorph, who half bent over her to catch what 
 she said the more distinctly. There was a slight frown 
 on Miss Rivers' face, and a compression about the lips 
 that told she was laboring under great excitement ; 
 whilst Mr. Allandorph's expression was that of half- 
 concealed triumph. 
 
 Rose caught her cousin's earnest gaze riveted upon 
 them, and turned to look. Even she was surprised 
 by what she saw, and particularly as she knew Sybil's 
 habits of uncommon self-control. It was evident the 
 subject of the conversation must be of great interest to 
 both, and certainly it signified a previous familiarity 
 of acquaintance. 
 
 4
 
 82 SYBILRIVERS. 
 
 Neither of the cousins spoke. At length an irresisti- 
 ble impulse seized Silvia ; half fiercely, she turned to 
 Rose, and demanded 
 
 " What do you mean by that ? If you dare to in- 
 sinuate that he is, or has ever been, the lover of that 
 woman " 
 
 A deadly paleness overspread her features. She 
 sank into a chair without finishing her sentence. 
 
 Rose's tender little heart was touched in an instant 
 by such evident suffering. The harsh words were 
 forgotten ; she put her arm around her cousin's waist, 
 and said, caressingly, 
 
 " What a foolish little piece you are, Silvia ; I did 
 not say or insinuate anything of the kind. Don't 
 shiver so, for mercy's sake ; you will have every one 
 around you." 
 
 Silvia scarcely heard the sound of her voice. Her 
 gaze was again chained to the piano-forte. " It cannot 
 be," she articulated. " Love her ! Allandorph love a 
 poor governess ! Never !" 
 
 She pressed her hands suddenly over her heart, as 
 though some agonizing throe had riven her very being. 
 She seemed unconscious that Rose was at her side, 
 and that her unguarded words were heard. A strange 
 fire flashed from her beautiful eyes, as she groaned 
 half inaudibly, and with a curl of more than habitual 
 pride on her lips,
 
 SYBIL RIVERS. 83 
 
 " If he has loved her, he shall not love me, so help 
 me heaven!" 
 
 Just then a servant entered with a tray of refresh- 
 ments, and placed it on the table by which Silvia and 
 Rose stood. Immediately afterwards, Colonel Morgan 
 came towards it with Mr. Allandorph to make punch. 
 There was no retreating for the moment; and Rose 
 seeing her cousin was utterly unfitted for conversation, 
 kindly shielded her from it, by taking a prominent and 
 playful part in the punch-making, laughing and talking 
 merrily as she did so, to which two things little Rose 
 was by no means averse at any time. Silvia's agita- 
 ted countenance passed unobserved. At the first fa- 
 vorable moment she rose, and pleading a throbbing 
 headache to Mrs. Morgan, withdrew quietly to the 
 silence of her own room. 
 
 Strong as agony were the sensations warring in that 
 young girl's bosom. Passionate love, and stern, un- 
 yielding pride battled in deadly contest, love for the 
 mastery of pride, pride for the overthrow of love. 
 
 The coldest people outwardly are sometimes those 
 who feel the most. The bare suspicion of her lover 
 having wooed another, and that other so beneath him 
 in rank, filled her with acute wretchedness. But it 
 was more a pride-grief than a love-grief. She had 
 suspected something of the kind before Rose's 
 very natural question caused her to frame it in words.
 
 84 SYBIL RIVERS. 
 
 Not a tear escaped the haughty girl. She flung 
 herself on her couch, and tried to repress even the 
 deep-drawn sighs that forced their way between her 
 clenched teeth. 
 
 Ah, what a humiliation it was, even to imagine that 
 beautiful, wealthy, young, as she was, -she loved one 
 who, in her patrician opinion, had abased himself! She 
 felt as though she could have torn her heart out and 
 trampled it beneath her feet, the humiliation was so 
 galling. 
 
 When Rose Morgan retired for the night, her loving 
 heart was full of trouble. She knew her friend too 
 well to suspect her of duplicity towards Silvia, and she 
 saw that as long as she was unwarned of the state of 
 Silvia's mind, she would probably continue to wound 
 her by frequent displays of intimacy with Mr. John 
 Allandorph, as she had been witness of that night. 
 Yet Rose dreaded to annoy Miss Rivers, even by a 
 mere hint, of the misery she was causing Silvia. It 
 seemed to her like attacking her friend's integrity ; at 
 all events, the information was calculated to destroy 
 her comfort and independence while Silvia remained 
 with them, and her visit at the Oaks was scarcely be- 
 gun. What should she do ? She set her wise young 
 head to thinking, bit her little pink finger-nails very 
 energetically, and tried to come to some conclusion.
 
 SYB1LEIVERS. 85 
 
 Should she wound Sybil's feelings, and save Silvia's, 
 or let things progress as they would ? 
 
 She decided on the former course, and with her 
 usually bright face a perfect picture of forlorn dis- 
 tress, took her way, on tip-toe, across the corridor, to 
 Miss Rivers' sleeping-room. 
 
 She tapped very softly on the door, that she might 
 not disturb the rest of the family ; and with a trepida- 
 tion very unlike her usual way of rushing in helter- 
 skelter, waited for Sybil to say, " come in." 
 
 There was silence for a few moments, and then the 
 door opened. Sybil was partially undressed, and had 
 stopped to put her feet in her slippers, and throw a 
 shawl over her fine shoulders. She was evidently sur- 
 prised to see no one but Rose. 
 
 '* Oh, Sybil," began Rose, " I am so sorry." 
 
 "Sorry? What about, has anything happened, 
 are you sick, Rose, dear ?" 
 
 " Oh, no. I want to tell you something." 
 
 "Very well, what is it? Has your bird escaped, or 
 have you spoiled your pretty barege, and its white silk 
 jupe ?" 
 
 " Oh please don't laugh. If you only knew, Sybil !" 
 
 " How can I know, if you will not tell me !" 
 
 " Well, then, it's about you." 
 
 " About me ? What have I been doing, pray, to make
 
 80 SYBIL RIVERS. 
 
 you look so dismally, for all the world like a kitten 
 just revived from drowning. Come, tell me, Rose." 
 
 " Oh, Sybil, do be serious." 
 
 ' I am serious, serious as an owl." 
 
 Rose could not stand it any longer. She went to 
 the broad window-sill, threw herself on it, and began 
 to cry. Miss Rivers was now really alarmed, and ten- 
 derly tried to soothe her. 
 
 " Oh, Sybil," Rose sobbed out at intervals, " why did 
 you talk so to Mr. Allandorph to-night." 
 
 " What did we say, did any one hear us ?" de- 
 manded Miss Rivers, quickly her whole manner 
 changing in an instant. 
 
 " No," answered Rose, wiping her eyes, " nobody 
 heard you, but everybody saw you ; and Silvia, oh ! she's 
 just as mad as fury at you!" 
 
 " Why ?" asked Sybil, in a tone of deep, but half- 
 suppressed interest. 
 
 " Oh ! you won't be angry, Sybil, if I tell you ?" 
 
 " Why should I, my poor child. I am not quite an 
 ogress, I believe," and she kissed her softly. 
 
 " You know Silvia is very proud, Sybil, and I be- 
 lieve that is, I think she imagines Mr. Allandorph has 
 been a lover of yours. She was half frantic to-night, 
 when she saw you talking together over the piano, 
 and she said, oh ! Sybil, she said, that if ever he had 
 1 oved you, he should not love her !"
 
 SYBIL RIVERS. 87 
 
 " Well, Rose ?" 
 
 "And, Sybil, I don't believe you love him a bit; 
 Ilideed, I do not. But Silvia is so unhappy, and looked 
 so wild, that I thought I must tell you, and ask you 
 not to talk much with Mr. Allandorph in her presence.' 
 She was almost delirious." 
 
 " Poor, poor child," said Sybil, abstractedly. 
 " Rose ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I am in great trouble, will you aid me ?" 
 
 Rose looked surprised, but said instantly, 
 
 " Indeed I will, with all my heart." 
 
 " And you will never mention what I tell you ?" 
 
 Rose brightened amazingly. 
 
 " No, indeed, never, never !" 
 
 The scarlet shawl on Sybil's shoulders half drooped 
 from them, her long dark hair falling over it and her 
 white neck in unbound profusion. Looking very pale, 
 and with her eyes on the ground, Sybil said, 
 
 " Rose, John Allandorph, Reverend as he is, is a bad 
 and wicked man. He is guilty of gross crimes, and 
 has been expelled from his church. He is well aware 
 that I know this I knew it long ago. He did not 
 expect to see me here to-night, nor did I hear until 
 to-night that he was engaged to your cousin. 
 
 " Ros.e, that man possesses a secret of mine, with the 
 disclosures of which, he has dared this day to threaten
 
 88 SYBIL RIVE US. 
 
 me, if I reveal his real reputation either to your family 
 or the Mortons. That secret I would die rather than 
 have known, it is at once my glory and my shame*; 
 and yet, I must warn your cousin and her mother of 
 'this man. Oh, Rose ! what can I, what ought I to do ?" 
 
 Rose was silent. 
 
 " Allandorph is a brilliantly intellectual man, he can 
 charm an angel into delusion. It is no wonder that 
 your cousin loves him." 
 
 ''And you think, Sybil, he will positively reveal your 
 secret if you expose him ?" 
 
 " Yes, certainly, he is possessed of the worst pas- 
 sions on earth. He will not hesitate an instant. Oh ! 
 it would kill me to have that known !" 
 
 All the good in Rose's woman's nature was now 
 thoroughly awakened ; softly she whispered, 
 
 "My dear friend, confide in me. Let me share your 
 cruel, cruel position ; let me help you if I can." 
 
 Miss Rivers bowed her face upon her hands, and a 
 crimson tide mantled to her temples. 
 
 '' I cannot, I cannot ; the shame is too great." 
 
 " Have you ever loved Allandorph, Sybil ?" asked 
 Rose, after a pause. 
 
 Sybil raised her hand with indignant majesty. "Al- 
 landorph ! love that hypocritical monster ? Never /' 
 
 Rose was now distressed doubly. She knew not 
 how to advise her friend to act. All she could do was
 
 SYBIL RIVERS. 89 
 
 to offer consolation, and try to infuse a faith into her 
 mind that all would some time come right. 
 
 " Let us hope," she said tenderly, "that Silvia will 
 of herself discover the evil in this man will of herself 
 discard him ; if so, you forfeit nothing. I beg of you 
 not to let all this afflict you too much. It is growing 
 late. I will leave you to try and still yourself. Sleep 
 away your fears for the safety of your secret, what- 
 ever it may be, dear, dear Sybil." 
 
 She kissed her, and went away as noiselessly as she 
 had come. 
 
 When she was gone, Miss Rivers threw up the 
 window and leaned out. Everything was still as 
 death. Clouds obscured both moon and stars ; all 
 space was filled with a beautiful, mournful grey. 
 There were lights from the night-boats, gleaming up 
 and down the Hudson ; they attracted her attention to 
 that dark, rapid river, and she longed to quench her 
 sense of burning shame in its waters. 
 
 " Death, peace, oblivion," she murmured ; and press- 
 ing her hot head on her arms crossed on the sill, wept 
 herself, childlike, into an uneasy slumber. 
 
 " Who is going to the Hiker's pic-nic to-night ?" 
 asked Mrs. Morgan, the next morning, at breakfast. 
 
 " I am, for one," responded Rose, pausing, in butter- 
 ing her toast, to cast a look of entreaty at Miss 
 Rivers. 
 
 4*
 
 90 SYBIL RIVEKS. 
 
 "And who else," said Mrs. Morgan, glancing 
 around the table, " you, Silvia ?" 
 
 "I suppose so," answered Silvia, with an air of in 
 difference. 
 
 Sybil was silent. 
 
 " What pic-nic is it," said Mr. Allandorph. "Will 
 any of you fair ladies smuggle me in as escort ?" 
 
 " Cousin Silvia will, I have no doubt," half laughed 
 Rose ; " as for Miss Rivers and myself, we are already 
 provided with the article. I despatched Jacob down 
 to Mr. Wall, with a note this very morning, and have 
 just received his acceptance, for rain or shine, for bet- 
 ter or worse." 
 
 " My dear Rose, I hope you have not mentioned 
 my name in that important document, have you?" 
 said Sybil, listlessly. " I do not feel like going to- 
 night. I really am not well." 
 
 " Just as if you do not know it will do you good," 
 exclaimed Rose, making with her spoon a shockingly 
 intimidating gesture at her governess from behind Mr. 
 Allandorph. " Ever since the flood, pic-nics have 
 been recommended as sovereign remedies for ill- 
 health." 
 
 " And particularly night pic-nics," remarked Mrs. 
 Morton, who had her own reasons for desiring Sybil's 
 plea to be accepted. " The damp evening air is a
 
 SYBILRIVEES. 91 
 
 well-known health-giver. It never yet caused rheu- 
 matism, fevers, colds " 
 
 " Now, aunt," interrupted Rose, in real despair, " I 
 think that is scarcely kind. Sybil was just smiling on 
 me, and you have done away with all the good of my 
 persuasion. However, for my sake, she will not care 
 for such trifling things as fevers and rheumatism, is 
 it not so, Sybil ? Don't say ' no.' " 
 
 She did not say " no," but smiled, and shook her 
 head gently. 
 
 " Oh ! we must all go," cried Mr. Allandorph. " We 
 will take great care of you, Miss Rivers. Shall you 
 not accompany us ?" 
 
 He darted a quick, but meaning glance upon her 
 face. Sybil shivered slightly, and turning to Rose, 
 said, " she might possibly change her decision if she 
 became no worse." 
 
 And, in the heart of Silvia Morton, that look was 
 treasured up as a terrible link in the chain of her sus- 
 picions. 
 
 Rose was in the midst of an interminable jumble 
 about Sybil's being obliging for once in her life, when 
 her father broke in upon her, by asking Mr. Allan- 
 dorph if he had read Schiller's " Song of the Bell/' 
 
 " A long while ago. I scarcely remember it, espe- 
 cially as I read it in the original, and have now nearly
 
 92 SYBILR1VERS. 
 
 forgotten the language. How do you like it, Colo- 
 nel ?" 
 
 " Like it ! I do not like it at all I love it, although 
 I have merely read translations. It is perfect in its 
 way. I happen to know something of the circum- 
 stances under which it was written, and that gives it 
 a double interest. Have you ever heard the story ?" 
 
 Mr. Allandorph said he had not. 
 
 "It appears," began the Colonel, vigorously carving 
 a beefsteak, " that Schiller was one day " 
 
 " Was one day," repeated Mr. Allandorph, as the 
 Colonel made a long pause ; but the tale of Schiller's 
 inspiration was to remain unuttered. Colonel Mor- 
 gan sat directly opposite the door, and as he acciden- 
 tally glanced that way, his attention was attracted by 
 seeing the white figure of a woman flit through the 
 hall. It was like none of the servants, and hastily 
 looking around, he saw that sll the ladies of the family 
 were present. As he rose to ascertain the object of 
 so strange an intrusion, Jacob, the coachman, stagger- 
 ed into the room, his rough Irish visage working with 
 affright, and his eyes rolling from side to side. 
 
 "Oh Kernel! Kernel!" he cried loudly, "that I 
 should av lived to see this day !" and dropping on his 
 knees, Jacob began rapidly, and in great terror 
 
 " Now I lay me down to slape, 
 I pray the Lord me sowl to kape "
 
 SYBIL RIVERS. 93 
 
 " What do you mean, you Irish rascal ?" thundered 
 Colonel Morgan, in a rage. " Get up this minute, and 
 cease making a booby of yourself. What's the mat- 
 ter with vou ?" 
 
 
 
 But Jacob continued on his knees, rocking himself 
 to and fro, and crying 
 
 " Oh Lord ! oh Lord ! that I av lived to see this 
 day." 
 
 Some of the ladies laughed, and all with a slight, 
 but unaccountable sensation of fear, grouped them- 
 selves together. 
 
 Colonel Morgan was very easily excited. He 
 strode up to Jacob, and swore to kick him out of the 
 room if he did not say at once what had happened. 
 
 " Well, yer honor, if yer plaze," cried Jacob, a little 
 subdued at the threat, "if ye'll jist kape quiet a bit, 
 I'll till ye. Shure, yer honor, it wasn't me own 
 fault it was not of me own mind I wint and see 
 sick sights. By the Blissed Virgin, I till ye, I've seen 
 a ghost, a rale live ghost ! Ben't that enough to make 
 a dacent man say his prayers shure ?" 
 
 But the Colonel did not seem at all mollified. He 
 uttered not a word of what he himself had seen, how- 
 ever, but abruptly went to search the house, leaving 
 Jacob trembling, groaning, and talking by turns. 
 
 " Oh, yer honor," he said, addressing himself to Mr. 
 Allandorph, "Shure 'tisn't the fust, nor the second
 
 SYBIL RIVERS. 
 
 time, I've bin bothered wid a sight of the ghost this 
 very day, och ! that I should meet the unlucky 
 crather at all, at all ! Styire, yer honor, 'twas white as 
 death, and jist kinder whisked apasl me, makin' its 
 onairthly arms move over its head so, yer honor. 
 Och, ye would have know'd it was a ghost by me 
 knase knockin' together. The fust time I see it, was 
 whin I took Miss Rose's lether (God bliss her swate 
 face !) down to the village. Shure, as I wint apast 
 the bend at 'Squire Button's, I see somthin' white, a 
 gleamin' in the bushes at one side the road, and jist 
 as bould as a lion, I marched up to it, and sez I, Jacob 
 Maloney, sez I, ye must see what that be ; so, yer 
 honor, I parted the bushes and looked in, and, oh 
 Lord, Mr. Allandorph, do ye b'lave there was the ugly 
 crather a shakin' its arms like mad, right 'fore me 
 face. I didn't stop, yer honor, to see what it wanted, 
 but off I wint, as fast as me two legs could carry me. 
 Och ! whin I cam back, there it was still, only plainer, 
 and it rolled its big eyes awful." 
 
 " Pooh, pooh, Jacob," said Mrs. Morgan kindly, 
 " you must not believe in ghosts. There never was 
 such a thing in the world. Go down to the kitchen, 
 and ask Nancy for your breakfast. This travelling 
 on an empty stomach has made you sick." 
 
 " Stoomic !" ejaculated Jacob, disdainfully, as he 
 moved towards the door, " shure, its not me stoomic J
 
 SYBILR1VERS. 95 
 
 see wid, onyhow. Faith, Mrs. Morgan, the sperit is 
 in the house this very minute." 
 
 Mrs. Morton and Rose half shrieked. 
 
 " Yis, me ladies," continued Jacob, looking gratified 
 at the sympathy he was beginning to create "yis, me 
 swate ladies, I've jist seen the ugly crather in the 
 intry, when I cam in, and it whisked up stairs like 
 lightnin'. Shure ye'll b'lieve me now, whin it is in the 
 house wid ye, and the Colonel a lookin' afther it. 
 Stoomic !" 
 
 Jacob indignantly left the room, followed rather 
 hurriedly by Mr. Allandorph. 
 
 " Good gracious, what can it all mean ?" uttered 
 Rose, faintly. 
 
 " Rose," said Miss Rivers, " do not be foolish. You 
 are as white as Jacob's ghost itself." 
 
 " Well, father, what on earth is the matter ?" ex- 
 claimed Rose, as Colonel Morgan returned. 
 
 " Matter, child ! nothing, nothing. Jacob has 
 taken a drop too much on the way to Meadowside, 
 that is all. There isn't a trace of anybody, or thing, 
 to be found in the house. Confound the rascal, with 
 his cock-and-bull stories." 
 
 And the confusion the circumstance had caused 
 died away, without the Colonel mentioning his own 
 evidence on the subject. 
 
 The morning was very beautiful, (one of those cool
 
 96 SYBIL RIVERS. 
 
 and balmy mornings so refreshing in the heat of sum- 
 mer,) and gave every token of a clear and moonlight 
 night. 
 
 Mr. Ormon Morton was expected to arrive some- 
 time that day at the Oaks his mother and sister were 
 in consequence in a very excited state of mind. It 
 was three years since Mrs. Morton had held this son 
 in her arms three years since she had looked upon 
 his beloved face. He had arrived two days before 
 from Europe, where he had gone for his health, and 
 whence he had been recalled by the news of his 
 father's death. 
 
 " Ormon is coming, he is coming to-day," was the 
 only burden of conversation at the Oaks. 
 
 Heart-sick, and well nigh despairing, that morning 
 passed, to Sybil Rivers, like an eternity of misery. 
 
 There was a mighty shame tugging at her bosom. 
 It devoured her peace it corroded her life. 
 
 She sought her own room, and flinging herself on 
 her bed, tried to sleep, that she might thus escape 
 from her rebuking thoughts. 
 
 But the effort was in vain ! The words, " Orman is 
 coming to-day," rang through her brain, and put slum- 
 ber afar from her eyes. 
 
 " He will soon know all," she moaned, " all ALL. 
 He will hear from Allandorph, of my love my long- 
 enduring, unasked love, for him, for I must brave this
 
 r SYBIL RIVERS. 97 
 
 man's threats 1 must save his sister. Heaven alone 
 knows how bitter is this trial, how like gall and 
 wormwood is my threatened dishonor !" 
 
 A slight movement of one of the scarlet brocade 
 window-curtains attracted Sybil's attention. She 
 paused, looked towards it ; but, seeing nothing, resum- 
 ed her train of forlorn thought. 
 
 ^. " Why ! oh why do I love this man," she asked her- 
 self, wildly, "why should I cling to the hope of his 
 love ? He knows not my own, and when he does, he 
 will despise, but never return it ! Why should I love 
 him, when station, wealth, and pride of family, stand 
 between us, like barriers of ice ? I am poor, he is 
 rich and haughty. Why, why do I dare to hope ? 
 Can he ever love me me, obscure, plain Sybil 
 Rivers ? No, no, that will never happen, shamed, 
 humbled creature that I am r ! 
 
 " To-day, this very hour, I will expose Allandorph 
 a he deserves, and then leave the Oaks forever. My 
 suffering will be brief, though it is bitter as death, 
 compared to Silvia Morton's fate, if she marry that 
 man, undeceived ; marry, thinking him an angel, and 
 finding him a devil, thirsting for her money ! 
 
 "This hour, before Ormon Morton can reach the 
 Oaks, I will humble Allandorph to his proper position, 
 save Silvia, and ruin myself! Then I will go away 
 at once, leave this pleasant and happy home, and
 
 1 J8 SYBILRIVERS. 
 
 escape the ignominy of meeting Ormon Morton, face 
 to face, when he shall have heard that I, unasked, 
 have loved him so long in vain. God help me !" 
 
 She started up as though to leave the room. As 
 she did so, a deep drawn sigh vibrated on her ear ; the 
 window-curtains parted before her, and to her aston- 
 ished gaze, appeared the wan face of a poor, half- 
 crazed orphan girl, whom she had known well in her 
 native village years before, and whose ruin and deser- 
 tion had been the original cause of the Reverend 
 John Allandorph's expulsion from his pulpit. 
 
 " S'hush," said the poor, mad girl, advancing to- 
 wards Sybil, and looking around cautiously, as though 
 she dreaded and expected detection. "Don't you 
 know me, Miss Rivers ?" 
 
 "Know you, my poor girl," murmured Sybil, "I 
 fear you do not even know yourself." 
 
 " I've come after John, my John, Miss Rivers, he's 
 here, isn't he ?" 
 
 " Yes, Lucille, he is ; but do you think he will like 
 to see you ? Don't you know this house is not his, 
 Lucille ?'" 
 
 " What of that," asked the girl impatiently, " what 
 difference does that make to me? Don't I love him 
 better than anybody on earth, and haven't I followed 
 him here to tell him my child is dead, my little dar- 
 ling JFohn ? I killed it myself. I wouldn't have it live
 
 SYBIL RIVERS. 99 
 
 longer for all the world ; there was something in its 
 eyes that used to hurt me when I looked at it. I 
 don't know what, though !" 
 
 Her gaze was fixed, and staring with insanity ; there 
 was a glare about it that appalled her frightened 
 listener. She shrank from her, and sank down on the 
 edge of the bed. 
 
 " See here," said Lucille, laughing wildly, " don't be 
 frightened. There isn't another woman alive that I 
 used to like as well as you, Sybil Rivers." 
 
 She went up to her, and softly touched her on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Come now, I want you to tell me all about it. 
 Won't you, Sybil ?" 
 
 " About what, my poor Lucille ?" 
 
 "About him, about the wedding; tell me every- 
 thing about it, and don't call me poor again !" 
 
 Sybil did not answer ; she knew not what to say. 
 There was a few minutes of silence, during which the 
 mad girl eyed her with a pitiful and appealing earnest- 
 ness. 
 
 " Is she pretty," she asked at length ; " are her eyes 
 bright like mine, Sybil ? Show her to me, won't you ? 
 I've wanted so long to see her !" 
 
 Then, with a sudden burst of passion, she added 
 
 " I'll never believe that she loves him. Nobody can 
 love him, nobody shall love him but me .''"'
 
 100 SYBIL RIVERS. 
 
 " Poor, poor Lucille," softly said Sybil, looking at 
 her tenderly. 
 
 "Didn't I tell you not to call me poor? I'll not 
 bear it ! I'm not poor. I will not be pitied by any 
 one! 1 ' 
 
 " How did you get here, Lucille ?" 
 
 " I am hungry. Give me something to eat, and I'll 
 tell you." 
 
 Miss Rivers hesitated. " Will you stay in this 
 room perfectly quiet while I am gone ?" 
 
 " Yes, I will." 
 
 Sybil left her on this assurance, but soon returned 
 with a large plateful of the luncheon that was being 
 prepared for the family. 
 
 The mad girl ate as if she were famished, and, in- 
 deed, in her wanderings around the Oaks, she had not 
 tasted food for many hours. When she had done, she 
 pushed the plate from her, folded her arms on the 
 table, and looking up in Miss Rivers' face, with a 
 blank, childlike expression on her own, said in a whis- 
 per 
 
 " Did I ever tell you about little Johnnie ?" 
 
 " No," replied her companion, shuddering. 
 
 " Well, not many days ago, I dropped him in the 
 water, he didn't cry out at all, wasn't it strange ? 
 He sank right down, right down ! Oh, I wish his 
 eyes had'nt hurt me so ; I might have kept him till we
 
 BiTBIL KIVERS. 101 
 
 went to heaven together. But they burned, they 
 burned me like fire ! Nobody will ever know it, will 
 they, do you think ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Sybil, sternly ; "yes, Lucille, God knows 
 
 it. Oh, how could you -" but she stopped, when 
 
 she remembered the hopeless derangement of the lost 
 being before her. 
 
 Presently Lucille began to show tokens of extreme 
 weariness. Her eyelids drooped, her head fell upon 
 her bosom, and the dead calm of sleep descended on 
 her insanity and sorrows. Sybil gently took her 
 wasted form in her arms, and laid it on the bed with 
 tender care. She smoothed back the long, fair locks 
 from the wild face, and thought mournfully of the 
 wreck her youth and beauty had met on the great sea 
 of life. 
 
 Poor, beautiful, and friendless there are volumes 
 in the words ! 
 
 The mad girl's sleep was the deep, peaceful sleep of 
 childhood. The working of her features ceased, her 
 breath came evenly and calmly, as though she had 
 never known a care in her life. She was young, very 
 young, not more than twenty, and as she lay there, 
 with a sweet, though vacant smile upon her thin lips, 
 she appeared like a child indeed. 
 
 Sybil's heart filled with pity as she looked. 
 
 After awhile, there came a low tap at the door.
 
 102 SYBIL RIVERS. 
 
 Opening it, she found one of the servants, with a mes- 
 sage from Colonel Morgan, to request her presence in 
 the drawing-room as soon as possible. She returned 
 answer that she would come in a few moments, and 
 closing the door, debated about leaving her sleeping 
 charge alone. She decided almost instantly to take 
 advantage of the opportunity to tell Colonel Morgan 
 all she knew of the unfortunate girl's history. 
 
 " Now, or never !" she said bitterly, as she soft! y 
 left the poor crazed Lucille to her unbroken slumbers. 
 
 She found Colonel Morgan and Mrs. Morton in the 
 drawing-room together. The Colonel was walking up 
 and down the apartment evidently in a disturbed state 
 of mind ; Sybil did not sit down, but stood before them 
 in half frightened, but graceful dignity. 
 
 "Sybil," said Colonel Morgan, kindly, " I have a 
 very impudent question to put to you, and one which, 
 from my soul, I believe to be unnecessary. You will 
 forgive me if it should seem intrusive." 
 
 " Yes," replied Sybil, simply, wondering what could 
 be the object of the interview. 
 
 " Well, then pshaw, it's too ridiculous ! Sister, 
 ask for yourself." 
 
 " All we want to know, Miss Rivers," said Mrs. 
 Morton frigidly, - is whether the Reverend Mr. Al- 
 landorph is, or has been at any time, an admirer or 
 lover of yourself. A candid answer will oblige."
 
 SYBIL RIVER 3. 103 
 
 Sybil's pride was raised in an instant. 
 
 " Is a lover, Mrs. Morton !" she repeated, indig- 
 nantly ; " is it possible I am thought capable of receiving 
 the unholy love of a man, affianced before heaven 
 as the husband of another !" 
 
 Her tall form dilated ; her face flushed scarlet. 
 
 Mrs. Morton remained as coldly haughty as before. 
 
 "May I ask an explanation of this singular question?" 
 said Sybil, after a slight pause. 
 
 " The whole thing is simply this, my dear girl," ex- 
 claimed the Colonel, in a tone of vexation, " Silvia has 
 got a jealous freak in her head, and will not rest till it 
 is satisfied. Well, sister, are you content ?" 
 
 " Miss Rivers has not entirely answered my ques- 
 tion, George. I am not content." She looked inquir- 
 ingly, and with hard and searching eyes towards the 
 indignant girl. 
 
 "Pshaw the thing is too silly! I will not have Miss 
 Rivers annoyed further. You have had your answer; 
 / am satisfied, and you " 
 
 " Stay, Colonel Morgan," interrupted Sybil, as he led 
 his half-resisting sister-in-law towards the door, " I 
 have not, as Mrs. Morton says, answered her whole 
 inquiry. I will do so now. You wish to know if Mr. 
 John Allandorph," she pronounced the name witri an 
 undisguised contempt, '' has been a lover of mine is it 
 not so ?"
 
 104 SYBIL RIVERS. 
 
 Mrs. Morton bowed coldly. She seemed to be un- 
 conscious that any one save herself had ever had a 
 right to feel injured since the creation of the world. 
 
 "This is my answer. Distinctly, and openly, I ac- 
 knowledge that lie has, and that I rejected his proffer- 
 ed hand with scorn and detestation !" 
 
 Mrs. Morton turned very pale, and exclaimed, " Sil- 
 via must hear this she must hear this herself! No 
 MORTON shall wed with a man whose hand has been 
 refused by a ." She stopped, for Colonel Mor- 
 gan tightened his grasp on her wrist, till it fairly 
 amounted to agony. 
 
 " Yes, Silvia must hear this herself, "he repeated, 
 with some bitterness. " By heaven she shall hear it ; 
 if she can trample on the feelings of another, it is right 
 her own were wounded." He rang the bell. 
 
 " Tell Miss Morton I desire to see her." The ser- 
 vant flew to obey. 
 
 In a few moments Silvia entered. Slie was look- 
 ing miserably, and evidently had not expected to be 
 thus suddenly made a party to the interview. 
 
 " Silvia," sternly began the Colonel, " I have sent 
 for you, that you might hear for yourself the answer 
 which my daughter's governess, heaven bless her ! 
 has made to you through your mother. I have not 
 been an unobservant spectator of the manner in which 
 you have seen fit to annoy and humble her during
 
 SYBIL RIVERS. 105 
 
 your visit at my house, and it is with regret I am 
 compelled to inform you, what you might for yourself 
 have discovered before this, that your aunt and my- 
 self consider Miss Rivers as a beloved daughter; 
 feeling all slights offered to her as we would any impos- 
 ed on your cousin. Sybil, my child, speak to Miss 
 Morton, and repeat what you have just told us, con- 
 cerning Mr. Allandorph." 
 
 But Sybil had sunk into a seat, and hidden her face. 
 The sight of Silvia's pale, sad countenance, drew from 
 her pity, instead of triumph, and she almost wept as 
 she thought of the pain she had yet to cause her, by 
 an exposure of her lover's real character. 
 
 Scarcely heeding her uncle's reproof, Silvia went to 
 Miss Rivers, and standing before her, said in a voice 
 of subdued emotion 
 
 " Tell me, tell me all -for the sake of mercy, oh, 
 tell me, quickly !" Her slight frame trembled like a 
 reed, a terrible light burned in her eyes. 
 
 Still Sybil spoke not. She tried in vain to say the 
 words that hung upon her lips ; the sight of the an- 
 guish already writhing in that fair face, smote speech 
 into silence. 
 
 Silvia's steadfast glance grew wildly, fearfully 
 anxious. 
 
 With a feeble moan, reading at last what the white 
 lips dared not utter, she fell prostrate on the floor, and 
 
 5
 
 106 SYBIL RIVERS. 
 
 happy insensibility, for the moment, deadened the 
 struggle of love and pride. 
 
 Then it was that Sybil Rivers' energies returned ; 
 she knelt to assist the fainting girl, and before Colonel 
 Morgan or her mother could interfere, had placed her 
 gently on a sofa. 
 
 : "Don't touch her! go away!" vehemently cried 
 Mrs. Morton, springing to, and bending over the form 
 of her unhappy child, with weak and nervous efforts, 
 striving to revive her to consciousness. " It is you 
 who have killed her ! go away, go away !" 
 r She chafed the cold hands, and, tremblingly, at- 
 tempted to bathe the pale face with water from a 
 pitcher on the table. Very soon Silvia revived, and 
 sat up on the lounge, seemingly as wan and weak as 
 if she had just recovered from a long sickness. 
 
 " Mother," she murmured, faintly, " did I tell you 
 Ormon had come ?" 
 
 " Ormon ! " cried her mother, and she spoke the word 
 as though worlds of love and hope were centered in 
 him who bore the name. She made an involuntary 
 movement to leave the room. 
 
 " Yes, go, mother, go ! He wants so much to see 
 you. We were on the piazza when you sent for me, 
 and I could scarcely prevent him from coming to you." 
 
 Her mother hurriedly kissed and left her. The 
 moment the door closed, Silvia Morton became
 
 SYBIL RIVERS. 107 
 
 another being; her person grew erect with resolu- 
 tion. 
 
 " Tell me," she exclaimed, addressing herself to 
 Sybil, " you must tell me everything !" 
 
 Colonel Morgan stood looking on, with an expres- 
 sion of profound pity at her feverish eagerness. 
 
 " Can you hear all, Miss Morton," softly and kindly 
 asked Sybil, "can you hear that the man you love is 
 unworthy of you that he has disgraced his holy call- 
 ing that he is " 
 
 " Stop, Sybil !" interrupted Colonel Morgan, " do 
 not go too far ! You are excited. It is useless to re- 
 present John Allandorph as other than a Christian 
 gentleman. He may have hidden from Silvia some 
 
 early, trifling courtships, but come, let me take 
 
 you to your room, I am sure you are not well." 
 
 " Thank heaven, I have living proof !" was Sybil's 
 heartfelt answer. 
 
 And she repeated that old tale of love, and trust, 
 and ruin. She told them of the village maiden, 
 happy in her careless life in her youth and loveli- 
 ness. She told them of the beguiling snare of that 
 young girl's iron faith in him she loved of her fall, 
 and final desertion, and how she was, even then, 
 under the roof that sheltered her betrayer. 
 
 With one great sigh, Silvia Morton heard the fear-
 
 108 SYBIL RIVERS. 
 
 ful story, and, cold as a statue, neither moved nor 
 spoke. 
 
 " Before I leave your kind society," replied Allan- 
 dorph, with a derisive laugh at the abhorrence he read 
 in the confronting faces of those around him, "be- 
 fore I leave you, allow me the pleasure of paying a 
 debt of gratitude that I owe this charming young lady, 
 Miss Sybil Rivers. 
 
 " Mrs. Morton, look to your honors ! For sometime 
 past, this sweet and unsophisticated girl has favored 
 your son," and he cast a smile at Ormon Morton, who, 
 standing at his mother's side, eyed him, sternly, " with 
 an unsolicited affection, and, if her schemes succeed, 
 will probably end by becoming his wife ; like myself, 
 dear madam, considering everything fair in love or 
 
 war ! 
 
 I" 
 
 " Dastard !" thundered Ormon, indignantly. " How 
 DARE you utter so foul a falsehood ? Sybil Rivers is 
 as grandly above scheming and duplicity, as you, poor 
 wretch, are beneath contempt." 
 
 Undaunted, Allandorph pointed boldly to the shrink- 
 ing form of Sybil Rivers, for confirmation of his 
 words. 
 
 With blazing eyes, Ormon Morton advanced, mena- 
 cingly, towards him. " Out of my sight," he cried
 
 SYBIL RIVERS. 109 
 
 " quick, or, by heaven, I " but before the words 
 
 were fairly uttered, Allandorph had taken instant and 
 cowardly flight through the open casement ! 
 
 All eyes were now turned on Sybil Rivers, who, 
 with her proud face buried in her hands, sat, bent and 
 trembling, in her terrible humiliation. 
 
 Ormon Morton read the secret of her heart at a 
 glance. His face lit up like sunshine, as he came be- 
 side her, and said, in a low, but audible voice 
 
 " Sybil dear Miss Rivers." The bowed head stir- 
 ed not. "Sybil," (with suppressed tenderness,) "is 
 this can this be ? Have we both been mistaken all 
 these weary years ? Am I returned from my distant 
 pilgrimage, to find that mine, which I thought 
 another's when I went away ?" 
 
 There was a sudden and convulsive movement of 
 the hands, but that was all. 
 
 It was enough ! 
 
 " Oh, Sybil !" he passionately proceeded, " answer 
 me ! Before heaven, and these witnesses, I ask, 
 solemnly, if you will be my wife, the good influence, 
 the blessedness of all my days ?" 
 
 Still she spoke not. But even silence is eloquent- 
 and Ormon Morton was content.
 
 LORRAINE GORDON 
 
 I 
 A BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 " LOVE was to his impassioned soul, 
 
 Not as with others, a mere part 
 Of its existence but the whole, 
 
 The very life-breath of his heart !" 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 " For suffering hath been made sublime, 
 
 And souls that lived, and died alone, 
 Have left an echo for all time." 
 
 " DEAD ! dead ! oh, mother ! did you say DEAD ?" 
 
 " Yes, Lorraine yes. Mora has gone home at 
 last. From shame and poverty, from injury and in- 
 sult, she is freed forever !" 
 
 The young man leaned his head upon the small 
 table before him, and big tears rolled from his eyes. 
 
 His dress was that of a sailor. On the floor lay a 
 little bundle of clothing, dashed down with his tarpau- 
 lin, in the first eagerness of return. His face was 
 dark and sun-burned, but a frank, manly face withal. 
 
 "Mother?" 
 
 " Lorraine, my dear son," she answered, and the
 
 112 LORRAINE GORDON. 
 
 pathos, the exquisite consolation of her tone softened 
 his deep sorrow. 
 
 "Where is Mora buried where does she sleep, 
 mother ?" 
 
 Without answering, the old lady took her sun-bon- 
 net from its peg, in the rough, white-washed wall, and 
 led the way across the fields that were at the rear of 
 the house. 
 
 Very soon they reached the spot. 
 
 It was a lowly green mound, without monument or 
 stone. A wild, straggling grape-vine had crept thick- 
 ly over it. Everything around was calm and still ; not 
 even an echo disturbed the holy silence of the place. 
 
 With a burst of unchecked grief, the young man 
 knelt over his sister's grave, and looking up to heaven, 
 exclaimed, wildly 
 
 " So best, so best, for God is mercy !" 
 
 His mother lifted up her shrivelled hands to heaven, 
 with the air and gesture of a Prophetess of olden 
 times, and cried, in a voice of heart-wrung bitterness 
 
 " This, Lorraine, is the resting-place of a GORDON. 
 This base, unmarked sod, covers a descendant of that 
 noble house !" 
 
 Her grey hairs fluttered around her brow, as, stand- 
 ing there, in agonized and severe majesty, she clasped 
 her son's hands and wept. Lorraine's sorrowing face 
 hardened like a rock as he beheld her grief, and he
 
 LORRAINE GORDON. 113 
 
 thought of the matchless wrongs that had brought 
 them to this low estate. 
 
 Defrauded of his inheritance brought to poverty 
 and exile by another's sin ! 
 
 " Lorraine," said his feeble, old mother, putting 
 aside his hand, and drawing herself erect. " Lorraine, 
 I do not advocate revenge, far from it ; but Gordon- 
 dale must not remain the property of Gilbert Wold. 
 Swear to me promise it here, over your dead sister's 
 grave, that you will use, during your life, all honest 
 means to regain your birth-right ; swear to me, that 
 before you die, you will be master of Gordondale, as 
 your fathers have been !" 
 
 The young sailor bent forward, till his lips reverent- 
 ly touched the turf over that humble grave, and said, 
 solemnly 
 
 " Mother I swear it !" 
 
 THE woods, the dim old woods, are they not beauti- 
 ful ? Does not the music of their sea of leaves come 
 to the spirit with the balm of a holy hymn ? Is not 
 their thick, fragrant shade, the embodiment of peace, 
 and their wild paths, one mass of tangled beauty ? 
 
 The grand old woods ! they have brought more reli- 
 
 5*
 
 114 LORRAINE GORDON. 
 
 gion into the heart of man, than all the elaborate ser- 
 mons ever written ! 
 
 It was in a small cottage, in the edge of a wood, a 
 cottage almost ready to fall into ruin, and scarcely 
 keeping out the wind and rain, that Lorraine Gordon 
 lived for years after the death of his broken-hearted 
 mother, lived a lonely and miserable man, working 
 and toiling, grudging himself the common necessaries 
 of life, and shut completely from the companionship of 
 his fellow-creatures. No rest, no relaxation, no friend- 
 ships did he ever allow himself, lest they might take 
 from his zeal in the one great object of his labor the 
 redemption of his lawful inheritance from the hands of 
 a stranger. 
 
 Years of self-denial, of poverty and obscurity, faded 
 slowly away. 
 
 Temptation came to him to turn aside from the 
 path he had marked out for himself, and very painful 
 was the effort to resist it. He was human he could 
 not altogether steel himself to the promptings of na- 
 ture. 
 
 During his position as overseer of a neighboring 
 factory, which station had been given him immediate- 
 ly after his mother's death by some of his father's for- 
 mer friends, Lorraine saw, and loved, a young girl, 
 called Agnes Hill. She was poor, like himself, like 
 himself had once lived in circumstances better suited
 
 LORRAINE GORDON. 115 
 
 to her innate refinement. She worked at one of the 
 looms, in order to support a bed-ridden father and 
 sick mother, and thus it was they met. 
 
 Notwithstanding Lorraine's pride in his family 
 name, he loved, with all the strength of his manly soul, 
 this obscure factory girl. Many a conflict did that 
 lonely hut in the wood witness, between this passion, 
 and the memory of his vow over Mora's grave. His 
 promise could not be as soon fulfilled, perhaps it never 
 would be, if the care of a wife and family came be- 
 tween him and it ; the living love, and the trust with 
 the dead, could not both exist together ; and, oh ! the 
 heart-burning the knowledge gave him ! 
 
 In the solitude of his forest home he had little else 
 to think of but his hopeless attachment, and the 
 solemn vow which he had made years before, and 
 which, alas ! he already deplored. What was the 
 restored grandeur of the house of the dead Gordons, 
 to the happiness, or the life-long misery of its only 
 survivor ? 
 
 He asked himself this again and again, and yet, 
 when his heart prompted him to follow its more 
 natural dictates, his conscience as thrillingly asserted 
 its sway. 
 
 He had promised it, and to one who was now an 
 angel in God's heaven !
 
 116 LORRAINE GORDON. 
 
 So, for years he lived ; struggling forever with that 
 earnest, beautiful passion, and his stern duty. 
 
 Time began to silver his head and sear his heart. 
 He became in reality, what, long before, men, ignorant 
 of the motives of his secluded existence had believed 
 him to be a misanthrope. He hated the sight of all 
 human faces, save one. As soon as the business of 
 the day was over, he walked back to his comfortless 
 den, and in silence and solitude brooded over his still 
 precious love, or counted up his miser store of riches. 
 Fortune had favored him. By well thought-of specu- 
 lations, in many and various departments of the busi- 
 ness world, the little savings which he had been years 
 accumulating, were bringing in princely interest. In 
 a few years more, he hoped to call Gordondale his own, 
 by the right of lawful purchase, for the comet-like 
 course of Gilbert Wold, the forger of his father's receiv- 
 ed will, was ended. He was dead and gone ! and the 
 property he had possessed by fraud was now offered for 
 sale. 
 
 Agnes Hill was still unmarried. Her delicate love- 
 liness had grown somewhat wan and faded ; but to 
 Lorraine Gordon she was still an idol of earthly affec- 
 tion. The beauty of her lofty character ; her sacri- 
 fices for, and unswerving devotion to her parents, pre- 
 served ever fresh, ever pure, the passion her girlhood 
 had awakened in his breast.
 
 LORRAINE GORDON. 117 
 
 He had never spoken to her of his love. He did 
 not know that she was aware of its existence ; he 
 never dreamed that all those years had passed as bit- 
 terly to her as to himself. 
 
 How. should he ? What did he know of the keen 
 love-eyes of woman, when the hopes of her life are at 
 stake ? She had read his secret love for years, and, 
 with something like wounded pride at the impotency 
 of her own power, beheld the result of the contest 
 between duty and passion. 
 
 At length the time came, when Lorraine Gordon 
 entered into negotiations for the purchase of his noble 
 birthplace, now neglected and sinking into ruin. 
 
 With a proud hand he signed over the hardly earn- 
 ed fortune of a life-time, and found himself the master 
 of far-away Gordondale. 
 
 Triumphant happiness overflowed his spirit, as, in 
 his old age, he felt himself free to gather up, as he 
 would, the domestic love he so coveted. 
 
 Repeating to himself the words, ''I am master of 
 Gordondale," as though the sound were delicious 
 music, for the first time in his Hfe he bent his steps to- 
 wards the humble home of Agnes Hill. 
 
 It was an humble and poor little cottage, and, unlike 
 his own, was situated in the very heart of active life, 
 near the noisy, dingy factory, where the worn woman's 
 youth had wasted away.
 
 118 LORRAINE GORDON. 
 
 He rapped, impatiently, and before long the door 
 was opened by Agnes Hill herself. She looked sur- 
 prised, but asked him very gently to enter. He shook 
 the white sand from his feet, came in, and sat beside 
 her at the cheerful hearth, made so by her own in- 
 dustry. 
 
 In one corner of the room, propped up with pillows, 
 half-lying, half-sitting in a large chair, he beheld her 
 childish old mother. Long before, her father had 
 sunk to his eternal rest, and slept under the green 
 grass of a peaceful grave. 
 
 Lorraine Gordon had thought, in the innocence of 
 his long crushed heart, that it would be an easy thing 
 to tell Agnes Hill of his love. But something, he 
 knew not what, chained his speech ; and although the 
 words burned and battled for utterance, they refused 
 to come from their terrible chaos when he would have 
 had it so. 
 
 Agnes, in her quiet, composed way, tried to talk 
 to him on subjects interesting to both. She spoke of 
 the improved prospects of factory laborers, and of the 
 advantages many had reaped from his own manly kind- 
 ness during the years that he had been overseer. 
 
 At last, with desperate, nervous effort, Lorraine 
 Gordon took her toil-worn hand in his, and said sim- 
 ply- 
 
 " Agnes, I have come to tell you that I love you !"
 
 LORRAINE GORDON. 119 
 
 And Agnes slowly withdrew her hand, and said in a 
 low, troubled voice 
 
 "I am sorry." 
 
 Lorraine Gordon was almost blinded by the bewil- 
 derment those few words caused him, the idea of rejec- 
 tion having never entered his imagination. " Have I 
 loved you all my manhood, to find it vain at last ?" he 
 questioned bitterly. " Have I lived on the mere hope 
 of your affection so many years for nothing, Agnes ? 
 Do you not, oh ! can you not love me ?" 
 
 Agnes Hill gave him a look of proud sorrow as she 
 answered 
 
 " Lorraine Gordon, you have come too late ! I ac- 
 knowledge that I once loved you long ago. You 
 were more to me than aught else on earth my whole 
 being ached for your love ! Pride has conquered mine 
 you are too late /" 
 
 " Oh ! Agnes, may not years of devotion win it 
 again ? I barred my heart to you that I might re- 
 deem, by rigid economy, the ancient dwelling of my 
 ancestors. Thank heaven, Gordondale is mine at last ! 
 Agnes, you are the only woman worthy to be its mis- 
 tress ; oh ! tell me you will try to love its master !" 
 
 But that wild temptation of wealth and luxury for 
 herself and dying mother, shook not the pride of the 
 still beautiful Agnes Hill.
 
 120 LORRAINE GORDON. 
 
 She threw back her curling brown hair, and repeat- 
 ed those, to him, terrible words 
 
 '' Lorraine Gordon, you are too late /" 
 He heard his fate, and left her. 
 
 IT was the entrance of Gordondale. 
 
 The tiny stone lodge lifted up its roof from a wil- 
 derness of ivy and other climbing vines. It appeared 
 the same as ever, and there came out to welcome the 
 new master the same old servant who had dwelt there 
 with his family in by-gone times. 
 
 Taking the keys from the venerable gate-keeper's 
 trembling hands, Lorraine passed up the broad avenues 
 alone, and on foot. A mile or so brought him to the 
 home of his boyhood. 
 
 Change had left many direful traces. One of the 
 wings was fallen into decay, and the main building it- 
 self looked as though the storm king held his orgies 
 over it. Neglect and extravagant usage were visible 
 everywhere. The once well-kept garden was a waste, 
 and many a stately tree had disappeared ; rank weeds 
 choked up the paths; all was desolation wherever the 
 eyes turned. 
 
 Applying the key, the old man entered the house. 
 Through all those antique rooms he hurried in eager
 
 LORRAINE GORDON. 121 
 
 excitement, but, alas ! it was not the Gordondale of his 
 youth. The only thing that served to recall the old, 
 old days, was a painting of his mother, hanging in its ac- 
 customed place on the walls of the dining-room. He 
 sank into a seat before it, and leaning his face on his 
 clasped hands, wept tears of bitter and two-fold disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 When the old servant came to seek him, he found 
 him sitting there, cold and dead ! 
 
 Following the beckonings of angel memories, the 
 soul of LORRAINE GORDON had defied forever the grasp 
 of earthly disaster.
 
 FEAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Worcester : * * * I will unclasp a secret book, 
 
 And to your quick-conceiving discontents 
 I'll read you matter, deep and dangerous ; 
 As full of peril and advent'rous spirit 
 As to o'erwalk a current roaring loud, 
 On the unsteadfast footing of a spear. 
 
 HENRY IV. 
 
 Jqffier : There's not a wretch that lives on common charity, 
 But's happier than me. 
 
 VENICE PRESERTED. 
 
 GOD gave me an intellect worthy of an angel, and 
 I have made it the slave of demons. 
 
 No longer stifling the voice within, that calls in 
 agony for 'utterance, I will confess, to this silent paper 
 a deed that never yet was surpassed in wickedness 
 among men. 
 
 I am the son of well-circumstanced parents. I was 
 bred for the profession in which my father made his
 
 124 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 fortune the law, because my oratorical genius seemed 
 to point that way. 
 
 Unfortunately for me, however, I had scarcely passed 
 my final examination, when my mother's only brother, 
 Colonel Josiah Oliver, publicly proclaimed me his heir, 
 and sent for me to reside permanently with him at the 
 Cordoza estates, which, with a portion of his vast wealth' 
 he had just purchased in South America. I bade an 
 eternal farewell to my profession, and left New- York 
 
 in the year . With the blessings of my kind old 
 
 father and my grey-haired mother still fresh upon me, 
 I reached my destination. 
 
 My uncle I had never seen. I found him to be an 
 old man, somewhat roue in appearance, but still en- 
 joying a hale decline of life. He received me kindly, 
 settled upon me during his existence an annuity that 
 fairly dazzled me with its amplitude, only exacting in 
 return the attentions due from youth to an unwedded 
 and childless age. 
 
 The Castle of Cordoza was the pride and boast of 
 the small town at the entrance of which it stood. 
 
 It was built on a massive ledge of rocks a magni- 
 ficently terrible precipice, that overhangs the lovely, 
 but comparatively unknown, inland lake, Aro, so-called 
 from the perfect circle it described. The towering 
 mountains at whose feet the castle lay, gave it majes- 
 tic shelter from the elements, and presented to the
 
 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 125 
 
 traveller lingering on the spot, a vision of such wild 
 and fantastic beauty, that the senses were oppressed 
 with its luxuriance. As far as the eye could reach, 
 these mountains extended, crowned with clouds and 
 savagely picturesque foliage, (who does not know the 
 rich character of the South American forests ?) until, 
 fading in the distance, they melted into space. Civili- 
 zation had neither destroyed the romantic langour that 
 hovered over these beautiful' tropical regions, nor ob- 
 literated the old-time landmarks, the ruins of ancient 
 palaces and fanes, relics of a race of people that has 
 passed away forever. 
 
 Surrounded by everything that could stimulate the 
 imagination, and triumphantly elevate the spirit over 
 its clay, I lost my inordinate love of mere earthly en- 
 joyments, and revelled, for the time being, in a new 
 world. 
 
 It was then, that, risen above my natural self, I first 
 saw Veronica Lola, a young girl, the grandchild on her 
 father's side of a tenant of my uncle's. 
 
 Riding one day along an exquisitely romantic road, 
 on the estate that was soon to be my own, in passing a 
 plain and rather poor cabana, I was startled by hearing 
 issuing from it, a mellow female voice, chanting in Span- 
 ish, a hymn to the Virgin. It was a beautiful little trifle, 
 such as should only flow from the lips (as it did then) 
 at the dusky opening of evening. With delicacy, and
 
 126 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 yet great precision of style, the voice sang on, while 
 I, unseen, listened to the very close of the concluding 
 crescendo and diminuendo. Curiosity then moved me 
 to look upon this syren who charmed mortals while 
 worshipping Immortality. 
 
 I dismounted, and had placed my hand on the latch 
 of the gate, when I saw a young girl, seated, uncon- 
 scious of my approach, at one of the open windows. 
 
 Although scarcely more than the earliest years of 
 womanhood had passed over her head, the rich, regal 
 type of her appearance was that of maturity. 
 
 She was not actually beautiful ; yet there was that 
 in her face that compelled admiration a weird 
 spiritual gleam of something higher and holier than 
 physical perfection, although that of itself is both high 
 and holy. 
 
 Her eyes were dark and of an imploring expression, 
 like those of the giraffe, the most beautiful and grace- 
 ful of brute animals ; her long hair was straight as 
 an Indian's, and her features, half those of a Madonna, 
 half those of the noble woman ; a peculiar purity of 
 complexion adding greatly to their unearthly radiance. 
 
 At any other time than that, I should have turned 
 from looking on such a face with a feeling of jmmea- 
 surable relief; but, as I have said, I was changed. 
 The pitiful passions that hitherto had rebelled against 
 companionship with, because antagonistic to, beings
 
 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 127 
 
 like Veronica, then slept within me, and, alas ! but to 
 display redoubled vigor and vitality on awakening. 
 
 I am no Fatalist. I do not attempt to veil the 
 atrocity of my crimes under the poor screen such a 
 creed affords. I believe that the WILL of man is his 
 destiny ! His fate is in his own hands. It is in his 
 power to shape his course for an eternal heaven or an 
 eternal hell ! 
 
 I will not linger over the introduction that I con- 
 trived to win, in the home of Veronica's grand- 
 parents; nor state more than the simple fact, that 
 loved and was beloved. 
 
 Every time that I beheld this young girl, my passion 
 for her increased ; until the wildest idolatry of image- 
 worshippers was not more violent or more impious 
 than my own.. 
 
 ******* 
 
 The time came when I felt it necessary to speak to 
 my uncle Oliver on the subject of my betrothal to 
 this young Spanish rustica, the obscurity of whose 
 origin I instinctively felt would cause him much vexa- 
 tious regret at my choice. Prepared as I naturally 
 was for an unreasonable display of anger, I confess I 
 did not expect the outburst of violence, the tempest 
 of fury, that succeeded the avowal of my love. My 
 uncle turned perfectly livid with rage. He stamped, 
 he swore, he cursed all the women that ever were
 
 128 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 born ; and vowed that my folly, as he termed it, had 
 made me only worthy to be classed among them. 
 Then suddenly his wrath subsided, and a suppressed, 
 but even more ominous displeasure took its place. 
 His manner reminded me of the quietness of a hungry 
 and caged lion. " Go, marry this wretched plebeian," 
 he said, calmly. "Go, marry her, if you will; but, 
 remember, you do so at the penalty of your entire in- 
 heritance ! Go, poor fool ; and may your children 
 wring your heart, as you have wrung mine ! May 
 they live to curse you, and the day that gave them 
 being ! Go !" 
 
 I was too thunder-stricken at the information con- 
 tained in this speech, to utter a word, and my uncle 
 proceeded 
 
 " Choose between this girl and me ! There is 
 boundless wealth and power on the one side a fickle 
 woman, poverty, and servile labor, on the other." He 
 paused, then added, with a slightly softened voice 
 
 " Farlie, listen to me. I say this for your eternal 
 good. /, too, have loved." He strode the room with 
 gigantic strides. " I loved a creature, young and 
 beautiful as thil peasant girl. Unlike your case, our 
 rank in life was equal. We were poor alike ; and in 
 blind infatuation, I swore to enrich myself for her sake. 
 Love ! that was no word to express my devotion to 
 her, my faith in her integrity. I adored her J wor-
 
 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 129 
 
 shipped her, like, like," he seemed to hesitate for a 
 comparison, " like devils in hell worshipping heaven. 
 I staked my all upon her, and, and I LOST ! 
 
 " I came to South America, freighted with more 
 than wealth in the treasure of her love. I went back 
 to her, the possessor of almost fabulous riches, acquir- 
 ed for her sake alone, and found her, good God ! not 
 even the wife of my rival !" 
 
 Iron-nerved as I had always deemed my uncle 
 Oliver to be, he burst into a passion of tears. There 
 was a long pause. 
 
 " From that moment, the sight of a woman became 
 repulsive to me from that moment, I vowed myself 
 to a never-ending celibacy. 
 
 " Farlie Gardener, Veronica Lola is the daughter of 
 that woman, lon<y since dead ! I never knew it until 
 a few days ago. TPor her mother's sake, I HATE her. 
 Marry her, (she inherits her mother's face, and doubt- 
 less carries as pure a conscience, as changeable a taste,) 
 marry her, and, by heaven, you will do so, a beggar ! 
 I desire to save you, Farlie, from the fate that has been 
 mine I desire to save you from much that is hard 
 and bitter to endure. This girl will deceive you, as 
 her mother deceived me before her. Forget her, 
 daughter as she is of a false and unholy woman for- 
 get " but I heard him no farther. I flung myself 
 
 6
 
 130 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 from the room I mounted my horse, and rode as for 
 life and death to Veronica. 
 
 The little good in my disposition was aroused. I 
 revealed my situation to my betrothed, and offered to 
 sacrifice everything my prospects my expected in- 
 heritance, all for her ! I implored her to be my wife, 
 and narrowly I watched her open and changeful face, 
 to see the effect my words produced. A doubt had 
 entered my mind, (it had arisen from my uncle's 
 words,) and I longed to know, if wealth or poverty 
 had aught of influence over her love. 
 
 I had found her with her grandfather in their pretty 
 garden, he busy with his spade, she weaving, careless- 
 ly, a garland of flowers ; not flowers like our own 
 palely beautiful northern ones, but bright tropical 
 
 blossoms, luxuriant in richness of color and shape, re- 
 
 s 
 minding one of the face of a woman grown insolent 
 
 with too great loveliness. 
 
 Veronica heard me as though she were in a dream. 
 Her eyes dimmed. 
 
 " We will wait, Farlie we will wait," she said. 
 " Did you think that I could accept a sacrifice from 
 you like this? Did you think me capable of ruining 
 you, Farlie ? We will wait, and some happy day your 
 uncle may relent then, and only then, shall I become 
 your wife I"
 
 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 131 
 
 So I returned to the Castle of Cordoza as its heir 
 still. 
 
 I promised my uncle all he required of me, regard- 
 ing Veronica ; because this was the sole condition on 
 which I could be restored to his favor / swore never 
 to make her my wife ! 
 
 From that moment a demon took possession of me. 
 From that moment I plotted how to retain both 
 Veronica and my inheritance ! 
 
 My oath, never to marry her, I regarded as lightly 
 as if it had not been spoken. Its existence did not 
 annoy me. I was prepared to set it at defiance at 
 any hour, when I could do so without injuring my- 
 self. 
 
 The selfishness of my nature broke out afresh. I 
 was inexpressibly thankful that Veronica had resisted 
 my alarmed and passionate appeal for her hand. I 
 now felt that I would rather relinquish even that, than 
 cast away from me my uncle's princely fortune. 
 
 Relinquish her hand only; fiend that I was, I never 
 dreamed of relinquishing Veronica ! 
 
 A thousand temptations assailed me. I longed for 
 my uncle's death, as the only release from my position. 
 I even plotted against his life ; but an innate and in- 
 explicable fear of retribution prevented the accom- 
 plishment of my designs. 
 My inhuman desire was soon and suddenly gratified.
 
 132 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 It was not many months before the Angel of Death 
 added the soul of the Lord of Cordoza to those 
 already passed away to the great Silent Land. 
 
 What is this thing that men name soul ? We can- 
 not see it when it parts from the body, although we 
 behold the physical agony caused by the solemn sepa- 
 ration. Its destiny is, like itself, a fearful mystery a 
 mystery that must remain such as long as the world 
 exists. 
 
 IN compliance with my uncle's desire, I had ceased 
 visiting at the humble cottage of Veronica's grand- 
 parents. This did not prevent, however, frequent in- 
 terviews in the ancient forest that, made the glory of 
 the estate. As yet, I had not dared to say aught that 
 her high-minded purity could resent; and now that 
 my uncle's death removed the only obstacle to my 
 marriage, I went again to the cottage, and openly de- 
 manded the hand of Veronica of her parents. 
 
 It was granted me, together with the blessing of the 
 aged couple, who, however, did not accord me the 
 favor I asked, without first revealing what they little 
 thought I already knew of Veronica's birth, nobly giv- 
 ing me opportunity to retract my proposal.
 
 FRAGMENT OP AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 133 
 
 My uncle's funeral took place on the fifth of Sep- 
 tember, attended with much pomp and splendour. On 
 the tenth it was decided that we were to be quietly 
 married by the sacerdote of an adjacent chapel. 
 
 The morning of the tenth arrived. An unaccounta- 
 ble foreboding hovered over me as, ordering the most 
 lovely of bridal bouquets from the castle gardeners, I 
 set out for the cottage. At the little gate over which 
 I had leaned when beholding Veronica for the first 
 time, she came to meet me then, attired very simply 
 for the occasion in a thin, white robe. 
 
 " Father Andrae is come, and wishes to see you 
 privately before the ceremony," she said, as I pressed 
 my lips to her blushing forehead, and presented my 
 flowers. 
 
 " Privately," the word rang in my ears disagreea- 
 bly. What private message could Father Andrae have 
 to tell me ? I had never even seen him, and knew 
 nothing more of him than that, at Veronica's request, 
 his were to be the lips that gave me power over her 
 future life. 
 
 Arm in arm we passed up the garden walk to the 
 veranda, through a window opening upon which, I be- 
 held a man in priestly attire. I was silent and ab- 
 stracted. Veronica seemed pained by this, and said 
 fondly, but reproachfully 
 
 " Do you regret, Farlie, that I am not more worthy
 
 134 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 of your castled home ? Before it is too late, do you 
 repent that you have chosen me ? The obscure, the 
 low-born peasant is indeed no mate for one like you." 
 
 Before I could answer, we were joined by Father 
 Andrea. With a brief and strangely imperative ges- 
 ture, he drew me aside. Veronica left us. 
 
 " Do you love this girl ?" he inquired, following her 
 form with his eyes. 
 
 " Why do you ask ?" I demanded, impatiently. 
 " Are you not here to make us one ? Does not the 
 disparity in our station bespeak, my love ?" 
 
 Father Andrae smiled. It was a cold, much-express- 
 ing, half-sneering smile. 
 
 " Station !" he repeated slowly, " aye, it is of that 
 very station I would speak. I know a secret, Senor, 
 that involves both that boasted station and your lately 
 acquired wealth. I know a secret that will blast you 
 forever, did I but withhold it till to-morrow. Now 
 tell me, solemnly, for I would know do you, or do 
 you not, love this good and sweet girl ?" 
 
 " As my life," I answered, " and by all that's holy, 
 before night she shall be my wife !" 
 
 " I .doubt it," sneered Father Andrae, watching me 
 curiously. 
 
 " Sir," I cried angrily, " you were not sent here for 
 trifling. Say what you have to say, and let the cere -
 
 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 135 
 
 mony begin ; let me assure you, that all idle boasts will 
 be treated as they deserve." 
 
 " I forgot," said the sacerdots, bowing with mock 
 reverence, " I forgot that I spoke to the heir of Cor- 
 doza ;" and again he smiled disdainfully. 
 
 " Senor," he continued, " do you know whether your 
 late uncle made a will just before his sudden death ?" 
 
 " Yes," answered I, greatly relieved, for, uncon- 
 sciously, his words had filled me with alarm. "I know 
 that he made no will since the one constituting me his 
 sole heir, which I myself saw drawn up, signed and 
 witnessed in June last." 
 
 " And you are quite sure, Senor, that there has been 
 no other substituted since ?" 
 
 " Quite," I answered, readily and haughtily. 
 " What if I should assure you, Senor, that there has 
 been?" 
 
 " Impossible it is false as hell !" I cried, now fully 
 aroused. 
 
 " Say rather, Senor, that it is true as heaven ! I have 
 proof!" 
 
 "Where is it! give it me! let me see it!" and I 
 clutched the priest's arm. 
 
 Very calmly he took from his bosom a small roll of 
 papers, gave it to me, and folded his arms over his ca- 
 pacious chest, as with trembling hands I held it before 
 me, and attempted, but in vain, to decipher the written
 
 136 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 characters. They swam before me my eyes grew 
 hazed. All I comprehended was, that this was indeed 
 a later will, signed by different witnesses, and making 
 my marriage with Veronica the forfeit of the entire 
 Cordoza estate! 
 
 Savagely, and with a brutal triumph, I suddenly tore 
 the will to atoms, and scattered the fragments around 
 me. To my surprise, Father Andrae neither spoke 
 nor changed his attitude, but stood regarding me with 
 fixed and deliberate gaze. 
 
 " Do you think, poor wretch," he at length enuncia- 
 ted, in a low, deep voice, " do you think you have de- 
 stroyed the last proof of your uncle's regard ? Do you 
 think me madman enough to place in your impious 
 hands anything but a worthless copy ?" 
 
 With a cry of defeated rage, I aimed, but unsuccess- 
 fully, a blow at his head. 
 
 " SefLor," he proceeded, tauntingly, " I spoke untruly 
 when I said you would not wed to-day ! I am at your 
 command. Of course you will yield this wealth to 
 others, and at once make Senorita Lola your wife. 
 Come, Seflor, I am somewhat pressed for time. Your 
 bride awaits you." 
 
 "Devil!" I hissed, passionately, "wife or no wife, 
 Veronica Lola shall be mine! Begone ! If it were only 
 to punish your insolence, I shall remain the Lord of 
 Cordoza !"
 
 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 137 
 
 He left me, and re-entered the cottage, for the inter- 
 view had taken place on its veranda. I drew my tab- 
 lets from my pocket, wrote a hasty line of temporary 
 and fond farewell to Veronica, and returned to the 
 castle, determining to ferret out completely this mys- 
 tery of the new will before I beheld her again. 
 
 That night I never closed my eyes. 1 passed it in 
 searching thoroughly all my uncle's papers, decipher- 
 ing piles of manuscript, and reading old letters, in the 
 hope of discovering some, however slight, intimation 
 of the making of the second will. Finding none, my 
 spirits became somewhat less depressed, and striving 
 to comfort myself with the idea that I had been duped 
 by Father Andrae, (for what purpose, I could not ima- 
 gine,) at the breaking of morning I fell into a sound 
 and refreshing slumber. 
 
 I was awakened late in the forenoon by a servant, 
 who came to inform me that the Superior of a neigh- 
 boring monastery, (the same who had attended my 
 uncle in his dying hours,) desired to obtain a few mo- 
 ments interview. 
 
 Dressing myself hastily, with a renewal of alarm, I 
 descended to meet him. The visit struck me as boding 
 no good. The Superior had not come alone, Father 
 Andrae and two monks accompanied him. 
 
 " Son," began the good Superior, blandly, " I am 
 here on an errand that will doubtless be displeasing to 
 
 6*
 
 138 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 you, but my duty must be discharged. The Virgin be 
 praised, that Brother Andrae saved you yesterday from 
 a deed that might have impoverished you entirely, al- 
 though our monastery would thereby have become 
 enriched ; your departed uncle having willed all his 
 enormous estate to it, in case of forfeiture by you. 
 The document was placed by him in my hands, short- 
 ly before his death. It is duly signed and lawfully 
 witnessed. I have come to-day to inform you publicly 
 of its existence, that you may not, my son, cause its 
 reversion to us unknowingly. Much good as in our 
 hands this money might produce, we desire not to pos- 
 sess it by fraud, Heaven forbid ! Had I known that 
 there was any possibility of your marriage, within so 
 short a time as this, I would not have waited even so 
 brief a period to announce it to you." 
 
 I thanked him coldly, rang for refreshments, and 
 unceremoniously retired to my apartments. 
 
 It was all true, then, and bitterly I cursed the 
 memory of my dead uncle, as fiercely I strode the 
 floor. It was true that I must give up the possession 
 of this splendour, or renounce Veronica. 
 
 I felt that I could not do either, and stilling the re- 
 bukes of conscience, I laid my plans to retain both. 
 
 Give up the noble, the beautiful Cordoza, I would 
 not, renounce Veronica, I could not !
 
 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 139 
 
 MANY days elapsed before I ventured near the Lolas' 
 cottage. I felt, too, like a dishonorable man. It was 
 long before I conquered the feeling, and sought the 
 society of her, whom I loved more madly and more 
 selfishly than ever. 
 
 Veronica had grown paler and thinner ; the earthly 
 expression of her face was now lost in that of the 
 Madonna. A more spiritual and holy countenance I 
 had never beheld. 
 
 She greeted me kindly, but distantly. 
 
 " Father Andrae," thought I, and inwardly vowed 
 revenge. Veronica's love was too deep to be lightly 
 shaken. The effect of her confessor's exhortations 
 vanished before my well-contrived words of passionate 
 apology, and reiterated affection. She clung around 
 my neck, and wept bitterly as she begged forgiveness, 
 for the doubt she had entertained of my truth. I as- 
 sured her of the correctness of the report Father 
 Andrae had given her, concerning the contents of my 
 uncle's will ; but solemnly declared, that I had never 
 for one moment dreamed of retaining his riches at the 
 price of her love. I spoke of the humble and happy 
 home that was yet to be ours, and, sobbing on my 
 shoulder, Veronica forgave my late desertion, in girl- 
 ish words of such tender and happy hopefulness, that 
 I half longed to make my artfully painted picture, 
 reality.
 
 140 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Oh, it was but the old, old story ! By degrees, and 
 it was the work of months, I revealed my true de- 
 sign. 
 
 It is enough to say, that Veronica met me with all 
 the womanly scorn, and insulted dignity, of which her 
 nature was capable, and, in frigid disdain, banished me 
 from her presence. 
 
 Never had she appeared more bewilderingly beauti- 
 ful than on that day. Her gesture of queenly and 
 imperious command to leave her ; her erect majesty, 
 and the appalling radiance of her indignant face, are 
 fresh in my memory to this day. 
 
 A few weeks passed. The luxury for which I had 
 sacrificed so much, grew more hateful to me than I 
 can express. Night brought no repose day nothing 
 but discontent. 
 
 One morning, a whim seized me to visit the under- 
 ground cells, for which the Castle of Cordoza was both 
 feared and noted. 
 
 Guided by one of my servants, bearing a lighted 
 torch, I passed through the long, damp galleries which 
 led below the wine vaults, to the unfrequented dens, 
 used, in by-gone times, as prisons for the guilty or un- 
 fortunate. The servant being familiar with the prin- 
 cipal cells of these underground passages, led me 
 through them, for inspection. It filled me with terror 
 to behold them. Some were reeking with the odors
 
 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 141 
 
 of decay, (for the damp destroyed whatever rude fur- 
 niture had been allowed to remain in them,) and, in 
 one, horrible sight ! was a fleshless skeleton, chained 
 by heavy irons, on the wrists and ankles, to the stone 
 wall. 
 
 " That," said the servant, piously crossing himself, 
 "is all that remains of Antonio Nui, a pirate, impris- 
 oned here for his crimes, by one of the first Lords of 
 Cordoza, who caught him in the act of firing a vessel, 
 at anchor in the Bizcaya, after he had plundered it of 
 its treasure and murdered its crew. He died of con 
 sumption, contracted from the dampness of his cell. 
 The Virgin rest his soul !" 
 
 In other of the dungeons were fragments of unre- 
 cognisable human bones, to which there was no name 
 or story attached ; to none of these cells was any 
 light admitted, nor air that did not come through their 
 grated doors. 
 
 Ascending several long, dark staircases, we return- 
 ed by a different route from that which we had enter- 
 ed. I was somewhat surprised, on emerging from 
 these subterranean tombs, to find myself quite near 
 to my private rooms ; the last staircase having a door 
 opening at its head, into the same corridor as my 
 own. I shuddered involuntarily as I perceived the 
 fact. 
 
 There, were mingled horrible dreams with my dis-
 
 142 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 turbed slumbers that night. In imagination, I was 
 again in those dens of punishment. The skeleton of 
 poor Antonio Nui, smiled dead, ghastly smiles at me> 
 and rattled its chains in despairing efforts to get 
 free. Anon, its fleshless face seemed changed to 
 Veronica's reproachful, Madonna-like, countenance : 
 her pale lips curling with scornful defiance. Around 
 her head twined a living serpent, in place of the 
 jeweled diadem, which I had once given her, fashioned 
 in that shape. Serpents, too, usurped the place of the 
 bracelets on her white arms, wreathing and rustling in 
 disgusting folds around them. In a moment, they 
 altered to the pirate Nui's chains, and I awoke with a 
 loud, defiant laugh ringing in my ears. 
 
 Wherever I might hope to meet Veronica, I was 
 in the habit of loitering nearly all my time. At the 
 houses of the poor and sick, and in our old forest 
 trysting-places, I passed many hours watching for her 
 coming. Once, or twice, I attained my object ; but it 
 was always with witnesses that we met, and speech 
 was, therefore, out of the question. I even wrote to 
 her, entreating to be forgiven, and promising for the 
 future to aspire to no warmer title than that of a 
 friend. 1 penned these letters humbly and contritely.
 
 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 143 
 
 They were no poor affectation. None of them were 
 ever answered. 
 
 I thought and felt myself treated wrongfully ; a de- 
 sire for revenge entered my unworthy soul. Had I 
 received the slightest tidings from Veronica, a mere 
 line, a single word, such is the importance of trifles, 
 I might have become a different man. It was a turn- 
 ing point in my life. I had in a degree conquered my 
 evil angel ; that neglectful silence restored it to more 
 than its usual sway. - I still desired to meet Veronica ; 
 but it was no longer in a mood of contrition or humil- 
 ity. The time soon came when we were again to 
 stand face to face not lovingly, not kindly as once, 
 but in scorn and passion. 
 
 I had taken a long walk, my gun on my shoulder, 
 through the forest that separates the castle from the 
 plain cabana of the Lola family. As I sought leisurely 
 a large mossy rock near its outskirts, that had been 
 ths scene of happy meetings, I heard Veronica's well- 
 known voice, singing a fragment of retrospective verse 
 that I had found among my uncle's papers after his 
 death, and which, at my request, she had adopted to 
 the music of a most melancholy French chanson. It 
 evidently alluded to an earlier love than that of Vero- 
 nica's mother. It ran thus :
 
 144 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 I often stroll along the shore 
 
 Where once we lingered, hand in hand 
 Along that beach of wave-washed sand 
 
 Where we shall wander never more ! 
 
 Its tall sea-turf is green and bright, 
 
 Its grey rocks rear their rough heads still, 
 And everything, of good and ill, 
 
 Is yet the same unto my sight. 1 
 
 The quiet waves go murmuring by 
 With olden melody of sound 
 I see no change in aught around, 
 
 Though I behold with saddened eye. 
 
 Upon our rustic, vine-clad seat, 
 
 That now is crumbling in decay, 
 
 I sit to dream the hours away, 
 And wonder time has been so fleet ! 
 
 Around it lies the self-same scenes, 
 As in those days of memories old ; 
 They need but thee, of grace untold, 
 
 To blot the time that intervenes. 
 
 They need but thy sweet form and face 
 To make the present seem the past, 
 When, like a dream too sweet to last, 
 
 The happy hours flow on apace. 
 
 Alas ! I know I've seen depart 
 
 My manhood's strong meridian days, 
 Yet, as old thought around me strays, 
 
 I'm young again in limb and heart. 
 
 I feel the vigor of my youth 
 
 In memories of thy bygone kiss ; 
 Oh, later love than followed this 
 
 Has never known a purer truth ^
 
 FRAGMENT OP AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 145 
 
 Apparently, the sound of her voice proceeded from 
 the very rock of which I was in quest. Silently fol- 
 lowing its direction, I soon reached an opening in the 
 wood that gave me a view of the unconscious girl. As 
 I supposed, she was sitting on the rock, and oh, pale 
 and fragile as a breaking lily ! The sight would have 
 melted any heart but mine ! 
 
 On her brow she wore the serpent crown which I 
 had given her long before, and which caused me such 
 lerror in my dream. Her wrists were encircled by 
 the bracelets of the same pattern, and with downcast 
 and abstracted eyes she carelessly toyed with them, 
 twisting first one and then the other around her wasted 
 arms, till the diamond eyes of the reptiles glittered 
 with such painful reality, that I sickened involuntarily. 
 A horrible and sudden idea came into my mind. 
 
 The cells, the castle cells should be my revenge ! 
 
 In the excitement the thought occasioned, I caused 
 a slight rustling of some branches on which I was 
 leaning. Veronica started, and turned towards me. 
 Our eyes met ! 
 
 She did not tremble or discover alarm. On the 
 contrary, with unequalled dignity, she gave me a cold 
 bow of recognition, and gathering up her lace mantilla, 
 turned to depart. 
 
 Then it was that I advanced from my hiding-place.
 
 146 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 " Veronica," I began, but she interrupted me with 
 fierce energy : 
 
 " Do not speak to me ! I will not hear you ! Have 
 you not offered me sufficient insult that you would 
 heap more upon me ? Look at me !" and she came 
 fearlessly closer, till her warm breath mingled with my 
 own ; " I am a poor, defenceless girl, weak and pow- 
 erless. If you are human, you will cease haunting me 
 with your evil presence. Thank heaven, I no longer 
 love you ! " 
 
 I seized her hand as she again attempted to leave 
 the spot. I fixed my eyes upon her searchingly. As 
 I did so, she became visibly agitated. 
 
 "Veronica," I cried, exultingly, "you utter false- 
 hoods ! You do love me, and that better than your 
 soul's salvation !" 
 
 She could not endure my fixed, protracted gaze, but 
 giving a murmured cry, sank at my feet. I did not re- 
 move the magnetic influence of my eyes, until, 
 stooping, I kissed her gently on the head. The act 
 seemed to restore her to her usual self. She arose. 
 
 '' Be it so," she said, and her voice was the very 
 essence of bitterness. "Be it so I love you, and 
 hate myself; are you satisfied ?" 
 
 " Not until you have proved this love, Veronica. 
 For the last time, I ask you. You cannot be my wife ; 
 I will not deceive you, as to that. I should be more
 
 FRAGMENT OP AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 147 
 
 than mortal did I make the sacrifice that I must, to 
 give you the name !" 
 
 " Tempter ! will you never have done ? Know that 
 although I cannot tear you from my heart, I would 
 spurn you, even if offering me that sacred title whih 
 but now you desecrated in the naming ! Begone ! No 
 power in heaven or earth can move me." 
 
 Her words maddened me. I caught her, suddenly, 
 in my arms. I felt myself endowed at the moment 
 with strength to bear her away, and I laughed, fiend- 
 ishly, at her vain struggles, her agonized cries. 
 
 Night was descending. I waited until utter dark- 
 ness covered the face of the earth, and silently carried 
 my then unconscious burden to the castle. Through 
 a private entrance, unseen, I bore her fainting form to 
 my own rooms. 
 
 It was hours before she revived from her trance. 
 Meanwhile I had taken, into the most habitable of the 
 subterranean dungeons, one of my own mattresses, 
 some bed-clothing, a chair, table, and lamp. I knew 
 Veronica's nature too well, to imagine that she would 
 readily yield her present resolve ; but I trusted to 
 time and the solitude of this awful confinement for 
 eventual compliance, desiring a willing sharer of my 
 love and splendour, or none. 
 
 When all my arrangements were completed, I again 
 took the slight frame of my still unresisting victim in
 
 148 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 my arms, and consigned her to the living tomb pre- 
 pared for her reception. I had previously sent away 
 the servants, located in that wing of the castle, that 
 my diabolical deed might have no witnesses. 
 
 -After placing Veronica on the rude couch in her 
 cell, I retrimmed the lamp, (for sin made me afraid of 
 darkness,) and sitting down on the only seat with 
 which I had furnished the place, I awaited her re- 
 covery. Fright and despair had so entirely over- 
 come her senses, that it was long before I perceived 
 signs of returning consciousness. 
 
 At length, with a deep sigh, she opened her wild 
 eyes, and looked around. Her haggard surprise, as 
 she saw those frowning stone walls, and recognized 
 my features by the dim, unearthly light, sent wicked 
 satisfaction quivering through me. 
 
 With an evident effort she attained a standing pos- 
 ture. A fierce resentment shone over her face. 
 
 "Where am I, Farlie Gardener? What is the 
 meaning of these prison walls and grated door ? Oh, 
 my God !" A sudden flood of recollection seemed to 
 come to her, of the scene in the wood. 
 
 " Where are you ?" I repeated. " In the Castle of 
 Cordoza, and at my mercy." 
 
 She looked upon me with an expression of grand, 
 proud pity, and murmured something that I did not 
 hear.
 
 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 149 
 
 " Veronica, listen you are my prisoner. Not a 
 human being knows of your presence in this place. 
 You are entirely in my power. No hand but God's 
 can take you from me. It is before you to choose 
 between a life of solitary confinement in this under- 
 ground and remote room, removed forever from the 
 light of day, and from the faces of humanity, and a 
 happy, luxurious existence, with one whom you love, 
 
 and who lovesjyou ; but whom circumstances " 
 
 " Over which he has no control," shuddered Veroni- 
 ca, with a wild, unnatural laugh, that resounded 
 gloomily in the passage-way beyond. I did not heed 
 her, but continued 
 
 " Whom the force of circumstances prevents from 
 making you his lawful wife. Your obstinacy on this 
 point will be doubly criminal, for by it, you destroy 
 both yourself and me. Be my wife, in the sight of 
 heaven, Veronica, since you can never become it on 
 earth." 
 
 Warming with my words, I prostrated myself before 
 her on the stone floor, forgetting her former disdain 
 forgetting how I had forfeited all claim to her regard, 
 by my cruelty remembering only her and my great 
 love. She restored me to myself, by saying, in a cold, 
 sarcastic voice 
 
 " Arise, Sefior I entreat. It is I, rather, who
 
 150 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 should bend to you, who are the master of this dreary 
 prison, while I am here as its inmate !" 
 
 " Veronica you shall repent this ! A few weeks in 
 this dainty dwelling will break your .proud spirit. 
 Perhaps, obstinate woman, you may even kneel to me, 
 as I have this night knelt to you in vain !" 
 
 " Kneel to you monster ! Never ! I will starve 
 perish alone and unknown in this loathsome den; 
 but never, NEVER will I kneel to YOU ! Are you man, 
 flesh, human, or is some demon entered into your 
 being ? Great heaven, is it can it be, that a creature 
 made in God's image, dares defile himself with work 
 like this ?" 
 
 Involuntarily I shrunk back, appalled at her words, 
 and her heavenward gestures. We looked at each 
 other. Then, changing her manner, Veronica said, in 
 a low, despairing, but firm voice 
 
 " Leave me. I can but die. You have yet to 
 learn, Farlie Gardener, of what the souls of true 
 women are composed. Once for all, I tell you, death is 
 more acceptable than your unholy love !" 
 
 She waved me fiercely from the cell. Mortified at 
 the ill effect of my monstrous punishment, I obeyed. 
 Choking with anger, I drew the door violently after 
 me, and locked and bolted it, upon the only being 
 whom I loved on earth. 
 
 Reaching my rooms, I rang furiously for Pedro, my
 
 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 151 
 
 personal attendant. He answered the summons almost 
 instantly, and, in hot haste, I sent for the domestic 
 who, not 'ong before, had conducted me through the 
 subterranean galleries of the castle. I was too much 
 excited to act cautiously, and gave him, when he ar- 
 rived, hurried and peremptory commands, to fasten 
 and blockade securely the lower entrance to the cells. 
 
 " I do not wish them entered, or the door unclosed, 
 without my personal orders," I said, in carelessly 
 haughty answer to the man's undisguised astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " And the upper door, Sefior, the one opening into 
 your own corridor, shall I seal that also ?" 
 
 " No," I answered, with badly assumed calmness, 
 " I have the key in my own possession. That will be 
 sufficient. Let me know the instant my commands 
 are executed." The man bowed and retired. 
 
 GREAT was the consternation occasioned throughout 
 the whole town, by the sudden disappearance of 
 Veronica Lola. Her grand-parents grew nearly fran- 
 tic with grief, and spent the whole of their simple 
 earnings in searching for their lost child. These two 
 aged people came to me themselves, and with many 
 tears, desired my assistance in seeking to throw light
 
 152 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 on the mystery of her disappearance. I knew the 
 interview in the forest had been unseen, and, therefore, 
 with great show of concern, aided them as though I 
 were totally ignorant of everything connected with 
 the affair. I even offered large rewards, and succeed- 
 ed, as I expected I should, in diverting suspicion from 
 myself. 
 
 I was rich, despotic, and powerful. Those who 
 could, perhaps, have spoken, held their peace from 
 very fear. 
 
 A month elapsed. Every day I carried food, 
 secretly taken from my own table, to my dauntless 
 prisoner. Since the first night of her confinement I 
 had not spoken to her ; I was determined, that if she 
 yielded, it should be voluntarily. Not one word of 
 persuasion or argument passed my lips. 
 
 At first, Veronica retained her proud and haughty 
 demeanour. When I unlocked her cell daily, placed 
 food and drink upon her table, and replenished her 
 lamp, (for I was not yet cruel enough to condemn her 
 to perpetual night,) she eyed me with all her old 
 majesty. I, wretched craven, pale and trembling with 
 the consciousness of unnatural actions, might have 
 been mistaken for the prisoner, and she for my defiant 
 gaoler. Often she seemed to expect me to address 
 her, but I never did ; and after the lapse of a month, 
 she grew gradually humbler. She implored me, for
 
 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 153 
 
 pity on herself, on her youth, and most of all, for her 
 old grand-parents. She represented to me the joy 
 that accompanies unrewarded generosity, in a word, 
 she stooped so far as to ask, with sobs of passionate 
 tenderness, for an unconditional liberation. 
 
 And she asked in vain. 
 
 My hour of triumph at last was come. 
 
 From that time, my nights and days were lost in 
 one wild carousal. Feasting and merry-making 
 awoke midnight echoes in the old castle corridors ; 
 the tinkling slide of dancer's feet, the sound of music 
 and revelry, of laughter, phrenzied by wine, black 
 with age and rare richness, resounded perpetually 
 throughout its rooms ; but vainly I tried by such 
 means to deaden conscience and thought. 
 
 I could not shut out pale statuesque yisions of a 
 woman, dying in the secret solitude of death-engender- 
 ing damps. Her black eyes haunted me wherever I 
 moved. Amid the blaze of festive illuminations, their 
 looks of entreaty fell upon me; they floated on the 
 very air, and, in my fitful sleep, burned themselves into 
 my dreams. 
 
 Another month two, three, passed slowly away, to 
 the sepulchre of Time's dead. 
 
 Day by day I visited Veronica, and day by day 
 answered her dying appeals for freedom b^ sullen 
 
 7
 
 154 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 silence, or a brutal vow, that I or Death should be the 
 conqueror of her obstinacy. 
 
 Meanwhile, reports were gradually gaining on the 
 public ear, that gave me much disquiet of mind. 
 Link by link was added to the chain of circumstances, 
 that went far towards establishing the certainty of my 
 crime. I was known to have been the unsuccessful 
 suitor of Veronica. The fact and contents of my 
 uncle's second will ; my conduct to Veronica after- 
 ward; my letters to her, and many other trifling 
 things, all conspired to fix the guilt of her abduction 
 on myself. I became shunned and avoided. Men, 
 women, and children, fled from my path, as though I 
 were some hideous, misshapen wretch, frightful to look 
 upon. Report, (that never satisfied monster,) said, 
 too, that my uncle's death had been sudden and mys- 
 terious. Suspicion of the committal of one evil thing 
 led to that of another. 
 
 I was accused, and openly denounced as a mur- 
 derer ! 
 
 THERE have been times in my life when I would 
 have given worlds, were they in my possession, to hold 
 the power of a musical improvisatore. This mood of 
 inspiration is on me now, even as I write. Could I
 
 FRAGMENT OP AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 155 
 
 but find expression could I but vent the whirlwind of 
 music that is coursing through me, I feel that I 
 should form this, my confession, into a creation more 
 grandly understandable than the words that my pen 
 traces in cold obedience to my will. My fingers 
 throb my voice beats, silently, for utterance against 
 its prison. Gods ! could I fling from me this passion 
 flood of music, I would make sounds that one could 
 grasp ! sounds, embodying pictures of life-like and 
 awful beauty ! 
 
 At length I wearied utterly of Veronica's unshaken 
 resolution, and I sickened, too, of her constant prayers 
 for freedom her frantic petitions for but one breath 
 of fresh air one glimpse of green fields. 
 
 Every day added to my uneasiness. 
 
 Public opprobrium thickened around me. I longed 
 for victory over Veronica's stubborn will, and panted 
 to silence evil report forever, by producing her as the 
 willing partner of my home and fortune. "' 
 
 Her grand-parents were already dead. Dead of 
 terror and sorrow for her unknown fate ! 
 
 There was nothing now to keep her from me no 
 scruple which had earthly foundation. God alone 
 stood between us ! 
 
 At last, in the firm resolve to conquer her determi- 
 nation, either by persuasion or threat, I descended one 
 day to her living tomb.
 
 156 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 She had been ill of a fever, and was confined to her 
 bed. 
 
 When I entered, and drew a seat to her side, (it 
 was an unusual proceeding,) Veronica raised her 
 solemn eyes to mine, and with a weirdly holy face, 
 said, slowly 
 
 " Tell me if it be possible that you believe in 
 Heaven in the existence of an Almighty ! If you 
 do, if you acknowledge God, what think you, Farlie 
 Gardener, of death, and of judgment afterwards, for 
 deeds done in the body ?" 
 
 I was irritated by the repetition of a question that 
 filled my ears, waking or sleeping, and kept alive a re- 
 morse I strove, in vain, to smother. I bade her, 
 rudely, keep silence, while, for the last time, I offered 
 her liberty and happiness. 
 
 " Never again, Veronica, will I give you this oppor- 
 tunity of escape from the fate which will be yours, 
 sooner or later, in these vaults. Your cell is below the 
 level of the lake, and the lingering death which you 
 must meet here will remain forever unknown. 
 Neither angel nor devil can save you, if you reject 
 this last, remember, the last offer of mercy ! You 
 have no opposition to dread from your family both 
 your grandfather and grandmother are dead !" 
 
 Her own bodily anguish, her long sufferings, had 
 so weakened her faculties, that she received the
 
 FRAGMENT OP AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 157 
 
 intelligence with scarcely any perceptible sign of 
 emotion. 
 
 A deeply drawn sigh, and the tightened clasp of her 
 locked hands, was all that indicated she had heard. I 
 continued : 
 
 " As long as your perversity has held you here a pris- 
 oner, it is not yet too late to give you freedom, air, sun- 
 shine. I will brave all consequences, all personal risk 
 to myself. Not only shall you be restored to the 
 world, but I will place you in a position worthy alike 
 of your beauty and my love. Utter but one word of 
 consent, and you exchange this tomb for wealth and 
 luxury, such as the earth has seldom seen. Money, 
 unlimited, shall be placed in your hands for distribu- 
 tion among the poor ; think, then, of the good you 
 may do, as well as the happiness you confer upon me. 
 Draw the comparison between that life and this ; pon- 
 der on it well, and in your answer, remember that never 
 again will I place this escape before you, so help me 
 heaven ! Choose ! It is the last time !" 
 
 With great effort she arose. Oh ! never more 
 would I look on a face like that ! Thin, haggard, 
 white as snow, and two black, fiery eyes surmounting 
 it, flashing forth withering rebuke. 
 
 " I have chosen, and, I thank heaven, it is for the 
 last time. Death !" 
 
 She sank back exhausted. As she did so, the move-
 
 158 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 ment displaced the long locks of hair hanging di- 
 shevelled around her neck and bosom, and J saw, 
 beneath the entangled mass, what I had not observed 
 since the night I bore her to the cell in my arms 
 the serpent crown. I thought of Antonio Nui. That 
 diadem appeared fated to suggest diabolical deeds. 
 
 Excited by the wrath of defeat and disappointment, 
 I took, suddenly, Veronica's slight form in my rough 
 grasp, and carried her from the cell. 
 
 That in which reposed the skeleton of Antonio 
 Nui was at the farther end of the same gallery. 
 
 Unresisting, for she was too weak, from her illness, 
 to struggle, with my crimson glass lantern depend- 
 ing from one hand, I bore Veronica to it. The door 
 was bolted on the outside. I was obliged to lay my 
 burden on the floor, while I drew it. It yielded easily. 
 I entered. The skeleton was still there, chained in 
 half-erect posture to the wall. With horrible careful- 
 ness, I straightened it to its full height, extended its 
 arms in an upright attitude, and hung my lantern on 
 the iron spike to which its chains were attached, that 
 the red light should, with more fearful distinctness, dis- 
 play the outlines of the dead man's bony frame. 
 
 Then I returned to the miserable girl, and carried 
 her from the gallery, within the cell itself; I placed 
 her in such a part of the room as commanded the 
 most frightful view.
 
 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 159 
 
 Veronica was unprepared for any spectacle of the 
 kind, and shriek after shriek passed, in throes of fear 
 from her lips, as she comprehended the scene, made 
 all the more appalling from the red light which I had 
 so cunningly contrived to make fall, from behind, upon 
 the pirate's remains. 
 
 When I attempted to go from the cell, she cried, 
 frantically, not to leave her alone in that frightful 
 place ; she implored to be taken back to her own quiet 
 room, and in her wild persuasion, wept tears that must 
 have been wrung from the sources of her life. 
 
 I spurned her from me ; and, with revengeful satis- 
 faction, told her that as in her perversity and folly 
 she had chosen death, she was now at liberty to con- 
 template it as far as suited her, adding, that it could 
 not be long before she herself became like what was 
 then before her vision. 
 
 Fastening the door, I groped my way to her late 
 cell, took from it her lamp, that I might see the re- 
 mainder of the way, and while her cries of affright 
 echoed throughout the galleries, hastened to more 
 habitable regions. 
 
 Suddenly, Veronica's shrieks ceased ; their faintest 
 echo died away. Surprised at this, I retraced my 
 steps a short distance, and listened intently,. All was 
 still. Prompted by curiosity, I returned, noiselessly, 
 to the cell. Peering through the iron latticed door, I
 
 160 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 beheld my poor victim kneeling on the stone-floor, her 
 wasted hands clasped in the peaceful attitude of exalt- 
 ed prayer. Her white, emaciated face, upraised to 
 heaven, was beaming with the glorified intensity of her 
 divine supplication, the lurid light that fell upon her 
 attenuated form, being relieved by deep and solemn 
 shadows. Strangely enough, the scene had lost all its 
 horror. I saw at once, that my malicious purpose was 
 defeated. To my heated imagination, even the skele- 
 ton arms of Antonio Nui seemed extended in benedic- 
 tion over Veronica's holy prayer. 
 
 EARLY the next morning, I was suddenly awakened 
 by my faithful servant, Pedro, and informed that he 
 had just heard a warrant was to be immediately issued 
 for my apprehension and committal for trial, on 
 charges concerning both Veronica and my uncle 
 Oliver. 
 
 Instantly I formed the resolution to leave the castle, 
 escape if possible from the town itself, and remain 
 abroad until such time as this excitement should have 
 abated sufficiently to allow me to return in safety. 
 
 What was I to do with Veronica, and how should I 
 still retain her prisoner, was my principal thought, as
 
 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 161 
 
 I hastily gathered together for removal my money and 
 personal valuables. 
 
 A thought struck me. Pedro was avaricious, not 
 over-scrupulous, and completely devoted to my in- 
 terests. Money, and the promise of more, if he proved 
 himself trust-worthy, bound him, scarcely without hesi- 
 tation, to do my bidding, although I must confess, his 
 horror, when I revealed the nature of his purposed 
 task, irritated and annoyed me. Hastily demanding 
 from him an oath of inviolable secrecy, and thrusting 
 into his hands an uncounted graspfull of gold, I bade 
 him follow me below, that I might point out the cell 
 of her of whom in future he was jailer. 
 
 The man offered not a word of remonstrance, but I 
 could see the dews of fear upon his forehead. His 
 whole frame shook ; he trembled at the magnitude of 
 the trust reposed in him, and the dark sin involved in 
 such secret confinement of an unoffending and help- 
 less woman. I half repented of my confidence in him, 
 as together we threaded our way through the damp 
 corridors. Just before we reached the door of Antonio 
 Nui's cell, I turned to him, and thinking to add the 
 force of threat to that of bribe, said, sternly, 
 
 " Pedro, recollect, you have given me your solemn 
 oath ! Should I ever return, and find that you have vio- 
 lated it, by the eternal heavens, your life shall be the 
 
 forfeit ! Betray me, or give this girl her liberty, and, 
 7 *
 
 162 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 though oceans divide us, you do not live a twelvemonth! 
 Remember that!" 
 
 " Yes. Senor," replied the man, humbly, and his 
 usually stolid features worked with excitement. 
 
 We gained the cell. With one blow of my clinched 
 hand, the bolt flew back. The red lantern was still 
 hanging on its spike ; the skeleton yet held its fearful 
 arms aloft, but the gloom of that lonely dungeon fell 
 shroudily on nothing more. Veronica was gone ! 
 
 I scarctly dared trust my eyes. The door was 
 bolted ; every thing looked the same. I began to feel 
 cowardly fear for the secret power that must have 
 been exerted against me, for Veronica's flight could 
 not have taken place without assistance. The lower 
 entrance to the cells was still, as I believed, blockaded, 
 and I had in my possession the only key in the castle 
 that opened the other. How then had she escaped ? 
 
 There was no time to be lost in idle speculations. 
 The very fact of her flight added to the imperative 
 necessity for my immediate departure from the town. 
 Every moment was precious. 
 
 Furiously I retrod the galleries, followed at a short 
 distance by Pedro. 
 
 As I placed my key in the lock of the outlet door, a 
 slight sound, as of the subdued voices and tread of 
 many people, filled me with ominous forebodings. It 
 might be but the servants, I -must risk it, I could
 
 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 163 
 
 not remain where I was. I pushed open the massive 
 door, and, in one despairing glance, beheld my forlorn 
 fate. Ten armed men surrounded the entrance, dress- 
 ed in official uniform. I was arrested. I had been 
 watched and betrayed by my own servants ! 
 
 One dreary day, not many months after this, as I sat 
 alone in my prison, awaiting trial, I gradually became 
 conscious, from something awful in the atmosphere, of 
 the approach of that terrible scourge to southern lands 
 the earthquake. 
 
 A profound stillness reigned in the air over the town. 
 It was like the repose of a tiger before he springs upon 
 his prey. 
 
 Even within the jail walls, I knew the inhabitants 
 of the city were profiting by the solemn and well- 
 known warning. I could hear the echoing tramp of 
 feet in the streets, and cries of anguish from men, 
 women and children, as they deserted their homes to 
 avoid the impending danger. 
 
 Despairingly I listened till the last sound died away. 
 In vain I watched for the coming of some one to libe- 
 rate me from the certain death that must reach all who 
 remained within the prison. In the general panic of 
 hurried departure, its inmates were forgotten our 
 jailers liadjled!
 
 164 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 As the first life-destroying boom of eruption shook 
 the walls, I fell upon my knees, and, hardened sinner 
 that I was, attempted to pray. I had not prayed be- 
 fore during many years. I know not now what I 
 asked, what miracle I deliriously demanded of hea- 
 ven for my preservation. Alternately I strove frantic- 
 ly to break the fastenings of the door, by throwing my 
 person violently against it, and shrieked out maledic- 
 tions on those who, busied with their own safety, had 
 left me to perish. My ears were filled with the savage 
 shouts, the maniac ravings of my fellow prisoners ; 
 their curses and their prayers rent the air already 
 freighted with death and destruction. Like myself, 
 they were powerless ; they knew the town was being 
 forsaken ! 
 
 As night fell, the deadened rumble of earth, ploughed, 
 as it were, by a whirlwind, grew louder and stronger. 
 We heard the fall of buildings, the crash of breaking 
 walls. 
 
 Morning dawned ! I never knew before what a bless- 
 ed thing the daylight is. Like the smile of God, day 
 shone over the ruined town. The prison was, as yet, 
 unharmed. 
 
 On a sudden, I heard below a cry, a murmur of 
 grateful joy. Straining to listen, I plainly perceived
 
 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 165 
 
 the sound of the withdrawal of a bolt, the turning of a 
 key, and again undistinguishable words of surprise and 
 thankfulness. 
 
 Some one, thank God, had come to set us free ! 
 One by one, I heard the fastenings of the cells undone, 
 and, with feverish eagerness, awaited my own libera- 
 tion. The steps grew nearer they ascended the stairs 
 to the story in which I was confined ! There was a 
 rattle of keys, and the door of the cell nearest the land- 
 ing swung on its hinges ; amid hysterical cries of joy, 
 its occupant fled quickly from the place. 
 
 But another door, and I, too, should have liberty ! 
 
 My pulses throbbed, my very heart ached with 
 expectation. 
 
 Nearer, nearer they came, and, at last, the feet of 
 the emancipator paused before MY cell. 
 
 Joy struck me dumb. I could not speak. My lips 
 were sealed together, the steps passed on to the 
 next door. I tried to cry out, but by no effort of the 
 will could I accomplish my purpose. The misery of 
 suspense bereft me of strength, I sank heavily upon 
 the floor. 
 
 The jar of the fall must have attracted the attention 
 I had so vainly sought to win. There was a hasty 
 return a key was fitted to the lock the door opened 
 slowly, and I \vasfree!
 
 166 FRAGMENT OF A U T O B I O G R A P II Y . 
 
 Scarcely staying to look on my preserver, in one 
 bound I stood without the cell. 
 
 The grey light of the dawn hardly revealed the in- 
 tricacies of the jail, as I passed through it, and reached, 
 at last, its portals. 
 
 For a moment I paused upon the threshold, contem- 
 plating, in awe and fear, the spectacle of sublime ruin 
 which the town had become. Scarcely a trace of its 
 former appearance remained. Its homes were deso- 
 lated, and mounds of still-convulsed earth usurped the 
 places of many a stately building, while here and 
 there a huge cavern widely distended its hungry 
 jaws. 
 
 I gazed in the direction of the castle, but a billowy 
 rise of confused stones alone met my eyes. Beyond 
 where it had stood glimmered the Aro, looking in the 
 dim light most mockingly beautiful. 
 
 I wept as I beheld. My crime had, indeed, met 
 punishment. Suddenly, a hand from behind touched 
 my shoulder. Turning, I saw the flowing robes of 
 my liberator. In the darkness of my prison, I had 
 thought him to be a monk ; but, as with a quick move- 
 ment of the hand, the cloth around the face was 
 thrown back, a woman, in the garb of a nun, stood 
 revealed before me ! 
 
 One glance sufficed. It was Veronica ! 
 
 I know not what burning words I poured forth
 
 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 167 
 
 to her; they consumed their very memory in the 
 fervor of their utterance. I do but remember 
 how, in the true contrition that retributive night had 
 wrought in my soul, I implored pardon for the 
 great wrong I had done her, and, in prostrate peni- 
 tence of spirit, received it. No revenge, however 
 severe, could have filled me with the tenfold remorse 
 that did Veronica's solemn pardon, bestowed without 
 bitterness of feeling. 
 
 " Farlie," said her low, sad voice, " I forgive you all, 
 even as I hope myself to be forgiven. The prayers of 
 the Sister Agnes Dolores shall ever be yours, and in 
 them, and her new existence, she will strive to forget 
 her less holy one, as Veronica Lola. Our convent 
 and this dreadful jail are two of the few buildings 
 within the town walls on which God has not laid his 
 avenging hands. Neither the Sisters, nor our Supe- 
 rior, have dared to think of flight, when so much re- 
 mains to be done. The convent is filled with the sick 
 and wounded, whom, forsaken by their friends, we 
 have gathered together from the ruins of their homes. 
 To me was given to-day the duty of freeing the 
 occupants of this place." 
 
 "And why was the undertaking bestowed upon 
 you V I asked, as, in the livid dawn-light, we wended 
 our way from the prison. " It was a perilous, a diffi- 
 cult task, how did it fall to you ?"
 
 168 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Her answer touched me with deep shame. Casting 
 down her eyes, she uttered meekly 
 
 " Because I, of all others, knew so well the horrors 
 of a prison, and the glory of liberty !" 
 
 As we passed through the deserted town, with great 
 difficulty finding foothold on the elevations thrown up 
 everywhere in its streets, and which threatened every 
 moment to separate and engulph us, we neared the 
 burial ground, which for centuries had been the rest- 
 ing place of the Cordozas, and amid whose costly 
 magnificence of monuments, tombs, and statues, re- 
 posed the remains of my uncle Oliver. 
 
 Pausing at the overthrown wall, Veronica beckon- 
 ed me to follow her within the enclosure. Mechani- 
 cally I obeyed, treading now on a broken antique 
 statue, and now on the exposed and whitened bones of 
 past generations. 
 
 She led the way, silently, to my uncle's grave. It 
 was rent asunder. A bush of a tropical plant, the 
 scarlet fuchsia, lay, uprooted from its gray marble 
 vase, upon the open grave ; over the white and un- 
 changed features of the dead, rested, in awful contrast, 
 a single spray of its long red bells. 
 
 The ground was still slightly heaving. The con- 
 vulsions of nature were not yet over. 
 
 "Before we part forever," said Veronica, with the
 
 FRAGMENT OP AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 169 
 
 earnestness of a seraph pleading at the eternal throne 
 for a rejected sinner, " tell me, in the solemnity of this 
 hour and place, tell me, over this opened grave, and 
 in the sight of that heaven that has given such terri- 
 ble tokens of aroused wrath tell me truly, if, indeed, 
 your hand did this," and she pointed to the mound 
 that, as she spoke, closed with a slow movement over 
 the unconscious remains. 
 
 With that livid light over us, and the groaning 
 earth beneath our feet, I knelt, and vowed that my 
 hands were unstained with human blood. 
 
 Leaving the burial ground, we at last reached the 
 gates of the forsaken town. 
 
 " Go," then cried Veronica, indicating, with out- 
 stretched hand, the highway leading across the 
 plains that surrounded the city "go, and may the 
 Holy Virgin lead you to a purer life, and guard you 
 in it !" 
 
 I pressed her hand to my lips as reverentially as I 
 would have kissed the hem of an angel's robe, and we 
 parted. 
 
 Looking back from afar off, I saw the flutter of 
 Veronica's black garments, as she returned to her 
 convent, and, in the distance, beheld the shapeless
 
 170 FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 mass that had once constituted a part of the wealth 
 for which I had sacrificed so much of honor and vir- 
 tue the Castle of Cordoza. 
 
 Then I went out into the wilderness of a new and 
 bitter life, bearing within my breast a bitter and undy- 
 ing remorse.
 
 ZOE BELL'S BIBTHDAY. 
 
 ZOE!" 
 
 " Yes, dear Mr. Gravity." 
 
 " You are twenty years old to-day, child." 
 
 " I'm pretty ancient, am I not, sir ?" 
 
 " Very. It's time you were married." 
 
 " Married ! don't speak of it ! I am going to make a 
 nice old maid, guardian, and have such jolly times, 
 with a cat, poodle and parrot, in a seventh-story room. 
 Married ! not I !" 
 
 " Young Mr. Hooper, Zoe, is dying to win a smile 
 of encouragement from you. Why don't you accept 
 him, and settle down in the world ?" 
 
 " Mr. Hooper ! now, guardian, just imagine what a 
 couple we would make ! He never says a word, and I 
 should have to do all the talking myself. Besides, I'm 
 some three feet shorter than he is. I would be obliged 
 to carry a hooked cane to reach his arm !" 
 
 There was a half-suppressed twinkle in Mr. Harvy's 
 gray eyes, as he looked at the beaming, cheerful face 
 of'his young ward ; a moment afterwards, his natural 
 gravity of manner was resumed.
 
 172 ZOE BELL'S BIRTHDAY. 
 
 " I am getting old, my dear child. I want to see 
 you under the protection of some good man before I 
 die." 
 
 " Then I must relinquish my ideas of the parrot and 
 my seventh story ? Impossible ! Am I in the sere and 
 yellow leaf, guardian, that you speak so seriously ? Is 
 there danger in delay ? Am I growing crabbed and 
 crusty ? Is my market spoiling ?" 
 
 The young creature rose and stood before him, blush- 
 ing and smiling alternately. 
 
 " Tell me guardian. Look at me well." 
 
 " Zoe, you are as vain as you are , I will not 
 
 say what ! you shall not have the compliment you ex- 
 pect." 
 
 " Then you are anxious to get rid of me, that is it. 
 I see it all. I do not think you will succeed, guar- 
 dian. I won't go." 
 
 Mr. Harvy drew her to him, and in an affectionate, 
 fatherly way, kissed her between the eyes. 
 
 " I am afraid I have spoiled you, child ; you are very 
 wilful." 
 
 He smiled as lie spoke. Between ourselves, reader, 
 I do not believe this wilfulness troubled him very 
 much. 
 
 Zoe settled herself at his feet, and looking up at him 
 with a wicked gleam of mischief in her eyes, said 
 
 " Well, if it must be, it must be, and I will resign
 
 ZOE BELL'S BIRTHDAY. 173 
 
 myself to my fate. What do you think of Harry 
 Grafton, sir ? Will he do ? 
 
 A momentary flush crossed her guardian's face, 
 which Zoe was not slow to observe. 
 
 "No, Zoe, any one but him. He is " 
 
 " Young and handsome, just what I was going to 
 say, sir!" 
 
 " But not what / was going to say, child. Rather 
 than see you his wife, I would 
 
 " Marry me yourself, sir ?" 
 
 Oh, Zoe, Zoe, how could you ! Do you see the grave 
 sorrow, the rebuking tenderness in the kind face be- 
 fore you ? Do you see that flitting shadowy trouble ? 
 
 The young girl leaned her head, childlike, on the 
 arm of her guardian, and in the same playful tone said, 
 in reply to his reproving, " don't be foolish child," 
 
 " Whom, then, dear sir, shall I marry ? It is leap- 
 year, I may ask whom I please." 
 
 " Well, Zoe, there is that young Englishman ; he is 
 handsome, wealthy, " 
 
 " And speaks in a rich Cockney voice, that is de- 
 cidedly euphonious," interrupted Zoe, imitating the 
 tones in question, till Mr. Harvy laughed involuntari- 
 ly. "No, no, I beg to be excused. I prefer my 
 room in the seventh story to a life-companionship with 
 'is 'ighness in a palace. Any one else, dear guar- 
 dian?"
 
 174 ZOE BELL'S BIRTHDAY. 
 
 " Plenty, little girl ; there is Mr. Gray, and Mr. 
 Lindman, the latter I know by experience to be one 
 of the best men in the world." 
 
 " Oh, guardian, what an elastic phrase, ' one of the 
 best men in the world !' I suppose that means a very 
 good, insignificant and spiritless person ; whose society 
 careful mothers court, and their daughters as adroitly 
 avoid, thinking anything is better than a bore that 
 moralizes, as your ' best man' invariably does. How- 
 ever, I'll think of it ! Don't despair about me, dear 
 guardian," and humming 
 
 " Heigho, will nobody marry me !" 
 
 little Zoe Bell gathered up her Berlin worsteds, and 
 left Mr. Harvy's study. He was a fine looking man, 
 somewhat past the prime of life, with a grave, Greek 
 face, in which intellect and habitual melancholy strug- 
 gled for precedence. 
 
 As the door closed on his pretty ward, he leaned his 
 head upon his hand, and fell into deep thought. 
 
 Zoe Bell was as wild and erratic a little creature as 
 any that the sun ever shone upon, but withal, she was 
 so winning, so irresistibly lovable, that none would 
 have had her differetit from what she was. 
 
 Her mother had died a few weeks after her birth, 
 and in the course of one or two years, her father, a 
 New- York merchant, married again. Mr, Bell's
 
 ZOE BELL'S BIRTHDAY. 175 
 
 second wife had been to Zoe but a poor guide in the 
 development of those traits of character which are so 
 necessary for a woman content with her own le- 
 gitimate sphere. 
 
 Her step-mother was an excellent and daring horse- 
 woman. Zoe grew up very passionately fond of the 
 same exercise, and from babyhood had led an uncurbed 
 sort of jockey-life. Her naturally high terperament 
 was left to take its own course, because, although 
 dearly beloved by her step-mother, discipline of any 
 kind was a stranger in her home. 
 
 Ungoverned and ungovernable, Zoe reached her 
 eighteenth year. 
 
 Misfortunes then came upon the family. Having 
 engaged in many hazardous, and perhaps not strictly 
 honorable speculations, Mr. Bell failed, and fled from 
 the country. After a few months his wife joined him 
 abroad, (a want of love for her husband was not among 
 her many failings,) and desolate little Zoe accepted 
 her god-father's offer to share his home ; Mr. Bell's 
 death shortly afterwards leaving her totally without 
 resource. For two years Mr. Harvy, and his kind, 
 venerable mother, had striven, by gentle and unseen 
 means, to soften the imperfections of Zoe's character. 
 To them it had been a labor of love, and one that in 
 the end was not unsuccessful ; her very faults, her 
 wilfulness, her high spirits, endeared her to them.
 
 176 ZOE BELL'S BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Zoe's beauty was peculiar, something of the gipsey 
 and the queen were blended in her merry face and 
 carelessly proud-bearing, the phantom-like effect of her 
 dark, lustrous eyes, bewildered all on whom their flash- 
 ing glances fell. She was a tiny creature for such a 
 womanly appearance, and there was much fascination 
 in her manners manners made up of a sort of flash- 
 blending of mirth, good-humor, and enthusiasm. 
 
 Shortly after the study-door closed upon Zoe, Mrs. 
 Harvy, a beautiful, silver-headed lady, entered it 
 through a window that opened on the balcony. She 
 was quite old, but a temperate and active life had pre- 
 served her health and strength to an advanced period. 
 The same benevolent kindness beamed in her face as 
 in her son's, the same mild eyes were hers, the same 
 frank, smiling mouth not a mouth thin-lipped, small 
 and selfish, but one that made you think of a generous 
 heart, as large for the frame as that mouth was for the 
 face ! 
 
 Mr. Harvy looked up from his reverie as his mother 
 entered. 
 
 She seated herself in an easy chair, and began talk- 
 ing to her son on trivial subjects ; but a troubled ex- 
 pression in her venerable face soon drew his attention, 
 and on his earnest request to know the cause of her 
 annoyance, she told him, with indignant warmth, of 
 the gossiping scandal that had that day reached her
 
 ZOE BELL'S BIRTHDAY. 177 
 
 ears, regarding Zoe ; how their petted darling was re- 
 garded among their neighbors, as an eccentric young 
 woman, whose society it was best to avoid ; her habit 
 of roving alone, over the country, on horseback, hav- 
 ing awakened the holy horror of the village gossips. 
 
 " Dear heart alive ! what will they invent next ?" 
 murmured the old lady when she had concluded. 
 " What more can they say of our poor little cap- 
 tain ?" 
 
 This was a title she had given Zoe, in playful allu- 
 sion to the young girl's established boast, that she 
 could ride, swim, and break a colt better than any 
 man in the country. 
 
 " What more, indeed !" spoke Mr. Harvy. " Dear 
 mother, Zoe must remain with us no longer !" 
 
 " Zoe ! are you crazy, my son ? Send little, friend- 
 less Zoe away, Philip !" 
 
 He turned very pale. 
 
 " Do you not understand why, mother ? Do you 
 not see the imperative necessity for her leaving Hazel- 
 wood ?" 
 
 " Poor child poor child," said the compassionate 
 old lady, at last, " I see it all ! If they speak ill of 
 her now, they will speak worse of her in time. Her 
 
 position here " she paused, as if to reflect. Her 
 
 son took up her words. 
 
 " Her position here, as my ward," he said it with 
 8
 
 ZOE BELL 8 BIRTHDAY. 
 
 much bitterness, " will not protect her good name. If I 
 were older, mother, it might not be so, but, stay, Zoe 
 shall not leave Hazelwood !" A thought seemed to 
 strike him. He crossed the room to his aged parent, 
 kissed her wrinkled forehead, and said, " She shall 
 never be taken from you, mother. She is to you as a 
 beloved daughter. It is / who will go away from 
 Hazelwood !" 
 
 " You, Philip ! no, oh no do not take from me the 
 staff of my old age !" 
 
 " Dear mother what then shall we do ? I may not 
 be gone long. Zoe, some day, will marry, and I can 
 then come back to you." 
 
 The poor old lady hesitated, then, with a burst of 
 tears, cried 
 
 " You are right, my son ; go, and God be with 
 you." 
 
 ALONR, in the solitude of his own chamber, the re- 
 strained passion of that proud, strong man, burst forth 
 unchecked. 
 
 He sat there with his secret grief till the shades of 
 evening filled the quiet room, and then descended to 
 the evening meal. 
 
 " I am unworthy of her," he thought ; " her youth,
 
 ZOE BELL'S BIRTHDAY. 179 
 
 her gladness of feeling, her beauty, all entitle her to a 
 younger, fresher heart than I have to offer her. I will 
 go away I will forget her 'if / can /" 
 
 Zoe was not present at the tea-table. She had not 
 yet come back from her afternoon ride, and the sor- 
 rowful meal passed in unbroken silence between the 
 mother and son, excepting once, when Philip Harvy, 
 going to the window to watch through the darkness for 
 Zoe's return, said slowly, as though musing aloud 
 
 " ' Unsatisfied ! unsatisfied !' is the universal cry of 
 mankind. Let our actual happiness be what it may, 
 we worship forever the unattained, and, oftentimes, 
 unattainable. If we could grasp the eternal stars, we 
 would weep for something higher and nobler for 
 which to long and battle !" 
 
 Presently there came the sound of horses' feet on 
 the paved court-yard. Mr. Harvy left the room to 
 assist Zoe to alight, and a moment after they entered 
 together, she leaning on his arm, laughing and talking 
 as though her very innocent heart were in her words. 
 Her black eyes sparkled merrily, as, shaking her long 
 curls free from her plumed riding-cap, she flung her- 
 self, carelessly, on an ottoman. 
 
 Suddenly, in the midst of her gaiety, the sad faces 
 of her benefactor and her aged friend drew her alarmed 
 attention. Her own bright, young countenance cloud- 
 ed with the shadows of anxiety and loving interest.
 
 180 ZOE BELL'S BIRTHDAY. 
 
 " Dearest Mrs. Harvy dear guardian, what is the 
 matter, what has happened are you sick, faint, 
 or ?" 
 
 Strangely enough, Zoe addressed herself to her 
 guardian alone, although her words were spoken to 
 both his mother and himself. She looked at him with 
 wild alarm, and in her eagerness, rose and went 
 towards him. 
 
 " It is nothing, Zoe nothing," Mr. Harvy said, 
 faintly smiling, as he stroked her glossy hair. " I am 
 about to leave Hazelwood for some time, that is all ; I 
 suppose I look a trifle graver than usual at the pros- 
 pect of parting." 
 
 " About to leave Hazelwood !" repeated Zoe, slowly. 
 Her blacK riding-dress was entangled in her feet ; she 
 stooped to gather it aside. When she arose again, 
 her face was calm and unmoved. 
 
 " Oh, what shall we do without you ? This is very 
 sudden." 
 
 He looked at her, and thought bitterly of the vast 
 difference between her feelings and his own. 
 
 He did not hear the rising sobs that she choked 
 down he did not see the hot tears that were swept 
 away by that casual, artful movement of her long, 
 white fingers. 
 
 " Going away !" she repeated. " Dear guardian, you 
 will not be gone long ?"
 
 ZOE BELL'S BIRTHDAY. 181 
 
 " No not long !" he said, coldly, as a vision of Zoe's 
 marriage to another came before his mind's eye. " I 
 am afraid it will not be long." 
 
 He had cherished a faint, dim hope, that surprise 
 would betray her into a display of the actual feelings 
 she bore towards him ; he had thought, if she really 
 loved him, that some sudden look or word would, un- 
 consciously, reveal it. 
 
 With keen disappointment he now felt that she 
 regarded him but as her benefactor and her friend. 
 
 " I am old enough to be her father," he said, inward- 
 ly. " It is unnatural to expect her love. I will never 
 ask it !" 
 
 THERE was a gentle rap, that night, at the door of 
 Zoe's little tapestried room. 
 
 " Come in," she cried, carelessly, from her seat at 
 the window. The door opened, and Mrs. Harvy 
 entered. 
 
 Neither had disrobed for the night. Mrs. Harvy 
 was evidently suffering deeply. Her aged hand 
 shook like an aspen leaf, as, laying it gently on Zoe's 
 pretty head, she blessed her. 
 
 " Bless you, bless you, my child," she exclaimed, fer- 
 vently, " remain as good and as dutiful as you now
 
 182 ZOE BELL'S BIRTHDAY. 
 
 are, and there is no sacrifice we will not make for 
 you!" 
 
 " Then this sacrifice is made for me ?" asked Zoe, 
 quickly, looking at her adopted parent with eyes of 
 eager and penetrating affection. 
 
 The confused, regretful droop of that faded, grief- 
 stricken countenance, told her but too plainly what she 
 had already feared and conjectured. 
 
 On the instant, Zoe's resolve was taken. She, too, 
 had heard the gossiping reports of the villagers, and in 
 part had guessed the reason of her guardian's depar- 
 ture from Hazelwood. For months she had known 
 that she was much more to that guardian than a ward ; 
 hitherto it had seemed something unreal, a conquest 
 worthy merely of a passing girlish smile, or a merry 
 thought. Now this great sacrifice, this proof of manly, 
 generous devotion, womanized her ; she was no longer 
 the laughing girl ; that moment made her a grateful, 
 thoughtful woman, aye, and a loving one, too. Until 
 then, she never knew the full extent of her attachment 
 to her guardian. Her eyes were opened to her own 
 heart. 
 
 She kissed Mrs. Harvy good-night, and resumed her 
 seat at the window, as the kind old lady left the cham- 
 ber. It was raining violently. In Zoe's strange mood 
 there was affinity between her and the storm. The 
 pattering of the drops upon the panes sounded like
 
 ZOE BELL'S BIRTHDAY. 183 
 
 music ; she experienced a strange sensation of happi- 
 ness, for which she could not account. She felt ele- 
 vated above herself. 
 
 For some time she sat reflecting by the dim light of 
 her expiring lamp. 
 
 Then a sudden desire seized her to find utterance 
 for her feelings in music. The storm without suggest- 
 ed the beautiful hymn, commencing 
 
 "Jesus, Saviour of my soul, 
 
 Let me to Thy bosom fly, 
 While the waves of trouble roll, 
 
 While the tempest still is nigh." 
 
 She was singing it in a subdued, sweet under-tone, 
 when the thought struck her to go down to the parlor, 
 and try it with piano-accompaniment. 
 
 It was still early. 
 
 Lowly humming the sacred air, she trod the long, 
 dreary, and faintly-lighted gallery, to ihe stair-case, 
 descending which, she entered the large drawing- 
 room. 
 
 A few embers still glowed upon the wide, old- 
 fashioned hearth, remnants of the day's fire, and guided 
 by their feeble rays, Zoe found her way to the piano. 
 
 She did not care to light a lamp ; feeling that the 
 twilight would best accord with her thoughts and her 
 song, she played a soft, impromptu prelude. Warming 
 with her subject, she continued to improvise for some
 
 184 ZOE BELL'S BIRTHDAY. 
 
 time, then, lowly, tenderly, she began the hymn. It 
 is replete with genuine, religious feeling. 
 
 When she had finished that thrilling appeal of a dis- 
 tressed soul to its Maker, and the half-murmured, half- 
 chaunted music fell into silence, a slight sound like a 
 suppressed sigh startled the young vocalist, and 
 
 " It is only I, Zoe !" broke upon the stillness through 
 the well-known voice of Mr. Harvy. 
 
 Turning towards the spot from which the sound 
 came, now that her eyes had become accustomed to 
 the obscure light, Zoe saw her guardian sitting at one 
 side of the fire, in a large arm chair, that almost hid 
 him in its deep embrace. 
 
 She lifted her hands from the white keys, and moved 
 towards him. 
 
 " Sit still, Zoe, little girl. Do not stop ; it gives me 
 pleasure to hear you. It may be the last time, child !" 
 
 Oh, how that deep, half-sorrowful voice rang upon 
 her hearing ! 
 
 " Dear guardian, I would rather talk to you ! I can 
 sing no more to-night. I had not thought to have a 
 listener. May I talk to you, sir ?" 
 
 Something whispered her, " now, Zoe, now or never," 
 and she felt she must obey. 
 
 There was a brief pause. 
 
 " Did you sing that from feeling, Zoe ?" the kind 
 voice asked, at length. " Did you think that the ' tern-
 
 ZOE BELL'S BIRTHDAY. . 185 
 
 pest' you sung of is nigh ; ' the waves of trouble' roll- 
 ing towards you ? Are you unhappy, my child ?" 
 
 " / / No, no, how can I be, when you are so good 
 to me, and protect me from every harm." 
 
 " There was a world of meaning in your voice, 
 Zoe." 
 
 " I was not thinking of myself, sir." 
 
 " Of whom then, child ?" 
 
 " Of you, dear guardian," was Zoe's candid answer. 
 
 " And why of me, will you tell me ?" 
 
 " I thought, I feared," she began, half trembling at 
 the prospect of what lay before her to do, '' I feared, 
 s9$ that you were unhappy. You are so, dear Mr. 
 Harvy, you are unhappy, and I am the miserable cause ! 
 I know it, I have long known it." She hesitated. 
 
 Just then the dying embers shot forth a last flicker- 
 ing flood of pale light. 
 
 It shone on beautiful, glowing eyes, a glorified, be- 
 cause truthfully earnest face, and a slight form stand- 
 ing in the attitude of a Lilliputian queen before the 
 arm-chair. 
 
 The gleam, though come and gone in an instant, 
 revived Zoe's courage. 
 
 Mr. Harvy spoke not a word. 
 
 " Dear guardian, oh, do riot leave Hazelwood ! I am 
 unworthy so generous, so noble a sacrifice !" 
 
 " Sacrifice ! Zoe, you know nothing about it ! What 
 8*
 
 186 ZOE BELL'S BIRTHDAY. 
 
 can you have to do with my going away ? There is 
 but one thing that can change my determination, and 
 that is not under my control." 
 
 " Is it under mine, sir ?" asked a low, pleading voice. 
 There was no reply. 
 
 " I do not deserve to be nearer or dearer to you than 
 I am, but, if a life of earnest devotion can ever repay 
 your kindness, it is yours ! I feel my unworthiness 
 deeply, but I know you love me, I know you are 
 leaving your home for my sake ; dear Mr. Harvy, I 
 would prevent you if I can ! May I ?" 
 
 I regret to say, that Mr. Harvy 's precise answer is 
 not on record. 
 
 SHALL I write of the happiness that the events of 
 Zoe Bell's birthday gave to all the inmates of Hazel- 
 wood? 
 
 Shall I tell of the ever-increasing devotion of the 
 gay young wife to her quiet and noble husband ; how 
 their days glided by in peace, disturbed for a time by 
 the grief that came to them from a little grave, and 
 then flowed on in unruffled contentment ? 
 
 No, I will leave my story as it is. Only with the 
 actual events of Zoe Bell's Birthday has my pen to do,
 
 ZOE BELL'S BIRTHDAY. 187 
 
 and surely none would have me meddle with that 
 which concerns me not. 
 
 All I may add is, that happiness and kind fortune 
 descended to the lot of Zoe, the beloved wife of Philip 
 Harvv.
 
 AN OLD MAN'S STORY. 
 
 " I SAID to Sorrow's awful storm, 
 
 That beat against my breast, 
 Rage on thou may'st destroy this form, 
 
 And lay it low at rest ; 
 But still the spirit that now brooks 
 
 Thy tempest, raging high, 
 
 Undaunted on its fury looks 
 
 With steadfast eye. 
 
 I said to cold Neglect and Scorn, 
 
 Pass on I heed you not ; 
 Ye may pursue me, till my form 
 
 And being are forgot ; 
 Yet still the spirit which you see 
 
 Undaunted by your wiles, 
 Draws from its own nobility 
 
 Its high-born smiles." 
 
 DURING one of my city rambles to-day, I saw in a 
 a large shop- window, a picture of Christ. 
 
 It was exquisitely painted ; but it was not mere 
 admiration of an artistic blending of colors that caused 
 me to pause and look, tearfully, on the beautiful crea- 
 tion ; and there was something of unearthly beauty in
 
 190 AN OLD MAN S STORY. 
 
 that glorious head. The sorrowful gleam of those 
 noble eyes, as they were turned heavenward, the 
 mingled resignation, faith, humility, and love, resting 
 expressively on the lips, parted in physical agony, 
 smote me with awe and holy pity. 
 
 I have come home now with a heart chastened 
 from dull repining ; I no longer feel the poor suffering 
 creature that I once thought myself I realize as I 
 never realized before, that, compared with the agony 
 of His thorny paths in life, my grief is as a drop of 
 water to the fathomless ocean. 
 
 Complaint, henceforth, I will put far away from me, 
 and murmurs against the Divine Will shall never 
 more pass my lips. If / have found my lot hard to 
 bear, puny as it is, what, oh ! what were the matchless 
 sufferings of Christ crucified ? 
 
 Something impels me to give my history to the 
 world. 
 
 Not that I desire fame or compassionate sympathy, 
 but that men may learn of me pity for their fellow- 
 creatures. 
 
 I am an old man now, as my gray hairs too plainly 
 tell me, and I shall write dispassionately of all those 
 bygone events, from very feebleness of age. 
 
 Early left alone in the world, there are few things 
 that I can remember of my home or my parents. My 
 mother, I know, was beautiful ; her features were cast
 
 AN OLD MAN'S STORY. 191 
 
 in the delicate Grecian style, and her eyes seemed like 
 dreams of blue sky ; but I can recall her image very 
 faintly. Once, I recollect, she took me with her to 
 evening prayers, in the large old cathedral where she 
 worshipped. Holding, childishly, by her hand, I re- 
 member staring in amazement at the vast building, 
 fragrant with incense, and glittering with lamps, that 
 shed fitful light on the antique paintings, the golden 
 altar ornaments, and the flowing robes of the sono- 
 rous-voiced priests. 
 
 I seem to feel, even now, the childish, but romantic 
 valor that glowed through my being, when my mother 
 made me kneel on the cold marble flagging of the 
 cathedral aisle, as the solemn and noble chaunts up- 
 rose to heaven. The dim beauty, the glory of those 
 shadowy arches, filled me with grand desire to become 
 something in the world ; and yet I know not how my 
 boyish aspirations discovered connection between reli- 
 gion and heroism, or found in the former incentive to 
 the latter. 
 
 I am a descendant of a reviled and persecuted race. 
 Although my features and person bear no impress of 
 my origin, I have ever been avoided as one contami- 
 nated and unworthy of intercourse with men whom 
 accident has given a purer descent; purer it may- 
 be in blood, but not in actual nobility of body and 
 soul.
 
 192 AN OLD MAN'S STORY 
 
 My mother's grand-parents were American slaves ; 
 my father claimed descent from the African race, in a 
 still more remote degree ; neither father nor mother 
 having, personally, any of the characteristics of that 
 people. 
 
 Both were free, and my mother was a lawfully wed- 
 ded wife. 
 
 I began the world with the determination and 
 earnest hope to overcome, at least so far as concerned 
 myself, the prejudice existing against the race from 
 which I sprung. I vowed, by a life of honor and 
 integrity, to win to myself esteem, respect, and the 
 sincere, manly friendship of my fellow-beings. 
 
 I have had the blessing of a thorough and enlighten- 
 ed education ; for the small fortune that my father 
 accumulated (and accumulated amid struggles and suf- 
 ferings, but with a beautiful and daring faith, that his 
 trials were not to be in vain,) was more than sufficient 
 to meet the expenses of my youth. 
 
 In the hopeful dawn of my manhood, I did not 
 dream of the bitterness, the weariness of spirit, my 
 vain desire to rise was to cause me. 
 
 I did not know then, as I know now, that the op- 
 pressed of this world are to remain oppressed forever. 
 I did not know that aspirations for a better and higher 
 state, if they spring from one like myself, are to be 
 crushed as so much sin, to the earth, which is at last
 
 AN OLD MAN'S STORY. 193 
 
 the home of both lofty and low ; the noble and the 
 ignoble alike. 
 
 In my daily business life, humiliations, which I can 
 scarcely now brook naming, met me on every side ; 
 and, by an exquisite arrangement of the laws of 
 honor, resentment was, by my birth, placed out of my 
 power. 
 
 Once, goaded into fury by a bitter taunt, that the 
 humanity of my nature made hard to endure, I strode 
 to my lodgings, and going before the mirror, with a 
 haughty tread, looked at my reflection. 
 
 " Am I deformed ?" I cried, " am I hideous or 
 loathsome, that men revile me thus ?" But the straight, 
 proud figure I beheld was that of a fair-faced, erectly, 
 handsome man, in the prime of his years, a man the 
 stifled beauty of whose life none knew. Then, con- 
 scious that there was no mark of Cain upon my fore- 
 head, that I was not vile to the sight, I fell "upon my 
 knees, and wept passionately, the wild, delirious 
 prayer 
 
 " Oh God ! why was I born why was I created 
 with this stain, making me impure in the eyes of men, 
 though I have striven to be pure in Thine ? How 
 long, oh Lord, how long ? Oh, take, this burdensome 
 life from me, or give me something to make it valua- 
 ble. I hate the daylight, I hate myself, have mercy 
 upon me, a miserable sinner !"
 
 194 AN OLD MAN'S STORY. 
 
 After years of unwearied degradations, I concluded, 
 that in a life of more retired labor, I might escape 
 from the ills that had so far followed the workings of 
 my young ambition, for not only had it proved goal- 
 less, but the friendships I sought, failed me, and the 
 peace I desired, came not. I would, I thought, give 
 up my vain hopes thenceforth seek to be nothing, 
 and thus avoid the unmerited opprobrium of those 
 with whom my natural talents unfortunately placed 
 me on a level. 
 
 J sought, and obtained, employment in quiet coun- 
 try villages ; but wheresoever I went, the story of my 
 birth followed. I was like one afflicted with a terri- 
 ble disease, and was shunned as though contagion 
 were in my breath. 
 
 Had I never sought to rise from the sphere of 
 action, generally assigned to men of a descent similar 
 to my own, all this would never have been. But let 
 me ask, my reader, if such servile modes of life could 
 satisfy a human being, with a whole heart full of God- 
 like impulses, and a brain all aglow with conscious in- 
 tellect ? 
 
 Finding myself avoided among men, a savage hate 
 took possession of. my soul. With the same intensity 
 with which I had once longed for sympathy among 
 minds, elevated and refined as my own, I now loathed 
 the mere idea of social intercourse.
 
 AN OLD MAN'S STORY. 195 
 
 I fled from my fellows, and lived, for many years, a 
 vagabond life in the woods of the back countries, find- 
 ing precarious subsistence on wild game and fruits. 
 
 The romance of this strange existence pleased and 
 refreshed me, and in my gloomy despondency its 
 manifold discomforts appeared trifles, compared to the 
 mental sufferings I had previously endured. 
 
 For years I had no associates but my hunting dogs 
 and my nightly fire. For the latter especially I en- 
 tertained an enthusiastic affection ; it seemed akin to 
 my own wayward and impetuous disposition. It was 
 to me both friend and benefactor ; sitting or sleeping 
 by its cheerful blaze, I felt that I was not without com- 
 panionship. My fierce nature received it as a fitting 
 object on which to expend its wealth of morose love. 
 
 As I glowered over its warm and flowing flame, on 
 cold, dreary nights, I understood the tales of castaways 
 on desert lands, who have been said to love fire with 
 worship of idolatry; I know how to appreciate the glad 
 gratitude they have felt for this inanimate sharer of 
 their solitude. 
 
 Often as I watched the long streams of light, like 
 fiery tongues darting through the darkness of gloomy 
 evenings, I danced and shouted as exultantly as though 
 I had indeed won myself a friend, despite the bitter 
 world I had left, as I thought, forever. 
 
 There came to me many moments of peace and
 
 196 AN OLD MAN'S STORY . 
 
 comparative happiness during this long exile, but to- 
 wards its close, there were mingled with them much 
 discontented repining, at the unnatural lot which ne- 
 cessity, not choice, had brought me ; and as time rolled 
 away, I could not conceal from myself that I panted 
 for the touch of kindly human hands, and thirsted after 
 the love even of one of the most despised of created 
 souls. 
 
 Gradually this longing desire filled my whole being, 
 and turned my hitherto quiet joys into mere mockeries 
 of the reality. The solitude that had once yielded re- 
 pose to my wounded spirit, wearied and fatigued me ; 
 and my depression of mind would at last have ended, 
 I doubt not, in raving insanity, had not an accident 
 suddenly removed its cause. 
 
 Hunting one day, in a hilly portion of the country 
 that was rapidly being settted, I heard, as I thought, a 
 cry for help. On hastening to the open road, I beheld 
 a man striving to raise his horse from the ground 
 where it had fallen, writhing in the agonies of death. 
 Had he been a gentleman in appearance, my misan- 
 thropic nature would have impelled me to leave the 
 spot without rendering him assistance ; but the whiten- 
 ed meal- sacks in his wagon, and his own flour-be- 
 sprinkled attire, proved to me that he was merely a 
 miller, journeying to market with his goods. 
 
 I advanced towards him, and offered all the aid in
 
 AN OLD MAN'S STORY. 197 
 
 my power towards extricating his horse and procuring 
 a substitute, and by other unconscious proofs of good- 
 will, so won his favorable opinion, that in reply to my 
 earnest inquiries regarding the facility of obtaining 
 employment in the neighboring villages, he offered me 
 the then vacant place of a day-laborer in his own mill. 
 With great gratitude at the prospect of escape from 
 the woods, and my hunter's life, I accepted his offer, 
 poor as it would have seemed to me at any other time. 
 
 A few days saw me fairly installed in the situation. 
 
 On the banks of a small fresh-water stream that 
 
 takes its sparkling course among the hills of N , 
 
 and at length comes gurgling and dashing through the 
 salt meadows, till it meets and mingles with the bright 
 river beyond, still stands that antiquated and half- 
 ruined mill. It is built in a hollow of much rural and 
 picturesque beauty, at the feet of these lofty hills. 
 Venerable trees nod and whisper over the decaying 
 walls, and the brook that then turned the wheel, glit- 
 ters in the distance like a long bright vein of silver. 
 
 For awhile I lived there happily. 
 
 It was there that I dreamed the vainest, but most 
 beautiful dream of my life, and there, too, I awoke 
 from my delusion. 
 
 Ruth Say was by no means a woman to excite the 
 admiration of the multitude. She was good, sweet 
 and gentle, and it was only among those who knew her
 
 198 AN OLD MAN'S STORY. 
 
 well, that her unobtrusive amiability made her beloved. 
 She was scarcely pretty, but as I look back upon the 
 period when she was all in all to me, I feel that beauty 
 was needless. 
 
 Never in all my life had I aspired to the love of 
 woman. I had put the thought always from me when- 
 ever it occurred, for I felt I had no right to ask any 
 human being to share such a fate as mine. 
 
 When, however, I saw sweet Ruth Say fading away 
 with a hopeless passion at her heart's core for me, 
 when I beheld at my feet a jewel I had never hoped 
 to possess, my whole soul was drawn towards her, and 
 I forgot the spirit of self-sacrifice that hitherto had 
 actuated me ; I had no power to put lightly aside the 
 whole life-time of happiness offered me through her 
 love. 
 
 She was my employer's eldest child, and although 
 placed at the head of his large family of little ones, she 
 was not yet twenty-two years of age. 
 
 I offered Ruth my heart and hand, and with the full 
 approbation of her father, it was arranged that we 
 were to be married in the ensuing autumn. 
 
 During the time that intervened, Ruth became dearer 
 to me than my hopes of heaven. 
 
 I could not bring myself to tell her what I really 
 was. I could not repeat to her the hateful secret that 
 hitherto had blasted the promise of my life, and yet my
 
 AN OLD MAN'S STORY. 199 
 
 mind was torn by the consciousness of the wrong I 
 was doing by withholding it. 
 
 One cold spring night, as we sat together at the mill- 
 fireside, something 
 
 " in her aspect, and her eyes," 
 
 prompted me to confess all. We were alone. As I 
 watched in painful suspense the conflicting emotions 
 that my recital had awakened, and which the light of 
 the cheerful fire revealed on her face, I felt that her 
 love was shaken by my revelation ; I saw that pride, 
 outraged perhaps by the long delay of that confession, 
 was weakening the affection in which I so gloried. 
 
 I threw myself at her feet ; I wept, as only strong 
 men can weep, over the threatened desolation of all I 
 held dear, and implored her not to cast me away ut- 
 terly. 
 
 " Ruth, Ruth Say," I cried, " on you depends all the 
 hopes of my life-time ; take them away, wring them 
 from me, and you convert me into a demon. Ruth, 
 Ruth, I love you you are the dearest thing to me on 
 earth ! I love you as never yet woman was beloved 
 of man. May I love you, Ruth may I, oh, may I ? 
 There is no stain on my soul, no dishonor, no shame !" 
 
 She gasped, and was silent. I covered her hands 
 with kisses, for something, I know not what, bade me 
 hope. She repulsed me with dignity, and though she
 
 200 AN OLD MAN'S STORY. 
 
 trembled like a reed in the wind, said with bitter calm- 
 ness 
 
 " Why was I not told this before ? why have you 
 permitted me to love you all this time in darkness ? 
 Oh, Stephen ! may God pity us both, for both will 
 need it ! I can never marry you !" 
 
 Her sweet wild eyes shot forth glances of proud 
 scorn, as she swept from my grasp, and left me alone 
 by that mill-fireside. 
 
 A long time I sat there in the darkness, and ponder- 
 ed over her words. 
 
 My heart was filled with bitterness. I thought her 
 unjust cruel ; even as I had thought all the world be- 
 fore. 
 
 But never once did I harbor the passionate regret, 
 " I would that I had never loved !" 
 
 I had no desire to undo the past. Though humbled, 
 I had once been happy ; and even to save myself from 
 present misery, I would not have foregone the memory 
 of that happiness. 
 
 In the midst of my reverie, my ear was startled by 
 a strange and inexplicable sound without the mill. I 
 paused, listened attentively to the dull, surging noise, 
 and, in mute wonder, tried to imagine whence it pro- 
 ceeded. 
 
 The night was uncommonly beautiful, and, perhaps, 
 it seemed more so, from the fact of its being the first
 
 AN OLD MAN'S STORY. 201 
 
 clear evening for weeks ; the country having been 
 visited with violent rain storms. The air, until now, 
 had been calmly, solemnly still. Was it a sudden 
 gust of wind in the old trees around the mill that thus 
 broke upon that silence ? 
 
 On on it came louder, stronger, and fiercer ! 
 
 At first, it had seemed like the low, solemn flow of 
 a giant's hymn, now, it shrieked and roared with the 
 fury of a newly-awakened tempest. I felt something 
 dash with a mighty shock against the western side of 
 the mill ; assailed by a tumult of forebodings, I flew 
 to the window, threw up the casement, and looked 
 out. I thought of the late prolonged rains as I did so, 
 and of the swollen mountain streams, and in a 
 moment realized my worst apprehensions ; for by the 
 pale, struggling light of the early moon, I beheld, 
 far and near, a beating tossing, surging waste of 
 water ! 
 
 I felt the very foundations of the mill shake with, 
 the force of the torrent, and for a moment I despaired 
 of the resistance of the walls. 
 
 I beheld trees and shrubs giving way like insignifi- 
 cant reeds, before that black, onward-rolling water, 
 and, as I looked, realized acutely the mere nothingness 
 of humanity. 
 
 I rushed from the room to alarm the household, and
 
 202 AN OLD MAN'S STORY. 
 
 provide for the safety of Ruth Say ; my only thought 
 was of her ! 
 
 Consternation and dismay reigned throughout the 
 rest of that terrible night. 
 
 During all, the moon shone forth as brightly and 
 coldly, as though it lighted not the path of the destroy- 
 ing angel. 
 
 The flood did not abate as the morning neared. It 
 became but too evident, that the banks of some of the 
 mountain lakes had given way with the accumulations 
 of the late rains, and an inundating tide of death was 
 flowing upon the lonely mill- hollow ! 
 
 With the daylight came attempts at rescue from the 
 affrighted villagers. 
 
 A boat was sent to take us from the already half- 
 fallen ruin ; but before it reached the mill, it, and its 
 brave rower, perished in the whirling torrent. We 
 could see the dismay depicted on the anxious faces 
 that crowded the river's edge as the boat went down, 
 so near were we to them. 
 
 Within view of safety, and hourly expecting des- 
 truction ! Every effort that man could make, was 
 made to save us, yet the sun sank that day, and found 
 us still awaiting rescue or death. Ropes were thrown 
 to us with provisions, but escape from the mill by the 
 same means was found impracticable. 
 
 *******
 
 AN OLD MANS STORY. 203 
 
 In the darkness of the succeeding night, there came 
 to me a happy thought. 
 
 I called to the assembled multitude beyond, and, re- 
 ceiving a wild shout of answer, bade them fling me 
 fresh ropes, and a large, strong basket. 
 
 Aided by both, I had soon established a mode of 
 personal communication with those on shore, and 
 myself, made the experimental passage above the 
 water. 
 
 Eagerly I returned, overjoyed at the success of the 
 plan, and the children of the family, one by one, were 
 removed from the place, until there remained but the 
 miller, his eldest daughter, and myself. 
 
 It was in vain we entreated Ruth to go next ; she 
 insisted on her aged father being placed in safety be- 
 fore herself. 
 
 He gave her, at last, a fervent oh ! how fervent an 
 embrace, stepped into the basket, and was rapidly 
 drawn over the torrent. In a moment, glad shouts on 
 the shore, announced the aged miller's safe arrival. 
 
 Then, once more, I begged Ruth to leave the mill. 
 
 But, once more, she refused. 
 
 Looking at me, with something of old tenderness in 
 her tones, she said, beseechingly 
 " You first, Stephen." 
 
 "//" I exclaimed, scornfully. -"Of what use or 
 good am / to the world ? Not a living soul will regret
 
 204 AN OLD MAN'S STORY. 
 
 if I never see God's day-light again, and for myself, I 
 care not how soon my life ceases. I have lost all, 
 Ruth, that made it of value all, all ! 
 
 I steadied the basket with one hand, and with a 
 peremptory gesture of the other, signified to her to 
 seat herself. She obeyed, mechanically. Just as she 
 began to move from the tottering mill- walls, she cried 
 out in an alarmed voice, that was prophecy itself 
 
 " Good God ! I shall never reach them alive ! Ste- 
 phen oh, Stephen Lent, save me, save me ! Where 
 are you oh, where are you it is dark Stephen 
 Stephen !" 
 
 Even while she spoke, the wall to which the rope 
 was attached, fell with a resounding crash, into the 
 black abyss of rolling water. 
 
 To this day, I know not how my own worthless life 
 was preserved amid the ruins. They told me, that, 
 two days afterwards, when the freshet abated, I was 
 found, senseless, half-buried under a mass of the fal- 
 len wall. 
 
 So perished my only earthly love so died Ruth 
 Say, in the pride of early womanhood.
 
 AN OLD MAN'S STORY. 205 
 
 I HAVE scarcely seemed to live since then. I have 
 cared for nothing, hoped for nothing. Taunts, sneers, 
 and unkindnesses have reached me not, for I have felt 
 them not. 
 
 My days are like the waves of the ocean, full of 
 unrest, and changeful with currents, but I have ceased 
 to heed their action ; I look above this world's influ- 
 ences, leaning upon the Rock of Ages. 
 
 The tale of what men call my shame, ever follows 
 and pursues me, like a phantom, whose shadow must 
 mix with mine till death ; the crime of ignoble birth 
 is never to be forgotten or forgiven. 
 
 Many compassionate men and women have written 
 of the innumerable details of slavery ; and this brief 
 recital of the trials of a descendant from one of the 
 most oppressed people of the earth, may be but a new 
 expression of an old form of suffering. 
 
 Laus Deo ! in heaven the Jew and the Gentile, 
 bondman and free, are eternally equal !
 
 THE 
 
 SWALLOWS IN MR. PIP'S CHIMNEY, 
 
 " CHIP, chip a we-e-e-e !" twittered the swallows in 
 the chimney. 
 
 There were sweet winds afloat, and they flowed 
 with almost burdensome fragrance through the win- 
 dows of Obadiah Pip's little parlor, as he sat there, 
 one afternoon, fast asleep in his chair. 
 
 It was a small and shady dwelling, overhung with 
 green trees, and surrounded with choice shrubbery 
 shrubbery not trimmed into stiff circumspectness, but 
 graceful in wild, luxuriant growth. Just within the 
 old white-washed fence, stood a row of currant bushes, 
 laden to the ground with their ripe scarlet fruit, and 
 over the little time-honored porch, crept mingled rose 
 and honey-suckle vines, whose contrasted sprays hung 
 in thick masses upon the lattice-work. 
 
 In spite of his great, awkward person, and clumsy 
 bashfulness, Obadiah Pip possessed something of taste 
 and refinement. One could see that, by looking at his 
 gardens, flower and vegetable, and at the outward 
 adornments of his plain, but pretty house.
 
 208 SWALLOWS IN ME. Pip's CHIMNEY. 
 
 " Chip a we-e-e-e !" went the swallows in the parlor 
 chimney. The sound awoke Obadiah from a profound 
 sleep, the sweetness of which a day's hearty labor had 
 purchased. He half arose, rubbed his eyes, and then 
 slowly settled himself back again in his chair. 
 
 " Chip, chip a we-e-e-e-e !" still energetically twit- 
 tered the swallows, overhead, and at last they put an 
 end to good Obadiah's nap. He stretched himself 
 lazily, gave a cavernous gape, put his hands under 
 his coat-tails, and began to walk up and down 
 the apartment, thinking of the three years he had 
 lived a widower in that very cottage, the cease- 
 less " chip, chip" of the swallows, making the dreary 
 stillness of the room still more solemnly dismal. 
 Then he went to the glass, between the windows, and 
 looked at his reflection. 
 
 "I declare," soliloquized he, running his fingers 
 through his hair, " it is time I put an end to Rosa's 
 going to waste ! She wants a mother to look after 
 her ; I perceive that plainly. Let me see ; it is three 
 years, within a week, since my sainted Susan died in 
 this very room. I have not led a very happy life in 
 that time, I'll acknowledge, for all Susan used some- 
 times to say, that I, dear me ! nobody sews on my 
 buttons like Susan did, nobody keeps the flies off me 
 in my afternoon naps, poor, poor Susan !" 
 
 Stout Mr. Pip heaved a deep sigh.
 
 SWALLOWS IN MR. PIP'S CHIMNEY. 209 
 
 "Curse those swallows what a noise they keep 
 up ! It makes me feel like a funeral. I'll shoot 
 them I will ! I don't have a minute's peace of my 
 life !" 
 
 Mr. Pip slammed the door behind him and went in 
 search of his gun ; but, changing his mind, concluded 
 to " fix," and ride down to 'Squire Jonson's to inquire 
 into the state of his crops. 
 
 Mr. Jonson had three unmarried, plump, and pretty 
 daughters. 
 
 Arrayed in all the glory of a " Sunday-go-to-meet- 
 in' " coat and trowsers, with the addition of the iden- 
 tical white vest in which he had been married ten 
 years before, and which, consequently, was not of a 
 very modern pattern, and would draw under the arms, 
 in spite of the most strenuous efforts on the part of 
 the wearer to keep it in place, Mr. Pip gently trotted 
 down to 'Squire Jonson's on the back of old Fire- 
 Fly. 
 
 Nothing in the world is as "soothing to the temper 
 as a ride, just at sun-set, over even and tree-shaded 
 roads. Those leading to Mr. Jonson's farm, happened 
 to be particularly pleasant, and as friend Obadiah 
 passed slowly along, he forgot his ill humor at the 
 swallows, and thought only of his intended visit. 
 
 To tell the truth, this was not the first time Mr. Pip 
 had shown an interest in the weal or wo of his neigh- 
 
 9*
 
 210 SWALLOWS IN MR. PIP S CHIMNEY. 
 
 bor's crops. For several weeks past, he had been in 
 the habit of stopping there every few days, not unfre- 
 quently extending his call so far as to partake of the 
 evening meal with the family. 
 
 Just before reaching the farm, Mr. Pip saw in the 
 distance, the carriage of Mr. Jonson issue from his 
 gate, and proceed in the same direction as himself, to- 
 wards Meadowside. As he beheld this, poor Mr. Pip's 
 courage evaporated on the instant. 
 
 " How on earth," thought he, " can I venture near 
 the house now ? Jonson and his wife are going down 
 to the village ; if I stop, I must face the three girls 
 alone !" 
 
 He tried to overcome his shy horror at the pros- 
 pect, and after some deliberation, concluded to tie his 
 horse, knock at the door, and inquire for Mr. Jonson, 
 with the same coolness that he would have done if he 
 had not just seen him driving away. Accordingly, he 
 walked up the neatly pebbled path, and rapped, boldly. 
 A few moments elapsecl before the door was opened, 
 during which interval a half-suppressed giggle reached 
 him from within. 
 
 Mr. Pip was on the point of taking flight, greatly 
 alarmed at his own temerity, when the knob turned, 
 and he found himself face to face with the youngest 
 sister, Miss Mary Maria. 
 
 " Oh ahem, how d'y do, Miss Jonson. Is your
 
 SWALLOWS IN MR. Pip's CHIMNEY. 211 
 
 father at home. I've just called to bring him some 
 white turnip-seed, I promised him last week." 
 
 Miss Mary Maria's roguish eyes fairly danced with 
 merriment, as she said 
 
 " Father is away, Mr. Pip walk in, and rest your- 
 self you must be fatigued with your long, dusty 
 ride." 
 
 As she spoke, she threw open the door of the par- 
 lor. Mr. Pip required no second invitation ; he followed 
 her in very bashfully, and, in his awkward way, drop- 
 ped into the seat nearest the door. I do not mean to 
 insinuate, by narrating this circumstance, that he was 
 preparing for a hasty retreat in case of necessity, no, 
 indeed, Miss Mary Maria was too young, too jolly, too 
 pretty, for such an idea to enter his head. The fact 
 was, he was quite overcome with his good fortune in 
 seeing the young lady alone, (for of the three sisters, 
 he liked the youngest one the best,) and so did not 
 know exactly what he did. 
 
 Miss Jonsn was a rosy, healthy, country beauty, of 
 about twenty-three. Her eyes were deeply, sunnily 
 blue, and were always laughing on their own account, 
 in opposition to the fay-like sort of smile that flitted 
 momentarily across her lips, coming and going like a 
 sunbeam, set in perpetual motion. Her cheeks were 
 perfect miracles of roundness and pinkness, and her 
 face's expression, although destitute of intellectuality,
 
 212 SWALLOWS IN MR. Pip's CHIMNEY. 
 
 was the embodiment of everything brightly, sweet, 
 and mirthfully happy. 
 
 Miss Mary Maria drew a rocking-chair before her 
 unsuspecting victim^ and, I am almost ashamed to 
 write it, deliberately set herself to work to bring out 
 some acknowledgment of his affection for her. I 
 wonder if there ever lived a woman who did not dis- 
 cover she was beloved before her lover knew it him- 
 self! 
 
 Miss Mary Maria had been aware of Mr. Pip's 
 secret for a very long time, and as she herself was far 
 from being indifferent to the good, but uncultivated 
 widower, (particularly as he was the only marriageable 
 man in the neighborhood,) she determined to make the 
 most of the present interview. 
 
 Her father and mother were gone to bring home 
 her two elder sisters from a visit in Meadowside, con- 
 sequently the opportunity could not be more favora- 
 ble. 
 
 Be it known that both these sisters h^d openly ex- 
 pressed individual and separate claims to Mr. Pip's 
 calls and attentions, each seeing through his flimsily 
 transparent excuse of visiting their father, each 
 considering herself the secret object of his shy devo- 
 tion. 
 
 Mary Maria had now the field to herself! It was 
 this, the thought of triumph over her sisters, that
 
 SWALLOWS IN MR. Pip's CHIMNEY. 213 
 
 filled her with merriment, and gave her zest in pursuit 
 of the bashful vyidower. 
 
 They commenced with discussing the weather. 
 Mr. Pip said it was delightful, and using this original 
 remark, as a starting point, they soon branched off 
 into a promising conversation, which, however, I am 
 constrained to say, was principally sustained by the 
 lady. 
 
 If ever a pretty little woman took pleasure in tortur- 
 ing her lover, that little woman was Miss Mary Maria ! 
 She led poor Mr. Pip into all sorts of arguments, and 
 after twisting, turning, and bewildering him, and mak- 
 ing him say what he hadn't the slightest idea of say- 
 ing, ended the debate, by maliciously causing him to 
 contradict himself! Every moment, Mr. Pip's cour- 
 age lessened. He felt he never could speak what he 
 so desired Lo say to the little creature before him. 
 As a last resource, he touched upon the loneliness of 
 his home. . 
 
 " Miss Mary Maria," he said, and the sound of his 
 own voice frightened him, "you do not know how 
 dismal my house is becoming. I am thinking of 
 moving. Rosa says she absolutely hates such a quiet 
 little den." 
 
 " Why don't you get a wife ?" laughed Maria, half 
 from sheer mischief, half to help him along, now that 
 he appeared coming to the point.
 
 214 SWALLOWS IN MR. rip's CHIMNEY. 
 
 Was there ever a better chance for a man to say 
 " will you marry me ?" The bewildered widower 
 really could not take advantage of the opportunity. 
 He stammered out something that was quite inaudible 
 blushed scarlet, and dropped his eyes, seemingly for the 
 purpose of tracing out the pattern of the pretty carpet. 
 
 Miss Mary Maria then waxed indignant. I wish my 
 reader had been there to see her elevate her little white 
 shoulders, and slightly curl her merry upper lip. As 
 the afternoon wore on, however, and the arrival of her 
 sisters became momentarily to be expected, her vexa- 
 tion declined, but every attempt she made to bring 
 Obadiah upon tender grounds, was unsuccessful. 
 
 At length she began to despair, seeing plainly all 
 the while that this clumsy widower loved her, but 
 great bashfulness delayed his avowal of the fact. 
 
 Through the openj windows came the sound of 
 wheels in a few minutes more, Miss Mary Maria's 
 chance of matrimony would be gone, or, -at all events, 
 weakened. Desperation nerved her to a bold and de- 
 cisive stroke. 
 
 " Mr. Pip," she said, gazing fixedly in his eyes, while 
 the sunbeam danced to and fro upon her lips, "Mr. 
 Pip, if you love me, for gracious sake, why don't you 
 say so !" 
 
 " Bless your heart, Miss Mary Maria," cried the 
 good widower, looking greatly relieved, his round face 
 blushing in alternate streaks of pink and scarlet, " bless
 
 SWALLOWS IN ME. Pip's CHIMNEY. 2J 5 
 
 your heart, there is not another woman in the world 
 that I could love ! 
 
 IT was at the close of a very lovely day, some three 
 weeks afterwards, that Mr. Pip brought home his little 
 wife. They had taken a brief wedding jaunt, and 
 were now to settle down into sober and common- place 
 life. Mrs. Pip was the same laughing little woman as 
 ever. The dignities of matrimony had not tamed her 
 down one jot, her laugh was more silvery and ring- 
 ing, and the sunbeam brighter, if possible, than before. 
 
 Rosa, wild child, had loved her mother from the 
 very first day she beheld her. 
 
 As they sat in the little parlor, the evening of their 
 arrival, Rosa, with her arms around Mary Maria's 
 neck, quiet Mr. Pip scarcely knew how to express his 
 great joy in the new mistress of his home. He took his 
 wife's hand within his own in his tender clumsy fashion, 
 and was just stooping to touch it to his lips, when 
 
 " Chip, chip, a we e e e !" twittered the swallows 
 in the chimney. 
 
 " What is that ?" asked Mary Maria, half startled. 
 
 " Only the twitter of some swallows, my dear," re- 
 plied her husband, " and if it is'nt the pleasantest sound 
 I have heard this year, may I never listen to another !" 
 
 And so the swallows to this day, reign undisputed 
 in Mr. Pip's chimney.
 
 THE STORY OP HiGAR. 
 
 " Music is the Art of the Prophets ; it is the only Art which can 
 calm the agitation of the soul, and put the Devil to flight." 
 
 MARTIN LUTHER. 
 
 "Then a glory bound her forehead!, 
 
 Like the glory of a crown, 
 As in the silent sea of death 
 
 The star of life went down." 
 
 ALICE CAREY. 
 
 IT was Christmas eve, and as bright and beautiful a 
 night as ever threw its shadow over this old earth of 
 ours. There was no moon, but the sky was thick with 
 that " faint cold starlight," of which Shelley writes so 
 musically in one of his tenderest songs. 
 
 The snow lay on the ground to a great depth, and 
 lately as it had ceased to fall, the night was bracingly 
 clear, just as on a merry Christmas eve it should be ! 
 
 How the cold sound of the farmer's sleigh-bells rang 
 out on the frosty air, jingling together in musical con- 
 fusion, like tribes of air-spirits clamorous for a hear- 
 ing ! The atmosphere seemed alive with the sound, 
 far and near it echoed from the white hills. The very
 
 218 THE STORY OF II AGAR 
 
 horses were inspired by it, and pranced over the crisp- 
 ing snow, frisking their long, graceful tails, elevating 
 their ears, expanding their nostrils, and looking as if 
 they understood and appreciated the unusual liveliness 
 of the scene. 
 
 From the windows of the ancient farm-houses of 
 Briartown came streams of red light in strong and 
 startling contrast upon the snow. Dusky figures 
 moved hither and thither ; shouts rose and died away 
 upon the wintry breeze, and merry voices found echo 
 everywhere. 
 
 Of all canvass delineations, give me a snow-scene ! 
 I reaily believe, (so inspired do I feel by the mental 
 contemplation of this one,) that if 1 possessed the pow- 
 er to wield the brush daintily, I might at this moment 
 sit down and immortalize myself. Most melancholy 
 pity! 
 
 Knee-deep in the snow, a woman, closely mantled, 
 wended her way at the side of the road. She was 
 very tall in fact, almost a giantess in stature and 
 with strides, rather than steps, trudged rapidly along. 
 The snow gave way beneath every foot-fall, yet she 
 did not abate her haste, but walked as though her feet 
 disdained all that they touched. 
 
 Once in a great while, the light from some Christ- 
 mas fire-side fell upon her face, and though half con- 
 cealed by a close woollen hood, its savage beauty, its
 
 THE 3TORY OF HAGAR. 219 
 
 stern severity, gleamed out upon the darkness, startling 
 those who passed and beheld it. 
 
 Alone, and at night, upon those roads so impassable 
 for foot travellers ! 
 
 It was a strange journey. But its fatigues, its dan- 
 gers did not appear to daunt her. Once, a compas- 
 sionate farmer stopped to offer her a seat in his sleigh ' 
 a brief gesture of the hand gave him rapidly and im- 
 pulsively his answer. 
 
 Leaving the road, she at length struck into the un- 
 trodden moors. Upon those desert and uninhabited 
 commons the snow had drifted thickly. It was almost 
 madness to attempt a passage through it, but directing 
 her steps towards a light that shone from a cottage be- 
 yond, she passed across with great difficulty to the lit- 
 tle lane on which it was situated. 
 
 Arrived there, her desperate courage seemed to fail 
 her. She sat down upon the door-step, and buried her 
 head in her hands, retaining this position for more 
 than an hour. 
 
 Aroused by sounds from within, she at length rose 
 and knocked. The door opened almost immediately, 
 but dazzled by the flood of light that poured into her 
 great black eyes, she did not at first recognise James 
 Kenworthy, the village school-teacher. 
 
 " Come in," said James' mild voice, as he stood there
 
 220 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 holding the door ; " come in, whoever you are. The 
 night is bitterly cold." 
 
 She knew his voice in an instant. With one bound 
 she cleared the threshold, and knelt before him. 
 
 " James, James Kenworthy, I am come back at last. 
 For God's sake don't spurn me !" 
 
 He made a movement as though to close the door 
 upon her. His face writhed, and a look almost amount- 
 ing to hatred, shot from his eyes. 
 
 " Good God, is it you, YOU ! Have you come back, 
 heaven-forsaken creature, to mar the peace of my old 
 age, as you destroyed the promise of my manhood ? 
 I thought you dead, oh, how I have prayed for your 
 death, as the only means of saving you from farther 
 sin!" 
 
 Still at his feet the proud woman cried, " Brother, 
 I have never sinned against myself. My tastes, my 
 desires were different from yours, but as there is a 
 Judge in heaven, I am pure. I told you so, long, long 
 ago, but you would not believe me. I have little to be 
 proud of, but I am -proud of that. My life has been 
 more varied than yours. I have lived in the midst of 
 crime and temptations, but I swear to you, I have 
 passed through them triumphantly. 
 
 The schoolmaster's face softened. He closed the 
 door, but did not attempt to raise his sister from her 
 position. Averting his eyes, he began to question her.
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 221 
 
 She was beautiful, fiercely, savagely beautiful ; perhaps 
 he was wise to avoid looking upon her if he wished to 
 reason calmly and dispassionately. 
 
 " Why have you come here, Charity ? You can- 
 not stay you know that, do you not ?" 
 
 " Oh, James, be merciful ! I want to live with you 
 I want to be your sister again. I have exhausted 
 every happiness that the world offered me I am 
 utterly miserable. My child, and you, are the only 
 two beings on the earth, that make life " 
 
 "Child, Charity! Good God, have you a child? 
 Oh, my heavenly Father, what have I done to deserve 
 this shame !" 
 
 The poor schoolmaster's face grew purple. He 
 wrung his hands, and paced the room with hurried 
 and agonized dismay. . 
 
 Over his sister's features there passed, too, a flood 
 of passion. She started up. 
 
 " Shame, James !" she cried " shame ! Did I not 
 say I am innocent ? Did I not swear it ? Look at 
 me look at me, and then cry ' shame' again if you 
 dare ! Am / one to stoop from my womanhood ? 
 Am / one to disgrace my sex ?" 
 
 She drew up her commanding person, and gazed at 
 him, the fire of indignation burning in her eyes. 
 
 He was subdued in a moment. 
 
 " Who would marry you ?" he said, bitterly, yet
 
 222 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 half apologetically, "you, a he- wolf a man-devil 
 an actress !" 
 
 " Go on, brother." 
 
 " Who would take a sweet creature like you to 
 wife -who could love you ?" 
 
 " Brother I am a widow." 
 
 He paused, evidently softened. " Who is this child, 
 Charity where is it what is it like ?" 
 
 " She is at school, and, like you, she is quiet and 
 gentle. Her name is Hagar." 
 
 " Spare your flattery. You will gain nothing by it. 
 If I consent to take you to live with me, must this 
 girl come too ?" 
 
 " Oh, James, James ! If she might if she only 
 might ! It is for her I ask, and not for myself. Be 
 kind be generous give her the protection of your 
 home and name. It is not support I want for either 
 her or me I have made enough by my profession, to 
 afford an elegant living if I chose to prefer it. It is 
 not support I desire. I would die of hunger before I 
 asked it, after leaving you as I did. I now loathe my 
 life as an actress it was all glare, all falsehood and 
 I come back to beg your aid in saving my child from 
 following in my steps. She is already attracted by 
 the romantic illusions of the stage, and I would have 
 her live in some quiet manner, to obliterate her recol- 
 lections of both it and her mother's triumphs."
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 223 
 
 " Triumphs, Charity ! Were you successful, then ?" 
 
 " Yes. Have you not heard of me have you not 
 followed my fate ?" 
 
 " No. I never sought to do so. I tried to forget 
 you. I thought you dead oh ! would that you were 
 would you had died in your cradle ! A play-actress 
 With what horror have our dead parents looked down 
 from heaven upon your self-chosen destiny !" 
 
 " I, too, have wished myself dead, again and- again. 
 God knows I have." 
 
 " Charity ?" 
 
 " Well, James." 
 
 " On one condition, you and your child shall share 
 my home. 
 
 " Blessings upon you, my dear, all-suffering, forgiv- 
 ing brother blessings fall upon you ; may your hearth 
 grow brighter and happier, it shall be my grateful 
 study to make it so." 
 
 " You must promise, solemnly, Charity, never to re- 
 turn to the stage, no matter what circumstances of 
 poverty, desire, or temptations impel you to it. Pro- 
 mise me, Charity, swear it upon this Bible, once our 
 mother's." 
 
 The tall and beautiful woman stooped to the little 
 stand that her brother designated, and laying her large, 
 white hand upon the Book, said, slowly and solemnly 
 
 " I swear."
 
 224 THE STORY OF HAGAE. 
 
 James Kenworthy appeared satisfied. He drew a 
 chair to the fire, piled on some fresh logs, and, for the 
 first time during his sister's visit, asked her to sit 
 down. 
 
 She did so. It was long before either brother or 
 sister spoke again, both, evidently, being busy with 
 their own thoughts. James was the first to break the 
 silence. 
 
 " Charity, are you tired ?" 
 
 " No, brother." 
 
 " Are you willing to tell me something of your life 
 since you left me, years ago ?" 
 
 " Yes, certainly. It is eventful ; but few words will 
 express it." 
 
 " Begin then, sister." 
 
 " What age was I when I went away, James ? I 
 have forgotten." 
 
 " Seventeen years and three months." 
 
 " So old ? Then it is twenty years ago, for I am 
 now thirty-seven." 
 
 He looked at her with covert admiration, and 
 said, simply 
 
 " You do not look it." 
 
 " You know, brother, I was always a wild and way- 
 ward thing. Our still life used to gall me. It eat into 
 my very soul to be compelled to submit to it. While, 
 believing in your heart, that you were winning me
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAE. 225 
 
 from evil, you held me too tight. My bonds were 
 more than I could bear, you know how I broke 
 them. 
 
 " I possessed uncommon talent don't look at me 
 so. I am not ashamed to say it, for I feel that I have 
 talent. I feel it here" and she struck her breast, 
 proudly. 
 
 " I possessed talent, and young as I was, I became 
 almost crazed with my lack of opportunities for im- 
 provement. I could not hush I could not deaden 
 my desire for knowledge. Perhaps you remember 
 how eagerly I purchased books with the little allow- 
 ance mother left me. For awhile they satisfied my 
 longings ; but time rendered self-study disagreeable, 
 and my desires and hopes all fixed themselves on a 
 liberal education in this great world, which you, 
 James, strove so vainly to make me fear. 
 
 " You already know, how, by stealth, 1 attended, 
 and became fascinated with the performances of the 
 strolling companies that visited our village, and how, 
 thenceforth, my ambition flowed in new channels. 
 You already know, that mad with enthusiasm, I left 
 my home, and went to the city to seek for employ- 
 ment, by which to qualify myself for the stage. How 
 long ago all this seems to me ! 
 
 " By hard and incessant labor, I at length reached 
 the goal for which I panted I became an actress, and 
 
 10
 
 226 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 then, James, it was that you did a cruel thing, and 
 cast from you your sole relative how wrong, how 
 cruel, God alone knows. I was young I might have 
 fallen. When I yielded to the perverted taste that 
 had ripened, by the unnatural and forced calm of my 
 life, into a fixed determination, you cast me off from 
 you, as though, thenceforth, there were poison in the 
 air I breathed. Oh, James ! if you had but won me 
 to you, by kindness, without sternness, how different 
 might we both have been ? 
 
 " And was / the only sinning one," demanded the 
 school-master, bitterly, " was there no wrong in you ? 
 was there nothing to exasperate in your ingratitude 
 and base desertion of home ? You smothered none of 
 your feelings and desires ; was 1 to smother mine, and 
 take you to my arms, fresh from the disgrace of your 
 calling ? Unfortunately, I am flesh and blood. I fol- 
 lowed you and implored you to return ; you refused, 
 and in righteous indignation, I gave you up to the 
 black fate you chose." 
 
 He arose, and stood before her, the dim candle light 
 playing flickeringly over his grave and agitated coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 " Charity," he proceeded, " I tell you, I would newer 
 have come to you again, even if summoned to your 
 death-bed !" 
 
 She shuddered slightly. " Enough, brother, enough ;
 
 THE STORY OP HAGAR. 227 
 
 I did not mean to irritate you. Sit down and listen, 
 for it grows late, and I must go soon." 
 
 " Go ! will you go away to-night ! you, a woman, 
 and alone ?" 
 
 Yes ; I fear nothing ! I am strong and able to de- 
 fend myself. I must go, for I burn to reach Hagar 
 again. I cannot leave her longer. Since my hus- 
 band's death our lives have been as one. You will 
 love her, James, I am sure you will." 
 
 Her brother looked compassionately upon her as he 
 saw the slow tears gathering in her dark eyes. She 
 brushed them away quickly, and continued 
 
 " My ultimate success was brilliant. I did not burst 
 on the world as a star of the first magnitude. I had 
 no influential friends to procure me a proper de'but. 
 I began in obscurity, and worked my own way. I 
 took the humblest, simplest parts as a beginning ; mis- 
 erable as they were, I threw my soul in them, and 
 through the naturalness of my delineations- I won the 
 attention of both my manager and my audiences. In 
 a brief period, I attained the position I merited. I re- 
 joice in the fact of being self-made. It is my pride, 
 my greatest source of satisfaction, my glory ! Oh, 
 James, what can equal the moral grandeur of that man 
 who, arrived at greatness, can nobly face his fellows, 
 and utter those majestic words, ' I am self-made !' 
 
 " One of the reasons of my success was, I think, in
 
 228 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 my peculiar mode of acting. You know I am all fire 
 and energy. Nothing ever has, nothing ever can 
 daunt me. My acting, they said, was like myself, 
 there was in it no tameness nor constraint. Unlike 
 other actresses, I have never studied more of my char- 
 acters than the mere w'ords, the gestures, the impulse, 
 the passionate burst, were totally unpremeditated, and 
 were all left to the spur of the moment. My positions, 
 with regard to my fellow players, of course, for their 
 accommodation, had to be studied and rehearsed ; but 
 I can safely say, James, that inspiration did the rest. 
 Never in my whole theatrical life, have I twice enact- 
 ed a part exactly alike. On this was founded my 
 triumphs. 
 
 " I was about twenty-five when I married Charles 
 Harrington White. He had been one of my first 
 managers, and my gratitude for his kindness and en- 
 couragement, when I was poor, friendless and fame- 
 less, became the groundwork of the affection which 
 he afterwards won from me. If ever man loved 
 woman, he loved me. From trials incident on my pro- 
 fession, he shielded me ; from temptations, he protected 
 me, and finally from my life of excitement, he with- 
 drew me to domestic happiness. 
 
 " I had hoped you knew of my marriage. Although 
 I wrote to you to inform you of it, and you returned
 
 THE STORY OP II A G A R . 229 
 
 my letters unopened, I trusted you might hear of it 
 otherwise. 
 
 " Shortly after Hagar's birth, my husband died. 
 Through utter want I was compelled to go on the 
 stage again. I did so with absolute loathing, for it had 
 grown hateful to me. But I had either to work or 
 starve. My youth, or at least that which is unjustly 
 esteemed youth in woman, was gone, and the first 
 bloom of a fresh genius had left me too. My acting 
 grew different from what it once had been. What it 
 lacked none knew but myself; all admired, all prof- 
 fered me eager praises, but sorrow thenceforth took 
 the beauty of soul from my impersonations. I was 
 offered engagements far and near. I accepted, fulfilled 
 them, and gradually acquired a competency. 
 
 " It was for Hagar I toiled, not for myself. Had I 
 not desired to enrich her, I would have chosen the 
 lowest servitude rather than a new theatrical ca- 
 reer. 
 
 " I know not what more there is to tell you, brother, 
 beyond the mere chances and changes attendant on 
 my public life. Those it is unnecessary to dwell upon ; 
 I know it would disgust you, as much as pain me to 
 speak of them. I come to you, a worn, heart-sick 
 woman, to ask for shelter and brotherly love the love 
 which in early days of wilfulness I deserted. Heaven 
 will bless you, James, for granting it to me. From the
 
 230 THE STORY OF H A G A R . 
 
 bottom of my heart, I feel it is more than I de- 
 serve." 
 
 She rose from the fire, drew her cloak around her, 
 and turned to depart. 
 
 James Kenworthy followed her to the door, and 
 opened it for her. 
 
 " Good night, Charity," he said kindly, " come back 
 to your old home and welcome, come back with your 
 little child, and lead a new and purer life. God be 
 with you." 
 
 " Good night, my own true-hearted brother." 
 
 " Are you not afraid, Charity ? A few hours can 
 make little difference in your purpose ; stay where you 
 are until morning, do not go, Charity, I beg of you." 
 
 "See here, brother." She partly threw off her 
 cloak, and bared a great white arm to the shoulder. 
 " I have defended myself with this before now. I can 
 do it again. But I do not think there is anything to 
 dread. I came here from the railroad station on foot, 
 (because I will not uselessly waste a penny of the for- 
 tune I destine for Hagar,) and not a soul spoke to me, 
 save in kindness. A train leaves at daylight ; I shall 
 just return in time for it. Good bye, James. You 
 have made me very happy." 
 
 She had walked a few rods upon the snow, when he 
 called her back.
 
 THE STORY OP HAGAR. 231 
 
 " One word more, Charity, before you leave me. 
 This child, this daughter of yours, is she handsome ?" 
 " No, brother." 
 " Thank 'God ! That is all. Good night." 
 
 THE old man, for he was some twenty years his sis- 
 ter's senior, turned again to his desolate fireside, and 
 sat down before the dying embers, to muse over the 
 strangeness of this visit. He was mild and gentle 
 looking, and appeared almost infirm from the effects of 
 care and sorrow. The wrinkled lines of his face were 
 strongly marked, and the corners of his mouth drawn 
 into that unmistakable expression of discontent, which 
 so often stamps the face of "an unhappy man. His sis- 
 ter's conduct had been the disgrace of his life. It had 
 embittered his peace, and brought gray hairs upon him 
 in youth. James and Charity Kenworthy were born 
 and bred in a family of rigid Methodists. Their pa- 
 rents had been the chief supporters and upholders of 
 that sect in Briartown. When they died, Charity was 
 given into her brother's care, for he was a man grown 
 at the time. In endeavoring to do his duty as faith- 
 fully towards her, as he knew would best have satisfied 
 his sternly religious parents, he very nearly broke her 
 spirit. But her high temperament could not long en- 
 dure such treatment; as she said herself, her bonds were 
 more than she could bear.
 
 232 THE STORY OF H A G A R . 
 
 It was late that night before the good man retired 
 to rest, and even then only at the earnest solicitations 
 of his old housekeeper, who, unaware of his sister's 
 visit, was sorely puzzled to know what had come over 
 her kind master. 
 
 GREAT was the village scandal when it was known 
 that the school-teacher's sister had turned from the 
 evil of her ways, and was come to live in the midst 
 of her early acquaintances. As with one accord, an 
 edict went out against her ; her old friends, the bosom 
 companions of her youth, passed her by in the streets 
 without recognition. At church, James Kenworthy's 
 pew was the beheld of all beholders the weird-like 
 and gigantic face of his sister, drew all eyes upon it ; 
 but none in pity none in compassion, or encourage- 
 ment. 
 
 Oh ! is not woman's justice to woman a disgrace to 
 her name ? 
 
 Charity was sensible of her slights, but she was too 
 proud to show it. No one could have guessed from 
 the expression of those defiant features, what agony 
 of spirit lay beneath. A stranger might have imagin- 
 ed, from her haughty tread and majestic carriage, that 
 she was an empress in disguise, native nobility dis- 
 covering itself in spite of attempted concealment.
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 233 
 
 James, too, bitterly felt the peculiarity of his sister's 
 position. According to his stern principles, her recep- 
 tion in the village appeared but the just punishment 
 of heaven ; but inasmuch as it glanced upon himself, 
 he found it difficult to endure, and none but himself 
 knew the sacrifice he made in so enduring it. 
 
 One by one his pupils dropped away. The school, 
 from being a scene that gratified his good heart, by a 
 display of intelligent faces, became at last so scantily 
 attended, that his labors ceased to have attractions. 
 Charity was not aware of this. If she had known it, 
 her generous nature would at once have impelled her 
 to leave the place, and the shelter of his roof. 
 
 Little Hagar came under the same ban. Her 
 mother seldom allowed her go from her ; but when she 
 did, the poor child was equally destitute of playmates. 
 If she were sent on errands to the village, it was a 
 pitiful thing to see the longing, wistful glances she 
 cast on groups of children at play along the roads, 
 and to hear the taunts they flung at her as she passed. 
 Desolate and sensitive, she had, indeed, a hard lot, and 
 yet she did not really know whence it arose. She was 
 too young at first to understand the ignominy that 
 bung over her mother's name. It was not long in 
 dawning upon her. 
 
 James Kenworthy had learned to love Hagar very 
 10*
 
 234 THE STORY OF HA GAR. 
 
 strongly. As her mother said, she was good and gen- 
 tle. Her voice was so sweet and thrilling, that in the 
 long evenings he would sit for hours to listen to it. 
 It seemed as if the child had a natural gift of song. 
 From the time she rose till the sun sank behind the 
 western hills, music perpetually floated around her. 
 But her voice was untaught, and so it was but a rough 
 flow of wild and uncultivated melody. 
 
 One afternoon, as Charity and her daughter were 
 sitting on the little piazza in front of the schoolmaster's 
 cottage, awaiting his return from his day's labor, they 
 saw the minister, Mr. Vane, and his wife, coming up 
 the lane. Charity, as I have said, was very proud, 
 and equally intolerant of words of reproof or exhorta- 
 tion. 
 
 This was the first time, since her return, that the 
 minister had called, and she immediately conjectured 
 that the visit was meant for her especial benefit. 
 When the aged couple reached the porch, she receiv- 
 ed them coldly and haughtily. The gentle old man 
 did not seem to be at all surprised at his welcome, 
 and, while his wife entered into a conversation with 
 the ceremonious mother, he began a merrier one with 
 the open-hearted child. 
 
 Mrs. Vane's manners were so cordial, and her 
 language so unassuming and ladylike, that Charity's 
 grandeur melted before her. When the visitors rose
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 235 
 
 to go, Charity actually found herself thanking them 
 for their visit. 
 
 "Mrs. White," said the old pastor, as he took her 
 hand, " we have come to-day to ask a favor of you. 
 Mrs. Vane and myself have noticed for some time the 
 gradual spread of a feeling of unsociability among 
 the brethren and sisters of our congregation ; we very 
 earnestly desire to overcome it ; will you aid us ? 
 To-morrow, some few of them intend spending the 
 evening at our house, dear Mrs. White, my Charity 
 of old days, will you come, and give them an oppor- 
 tunity to desire your friendship?" 
 
 Charity shook her head. " You know I am proud, 
 Mr. Vane. I would rather not stoop to such an ex- 
 periment. The forced companionship of people who 
 despise me in their hearts, could only give me pain." 
 "Well, little Hagar then may Hagar come ?" 
 Charity looked at her daughter, hesitatingly. Ha- 
 gar's eyes were bright with desire to go. Her mother 
 could not resist their pleading, and satisfied the kind 
 old couple by giving the required permission. 
 
 When James came home he was very glad that 
 Charity had thus opened a way for the formation of 
 acquaintances, for his lonely little pet, and very 
 thankful for the thoughtfulness of his minister. 
 
 The next day, just at nightfall, arrayed in a tiny
 
 236 THE STORY OF II A G A R . 
 
 white dress, decked with blue ribbons, Hagar accom- 
 panied her uncle to the parsonage. 
 
 She was not the least bit a beauty. Her features 
 were roughly irregular, and her hair of an undeniable 
 sandy brown. Like every one else, however, she had 
 a redeeming point, and that was her eyes. They 
 were very dark, very lustrous, and gave a gentle and 
 lovely expression to the whole face. In form and 
 countenance, in genius and spirit, Hagar was very 
 different from her magnificent and fiery parent. If 
 not so beautiful, she was far more loveable ; if not so 
 talented, she was destined to make a better woman. 
 
 That evening at the parsonage influenced the whole 
 of the after life of little Hagar White. 
 
 Seated at her uncle's side, the child looked around 
 her as in a pleasant dream. The kindness she experi- 
 enced from every one, was altogether a new thing to 
 her. She had been accustomed to the sneers and re- 
 vilings of the village children for so long, that a 
 gentle word from a stranger was doubly valuable to 
 her. The attractions of that home-like tea-table 
 scene, too, were many, and the music afterwards 
 seemed to her fervid imagination to be the perfection 
 of sweet sounds. 
 
 Mrs. Vane's little drawing-room was rich in one 
 particular a modern and splendidly-toned piano-forte 
 occupied one of its recesses. It was such a length ot
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 237 
 
 time since Hagar had seen or touched a piano, that on 
 this one she looked with positive awe, the ivory keys 
 gleaming before her eyes like so many dancing fairies. 
 Just before the company broke up, a little old man, 
 whose odd and changeful face had been a source of 
 amusement to the child during the whole evening, sat 
 down before the instrument to perform. With many 
 affectations of manner and gesture, he struck the first 
 few chords, which opened at once into a perfect wil- 
 derness of harmony. As he proceeded, his eccentrici- 
 ties vanished ; earnest glances shot from his eyes, and 
 his face shone with a strange light. Young as Hagar 
 was, she instinctively felt that the queer little gentle- 
 man was improvising. An irresistible sympathy im- 
 pelled her to leave the obscure corner, where she had 
 been sitting during the evening, and stand by him 
 while he played that marvellous piece of inspiration. 
 
 It was really a fine thing, and full of true and actual 
 beauties. No false positions, no inartistic arrange- 
 ment were there ; it was pure, unadulterated, legiti- 
 mate music. Now those short brown fingers created 
 a whirlwind, then they awoke soft winds astir in sum- 
 mer woods, and the next moment fashioned a little 
 simple melody that carried tears to every listener's 
 eyes. Hagar wept and laughed alternately. It seem- 
 ed to her she ha^ never before heard music so like 
 language.
 
 238 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 God bless music ! It is a language, a divine and 
 beautiful form of speech between man and heaven. 
 
 When the queer little musician had finished, he turn- 
 ed to leave the piano, and as he did so, beheld Hagar 
 standing at his elbow, her hands clasped together in a 
 transport of delight, and tears still glittering on her 
 cheeks. The old man was touched. Scarcely know- 
 ing what he did, he stooped and kissed her forehead. 
 It was long since the unknown and poor musician had 
 met with the like genuine appreciation. 
 
 How a man of such decided and educated genius 
 had chosen to reside in that remote village, I am una- 
 ble to say, perhaps poverty had something to do with 
 the matter, for he was one of those friendless Germans 
 who come to us from Europe, and oftentimes pine 
 away their entire lives in obscurity and neglect. 
 
 " Well, child," he said, with a slight German accent, 
 " have you been listening ? How did you like it, eh ?" 
 
 " Oh, sir," cried Hagar, vehemently, forgetting alike 
 where she was, and to whom she was speaking, " oh, 
 sir, will you not play again ?" 
 
 With a nod of satisfaction towards Mr. Vane, who 
 was standing near and observing the scene, the little 
 man began to play. This time it was a brilliantly 
 pretty trifle of a polka. It was short and soon done. 
 Hagar listened breathlessly, but whe^n he stopped and 
 looked to read in her childish face its expression of
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 239 
 
 approval, he only saw depicted quiet but keen disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 " Eh ! well, don't you like it ?" he asked abruptly. 
 
 " Yes, sir yes, oh, yes," stammered the little girl, 
 " but the first was better, it was grand, oh, so grand !" 
 
 The man's face lit up in an instant. He seized the 
 child by the arm, roughly pushed back from her fore- 
 head her heavy locks of hair, a"nd examining her ear- 
 nestly, exclaimed, much to Mr. Vane's amusement 
 
 " Why, the girl has got music in her, and the right 
 kind, too !" 
 
 James Kenworthy now joined the group. He had 
 not been an unobservant spectator of Hagar's enthu- 
 siasm. 
 
 " Come, Hagar," he asked, " before we go, cannot 
 you sing for Mr. Vane that little song of your mo 
 thers ?" 
 
 He spoke with some pride, for he knew his darling 
 had a sweet voice, and he desired that Mr. Van Dyke, 
 the eccentric German, should hear it. 
 
 Without demur, and just where she stood, Hagar 
 began singing. It was a wild fragmentary ballad, 
 that had been much admired in her mother's youth, 
 but was then neither popular, nor deserving of popu- 
 larity. Unhesitatingly, she sang it with all the child- 
 like innocence of her heart, and that alone caused it to 
 touch those of her audience.
 
 240 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 In a silent group they gathered around her, little 
 sprite as she was, and not one man or woman of the 
 company looked on her fragile form and inspired face 
 without feeling that she was destined for high things. 
 
 My remembrance of Hagar White's voice, even as a 
 child, is like that of a rich and mellow flute. There 
 was something in it, I know not what, that appealed ir- 
 resistibly to the sympathies, it was, in fact, what is 
 called a sympathetic voice, round, full, and clear as 
 any bell. Hagar had also that gift of perfect intona- 
 tion which almost renders a disagreeable organ 
 pleasant. 
 
 When the child finished her simple lay, there reigned 
 profound silence for a few moments. Mrs. Vane was 
 the first to break it, and her words of commendation 
 sank deeply into Hagar's heart. 
 
 Shortly after, the guests began to take their de- 
 parture. No one, however, had generosity enough to 
 invite Hagar to visit in their families ; the prejudice 
 against her mother being too strong to be thus easily 
 overcome. The child herself was too overflowing 
 with ecstatic happiness to notice this, but her uncle did, 
 and to him it was an acute disappointment. He had 
 hoped that her retired gentleness would have done 
 away with all displeasure against herself; it was des- 
 tined otherwise. 
 
 While Hagar was gone to fetch her bonnet, little
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 241 
 
 Mr. Van Dyke came up towards James Kenworthy 
 and Mr. Vane, who were talking together, and very 
 shyly and awkwardly (for he was only great as a mu- 
 sician) asked if Hagar had ever attempted the actual 
 study of music. 
 
 " She has talent," said he, twirling together his 
 stubby thumbs, " and as one who has had experience 
 in these things, I advise that she should be placed at 
 once under instruction. How old is your niece, Mr. 
 Kenworthy ?" 
 
 " Nearly twelve," said James, smiling. " I think her 
 rather too young to deal with the musty part of the 
 science just yet." 
 
 " Too young," echoed the little man, with an amus- 
 ing display of indignation, " my dear sir, I tell you 
 that the most successful musicians are those who begin 
 to prepare for the profession in babyhood." 
 
 " But she is not destined for the profession," replied 
 the schoolmaster, with another smile ; " because a bird 
 sings is no reason it should be caged." 
 
 " My dear Mr. Kenworthy," cried Mr. Van Dyke, 
 as he made an excruciatingly comical bow at the door, 
 " my dear Mr. Kenworthy, it's in her, and it will come 
 out !" uttering which prophecy, he closed the door, 
 but the next moment opened it again, and introducing 
 his odd and badly-proportioned head, said 
 
 " If ever you change your mind, sir, remember that
 
 242 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 I herewith offer my services. It will give me pleasure 
 to to " and without finishing his sentence, the good 
 little man shut the door and departed. 
 
 There was not much sleep for Hagar that night. 
 She had not felt as happy since she and her mother 
 had resided in the village. 
 
 For days after, Mr. Van Dyke's majestic creation 
 rang through her brain, its bewildering harmonies giv- 
 ing zest and new impulse to her dull existence. 
 
 Charity was not long in discovering the cause of the 
 change that had taken place in her daughter. 
 
 Her step was more buoyant, and her discontentment 
 with the quiet of Briartown less apparent, for Hagar 
 had never liked it. Rejoiced at some prospect of 
 making her happier in her position, Charity soon de- 
 cided that she should take music lessons. 
 
 "Not of old Mr. Van Dyke, however," said she, 
 with her usual impetuosity, when she was discussing 
 the subject with her brother. " I won't have the child 
 patronized by any miserable German pipe-smoker on 
 earth. To think of his offering to instruct her without 
 payment ! I will teach him better ! She shall take les- 
 sons of the highest-priced and best instructor in Briar- 
 town." 
 
 " And that will turn out to be Mr. Van Dyke him- 
 self, I am afraid," remarked James, laughing. " I do 
 not think, sister, that he meant anything but kindness
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 243 
 
 to Hagar. He was evidently taken with her voice, 
 and told me openly that she had talent. 
 
 " Of course she has ! but that is no reason he should 
 be the one to cultivate it." 
 
 When the subject was mentioned to Hagar, her joy 
 knew no bounds. She danced about the house in 
 perfect glee, alternately caressing her mother and her 
 uncle, to whom she had latterly grown much attach- 
 ed ; as for the schoolmaster himself lie could not have 
 felt a more tender affection for her had she been his 
 own child. 
 
 An instrument, of superior manufacture, was at 
 once ordered from an adjacent city, (for Charity was 
 munificent in all that concerned her daughter,) and 
 before it had been in the house three days, Hagar be- 
 gan a regular course of study, under little Mr. Van 
 Dyke, her childish persuasions proving irresistbile as 
 to his engagement. 
 
 Several years passed ; they were the happiest of 
 Hagar's life. 
 
 By earnest devotion to the art she loved so well, she 
 was becoming a good musician, to make a really great 
 one, a much longer period is scarcely sufficient. 
 
 Hagar's genius was peculiar. She never attained 
 much perfection in instrumental music ; it wearied, 
 without absolutely interesting her. Melody, and not 
 harmony, was her glory ; yet she played tolerably, and
 
 244 THE STORY OP HAGAR. 
 
 in her knowledge of the science itself, did brilliant 
 honor to her master. 
 
 Never before had a pupil so delighted Mr. Van 
 Dyke as she did, by cordial application and quick per- 
 ception of the spirit of his instructions. 
 
 During all these years, Hagar remained friendless 
 and companionless. Although entering woman's es- 
 tate, she had not a young acquaintance in Briartown. 
 Perhaps it was better that it should be so. Com- 
 munion with the small minds of an obscure village, 
 would but have shackled and depressed her own. 
 
 About ten miles from Briartown was the country- 
 seat of the Randolphs, a wealthy family who resided 
 there during the summer months. 
 
 They were known far and near, for their haughti- 
 ness, their exclusiveness, and their charity. 
 
 Universally disliked by the farmers, whose own 
 ideas of pride were continually wounded by them ; 
 only among the very poor were the Randolphs be- 
 loved. 
 
 Mrs. Martyn Randolph, the widowed head of the 
 family, was a stern, cold, but benevolent woman. 
 Although she refused all intercourse with the neigh- 
 bors around Randolph Farm although she declined 
 the slightest approach to\vards an acquaintance, she 
 was a frequent visitor in the houses of those strug-
 
 THE STORY OF UAGAR. 245 
 
 gling against sickness or poverty. There, she was all 
 kindness, all gentleness, and full of thought for the 
 alleviation of distress. I do not think she was one of 
 those, called professional reformers those who go 
 about doing good for every other reason than the 
 right one. 
 
 She was really and truly a charitable woman ; un- 
 bending and haughty to those she deemed beneath her 
 in position or education, but an angel of mercy to the 
 suffering and needy. 
 
 In her own right, Mrs. Randolph was wealthy, and 
 her husband's property was so bound, that only at her 
 death could it descend to her children. 
 
 She had one daughter, and some three or four sons, 
 all of whom were being educated in the severest man- 
 ner. Every accomplishment that she deemed light or 
 trifling was denied them by the stern lady ; her daugh- 
 ter had never laid eyes on a French verb, although 
 both she and her brothers spoke the Latin tongue with 
 tolerable fluency. The eldest son was just leaving 
 college, a model in his mother's sight of all that was 
 great and noble. 
 
 Randolph Farm was charmingly situated. None 
 could excel it in magnificence of prospect over land 
 and water. The mansion itself was erected on an 
 eminence near the banks of the , and com- 
 manded a fine view of its winding course for many
 
 246 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 miles beyond where its blue waves laved the rocky 
 shores of Briartown. The grounds immediately sur- 
 rounding, were laid out after the English system, 
 drives, walks, and artificial lakes, being introduced 
 wherever they were deemed necessary for effect. 
 
 On occasional elevations, the trees were felled, to 
 allow views of the surrounding country, of the dis- 
 tant hills, blue and hazy from remoteness, of the nearer 
 ones, looming up in gigantic loveliness, or of those 
 bright waters flowing outward to the main, skirted 
 alternately by the white house-tops of villages, and 
 dark masses of wild, tangled woodland. 
 
 It was the perfection of an American country-seat. 
 The soil was rich, and the brushwood foliage almost 
 too savagely luxurious for healthy beauty. All that 
 wealth and taste could do to keep the place in good 
 condition, was bountifully exercised. 
 
 The late Mr. Martyn Randolph much to his wife's 
 horror had been, in his time, something of a sporting 
 character. During his life, the stables were always 
 well filled with animals of the rarest and most valuable 
 breeds ; but comparatively few of them now remained, 
 and his sleek hunting-dogs wagged their huge tongues 
 in spiritless inactivity. 
 
 The grounds were plentifully stocked with deer and 
 various smaller game. Since Mr. Martyn Randolph's
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 247 
 
 decease, by his lady's orders, the report of a rifle had 
 never alarmed their security. 
 
 Jacqueline Eandolph, the daughter, was a tame, in- 
 offensive girl, of about eighteen. Her mother, by un- 
 natural severity, had reduced her to a state of such 
 dead passiveness, that many deemed her stupid. A 
 greater mistake was never made. Quiet good sense, 
 and many observant faculties, were among her store 
 of brain-possessions, while her heart was equally rich 
 in unobtrusive goodness. 
 
 Jacqueline had but one passion in the world, and 
 that was for music. From childhood she had lived 
 and thriven on it, and at eighteen she was a very 
 passable instrumentalist. Between Hagar and Jacque- 
 line, there arose a sincere and cordial friendship, from 
 the first moment that they met, as students, under Mr. 
 Van Dyke. As Hagar was the old man's best pupil, 
 in voice-management, so was Jacqueline his most for- 
 ward and tasteful player. 
 
 Hagar was almost a woman before they knew each 
 other. At first, she refused the entreaties of her friend 
 to visit her, for the older she became, the more sensi- 
 tive she felt about her own and her mother's position. 
 Every day exaggerated it in her eyes ; from long en- 
 durance of disdainful neglect, the poor girl had begun 
 to fancy she was unworthy of anything else. Besides, 
 her proud mother infused the idea into her, that the
 
 248 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 rich should make the first advances, when they desired 
 the society of the humble ; and as Jacqueline had 
 never done so, by calling at the cottage, the acquaint- 
 ance rested where it began. 
 
 Chance, and an odd adventure, brought them nearer 
 together. 
 
 James Kenworthy's health, for the last two or three 
 years, had been gradually failing. His sedentary mode 
 of life, had sown the seeds of a consumption, that was, 
 by painful degrees, developing itself in his system. 
 
 Growing slowly, but surely weaker and weaker, he 
 
 ^- 
 
 was obliged, finally, to give up his labors at the school- 
 house Charity's little fortune necessarily becoming 
 the support of the whole household. Then it was that 
 the real loveliness of Charity's character developed 
 itself. 
 
 The most feminine of women were never gentler 
 nurses at a sick bed than she. The tenderness of her 
 patient devotion to her brother was pleasant to be- 
 hold, and her unwearied care over his dying bed, a 
 tearful proof of her gratitude for all his forbearance 
 and unwavering kindness, although she never knew 
 the half of them. 
 
 A generous man is one of the most god-like of hu- 
 man creatures ; a man not merely generous of gold, 
 but of sacrifices of self. James Kenworthy was both.
 
 THE STOEY OF HAGAR. 249 
 
 His was the charity that " vaunteth not itself," but 
 leaves a shining track in secret places. 
 
 Late one afternoon, Hagar being much exhausted 
 with incessant watching at her uncle's side, (it was 
 during the last few weeks of his existence,) gave up her 
 post to her mother, and went out for a brief taste of 
 the fresh summer air. One end of the schoolmaster's 
 little farm extended to the river edge, and there, on 
 the brow of the cliff, under a group of gnarled apple 
 trees, he had built a rustic seat, of cedar branches, 
 for Hagar, when she was a wee child, and had first 
 come to live with him. 
 
 With a saddened and heavy heart she now went 
 there, to sit and weep over her coming loss. He had 
 been to her a father ; he had educated her ; he had 
 quelled her youthful follies ; he had loved her ; and 
 Hagar threw herself at full length upon the grass, and 
 with her head upon that dear old seat, wept bitterly. 
 It was her first real sorrow. Like all first emotions, 
 it was deep and passionate. 
 
 The shades of night beginning to gather, she at 
 length rose to go home. As she did so, the holy calm 
 of the darkening twilight, the peaceful serenity of the 
 scene, stilled her wild agony, and seating herself on 
 the cedar bench, she gave her grief vent in solemn 
 and religious song. Out on the silent air, she poured 
 
 11
 
 250 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 that flood of passionate and expressive melody Shu- 
 bert's glorious " Ave Maria" 
 
 It seemed to her she had never sung it so from her 
 soul as she did then. Slowly and grandly the ma- 
 jestic creation rolled from her lips, unconsciously in- 
 terpreted to its highest meaning. It would have done 
 old Shubert's heart good to have heard the beautiful 
 voice of that young girl giving such regal glory to his 
 immortal composition. 
 
 Silently, while she sang, an unseen audience gath- 
 ered below the cliff. It was composed of the occu- 
 pants of two or three pleasure skiffs, who, attracted 
 by the sound, paddled softly under the bank, and 
 paused on their oars to listen to that wondrous music. 
 
 In one of them were the Randolphs, and some of 
 their city guests. 
 
 When Hagar had ended, and the last mellow note 
 died thrillingly away, a burst of enthusiastic and rap- 
 turous applause startled the silence. Although unseen, 
 she had not been unheard, and, like a frightened 
 thrush, Hagar flew home to her nest. 
 
 She found her uncle much worse. 
 
 Beside his couch of pain, she watched the whole of 
 that summer night. 
 
 A few days after, there came a grand equestrian 
 party of ladies and gentlemen, from Randolph Farm, 
 down to the cottage. Hagar saw them before they
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 251 
 
 were fairly arrived, and ran to her room to smooth 
 her hair. They did not all alight ; Jacqueline only, 
 with one of her brothers, came in to see her bewild- 
 ered friend, who could scarcely answer her kind and 
 solicitous questions for looking at the fine horses that 
 were curveting without, the nodding plumes, and 
 the graceful women. 
 
 Miss Kandolph had come to beg Hagar to spend a 
 few days at the Farm. 
 
 " My dear little girl," she cried, as Hagar shook her 
 head doubtfully, and opened her lips to speak ; '' my 
 dear girl, I will not take ' no ' for an answer. You 
 are looking miserably; you need rest and quiet. I 
 shall not keep you long, and when you return, you 
 will be all the stronger to care for your uncle. Be- 
 side, my mother bade me say she will herself supply 
 your place, either for day or night watches. Come, 
 Hagar, say you will go; you look so pale !" 
 
 Charity entered the sitting-room at this moment, on 
 her way to the kitchen, to concoct some broth for her 
 patient. Miss Randolph appealed to her very earn- 
 estly for permission. 
 
 " It will be so great a benefit to her, Mrs. White," 
 she added, " for Hagar is certainly preparing for a 
 severe illness. She wants air, exercise and change of 
 scene." 
 
 Charity seemed to hesitate.
 
 252 THE STORY OF UAGAR. 
 
 " Would you like to go, my child ?" 
 
 " Yes, mother, certainly I would," Hagar replied ; 
 
 " but I cannot think of it. What if uncle should ," 
 
 and she stopped suddenly, afraid to say the word ex- 
 pressive of her meaning. 
 
 " Do not fear that, Hagar, dear ! He will be spared 
 to us for many weeks yet. You are really sick, your- 
 self. Go, my child I would not lose you loth /" and 
 Charity left the room to hide her coming tears. 
 
 " When shall Van Zandt and I drive over for you, 
 Hagar, love?" asked Jacqueline, turning slightly 
 from her friend to her brother, as though to request 
 his willingness, for Jacqueline stood almost as much 
 in awe of her elder brother as she did of her mother. 
 
 " To-morrow, if you choose ; but, Jacqueline, I must 
 return the next day but one. You have all these 
 guests I shall be but a sorry clog on their amuse- 
 ments, and I shall be unhappy myself, to leave 
 uncle longer." 
 
 " So be it, then," kissing her pale cheek, " and do not 
 fear but that you shall remain as quiet and retired as 
 you like." 
 
 Mr. Van Zandt Randolph touched Hagar's small 
 hand with an air of chivalric reverence, and in a mo- 
 ment more, Jacqueline and he were in their saddles, 
 and the whole cavalcade winding up the lane. 
 
 They had come and gone like a dream ! so thought 

 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 253 
 
 i 
 
 Hagar, as she went to her room to look over her ward- 
 robe, which, though not extensive, was choicely and 
 delicately fashioned. 
 
 The next day brought with it Mrs. Randolph and 
 her son. Mrs. Randolph had come to take Hagar's 
 place, while she remained at the Farm. Nothing but 
 charitable motives could ever have induced that 
 haughty woman to allow her daughter to visit at the 
 cottage. She knew Hagar's health was failing, and it 
 was that alone that had decided her to sanction the 
 whole proceeding. 
 
 Charity was not over pleased at her coming ; she 
 hated her instinctively. Very wisely she held her peace, 
 however, and received her something in the style that 
 a sultana would greet a vassal. At first, she declined 
 Mrs. Randolph's assistance altogether. 
 
 When once, however, that lady's mind became fixed 
 on the accomplishment of a good deed, nothing could 
 turn her from her purpose. Therefore, Charity's mag- 
 nificent condescension might as well have been wasted 
 on the winds as on herself. She received it very pa- 
 tiently, gently entreated to be allowed to remain, and 
 not once gave her tormenter an opportunity to see 
 that she was annoyed. As a soft word turneth away 
 wrath, so, before the visit was over, Mrs. Randolph 
 succeeded in gaining Charity's good will. 
 
 Hagar enjoyed her long ride to the Farm very much.
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 It was a charming day, and the roads free from 
 dust, owing to a shower having fallen in the morn- 
 ing. Everything looked so green and peaceful, that 
 the poor over-tasked ^irl was gladly, thankfully con- 
 tent that she had come. 
 
 Mr. Randolph was very kind to her, and took much 
 pains to point out the landscape beauties of the 
 country. When they had nearly reached the Farm, 
 Hagar mustered courage to ask him who were all the 
 grand ladies and gentlemen whom she had seen the 
 day before. 
 
 Mr. Randolph laughed. 
 
 " Did they look grand, Miss Hagar?" he asked. "I 
 hope you will have reason to think so when you know 
 them better. Did you notice a pretty lady, in 
 black?" 
 
 " With a long, dark feather in her riding hat ? 
 yes." 
 
 " That was Miss Linda Locke ; did you think her 
 handsome ? she was quite a belle at the South last 
 winter." 
 
 ^ 
 
 " Locke, Mr. Randolph ? is she any connection of 
 Mr. Locke Jacqueline's Mr. Locke ?" 
 
 " Yes, a sister. So Jacqueline has told you about 
 Norman Locke ? did you know she is engaged to 
 him ?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Hagar, simply. After a pause she
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 added, earnestly but half fearfully, as though anxious 
 not to offend, " Mr. Randolph, do you really think 
 Jacqueline loves Mr. Locke?" 
 
 He looked surprised for an instant, and then said, "I 
 do not know I suppose so, or she would not have 
 promised to become his wife ; still water runs the 
 deepest, Miss Hagar, and Jacqueline's love for Mr. 
 Locke may be on the same principle. The truest 
 love is that which endures with fewest open acknow- 
 ledgments." 
 
 " What is Mr. Locke like ?" asked Hagar. 
 
 " My dear Miss White," said Van Zandt, laughing 
 again, " there you puzzle me. I never was able in all 
 my life to make a mental dissection of a man's fea- 
 tures. I cannot tell you the color of his eyes or hair, 
 to save myself. He is not at all handsome, but is a 
 right good fellow notwithstanding ; and here he comes 
 with Jacqueline. I am sure you will like him quite 
 as much as we do." 
 
 Surely enough, Hagar saw them advancing up the 
 road. She little knew she owed her present visit to 
 the influence of this very Mr. Locke ! They were on 
 horseback, and Jacqueline looked really pretty, from an 
 unusual expression of animation. After a cordial wel- 
 come to Hagar she introduced Mr. Locke. Hagar and 
 he exchanged bows, and then both riders turned their 
 horses' heads to accompany her to the Farm. Jac-
 
 256 THE STORY OF HAUAE. 
 
 queline's future husband seemed to Hagar to be rather 
 stern and forbidding in aspect, and what little he said 
 during the remainder of the ride did not change her 
 opinion for the better. That he was much older than 
 her friend, she saw r at a glance. 
 
 Hagar was spared an introduction to the other 
 guests that night, as she seemed too fatigued to endure 
 further excitement. Jacqueline installed her, quietly, in 
 a little room next her own, and spent the entire even- 
 ing with her herself. A happy evening it was, for the 
 two young girls talked over all the incidents of their 
 first acquaintance, laughing about Mr. Van Dykes' 
 eccentricities as odd sayings, until at last they ended 
 by wishing that he might some day get a good little 
 wife to tame and humanize him. 
 
 When they separated for the night, Hagar's last 
 thought was of the great difference of temperament 
 that existed between Jacqueline and her elder brother, 
 and she could not help wondering how the chilling in- 
 fluence of their mothers society had not affected the 
 spirits of the one as they had those of the other. 
 
 The next morning Hagar, as was her \vont, rose at 
 daylight, and sallied out for a walk. Her friend was 
 still sleeping when she looked softly in upon her, so 
 she did not disturb her repose. 
 
 It was a cool, fair dawn. She had never felt so like 
 a ramble, and as it was so early that no member of the
 
 THE STORY OF HA GAR. 257 
 
 household was astir, at her leisure she wandered 
 over the well-ordered grounds. On many a grassy 
 knoll she paused to look at the beautiful views of un- 
 dulating country, that, lying beneath her feet, were 
 just indistinct enough, from the faint morning mist, to 
 possess a delicate and refined beauty. They were 
 landscapes for an artist's pencil, and Hagar had 
 enough of an artist's soul to appreciate them. 
 
 Through the moist wood-paths she wandered, with 
 that delicious sense of freedom which only a walk at 
 early dawn can invoke. Here and there a pink-eyed 
 rabbit peered at her from under the bushes, and once 
 a graceful, but startled deer, fled across the walk, and 
 escaped into the brushwood with as much trepidation 
 as though the ghost of Mr. Martyn Randolph himself 
 were following in full chase. 
 
 Coming to a bench, near an opening in the trees, 
 she sat down to rest. 
 
 So intent was she on the new and exquisite pros- 
 pect her position revealed, that she did not hear the 
 fall of feet upon the path behind her, nor until a voice 
 at her side ejaculated a "good morning," was she 
 aware that any one had joined her. 
 Looking up, she beheld Mr. Locke. 
 " You are one of the early birds, I see," he said, 
 smilingly, seating himself at her side, " but are you not 
 afraid this wet grass will spoil your song ?" 
 
 11*
 
 258 
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 " Afraid ! not a bit," answered Hagar, confidently. 
 " I am as used to the dew as are the flowers. It can- 
 not hurt me ! I am a country girl, you know." 
 
 " You do not look much like one ; your face is too 
 pale ; and now," added he, " it is the color of a blush 
 rose." 
 
 Hagar was amazed. She could scarcely recognize 
 him as the same man. So quiet, even so taciturn last 
 night, so cheerfully talkative now. 
 
 " And you are the nightingale we heard the other 
 evening," he proceeded, " you are the songstress that 
 takes up abode in hedges and apple-trees, to keep 
 folks awake o' nights !" 
 
 " I sang because I could not help it," spoke Hagar, 
 and she thought of her uncle. 
 
 " Yes, the song was there, and it wanted vent," he 
 said, looking at her curiously; "I knew that when I 
 heard it. Are there many more like it where that 
 came from ?" 
 
 " Plenty," she answered, laughingly. 
 
 " Well, little nightingale, turn lark, and wake your 
 lazy kindred, won't you ? There is'nt a bird abroad 
 yet. Will you sing for me ?' 
 
 " Yes," cried Hagar, innocently, " if you promise 
 not to look at me so, Mr. Locke." 
 ' " There, I turn my back. Do not be afraid, little 
 birdie, I'll not look at you for the world."
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAB. 259 
 
 Hagar sang. 
 
 It was an unfortunate selection, and there were 
 parts of it in a difficult minor key, which properly 
 should have had an accompaniment. She did not 
 execute it well, and felt mortified at her failure. 
 
 " Did I not say dew was bad for nightingales ?" 
 asked Mr. Locke, when she had finished. " Come, 
 Miss White, do not sit here any longer." 
 
 " I am not going back to the house this hour," re- 
 plied Hagar, resolutely, as he held out his hand to as- 
 sist her to rise. 
 
 "Why not? I wonder if nightingales are ever ob- 
 stinate !" 
 
 " They do not breakfast at the Farm until seven, 
 it is not yet six," (looking at her watch,) " and I am 
 going to finish my walk." 
 
 " May I come with you ? My walk is in a dread- 
 fully unfinished state, too !" 
 
 Hagar hesitated, she scarcely knew why, but she 
 felt annoyed, and longea to be rid of her companion. 
 
 " I would rather go alone." 
 
 There was a slight change in his voice, as he said 
 
 " Very well, birdie, go alone. I will not trouble 
 you. I shall march straight home to tell Jacqueline 
 of you." 
 
 " I'll tell Jacqueline of you" retorted the inexpe- 
 rienced Hagar, half laughing, half seriously.
 
 260 THE STORY OK HAGAR. 
 
 " Tell her, little lark, tell her ! Sing her a song about 
 green-eyed monsters. She'll understand. Au revoir. 
 Don't look behind you in your walk, birdie, because 
 you will not find me there !" and humming an opera 
 air, he turned in the direction of the farm-house. 
 
 When he was fairly out of sight, Hagar trusted her- 
 self with a hearty laugh, and decided, mentally, that 
 Mr. Norman Locke was very odd, and not half worthy 
 of her friend Jacqueline. 
 
 " What did he mean by green-eyed monsters, I'd 
 like to know," she said aloud. " Oh, I am afraid he 
 thinks I am a weak characterless girl, with whom he 
 can amuse himself as he chooses. He shall find his 
 mistake. I will be as cold and dignified as Jacqueline 
 herself." 
 
 She pursued her walk as far as she desired, and 
 then by an opposite path retraced her steps. On 
 reaching her room, she found that her young hostess 
 was still asleep. After some consideration, she deter- 
 mined to say nothing whatever of having been out ; 
 her reason for this was more instinctive than real, 
 she could not herself have expressed it in words. Her 
 dress being somewhat soiled, she made a fresh but 
 hasty toilet, to which she was giving the finishing 
 touches, when Jacqueline awoke, and called to her from 
 the other room, " to know/' as she said, " if she were 
 asleep."
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 261 
 
 The girls were soon dressed, and descended together 
 to the breakfast-room, for the bell had been rung some 
 time. With one or two exceptions, all the visitors at 
 the Farm were already there. Hagar went through 
 the forms of introduction, and sat down in the seat 
 Jacqueline appointed her, between Miss Locke and 
 Van Zandt Randolph. 
 
 Every time she raised her eyes from her plate, she 
 met those of Norman Locke, who sat opposite, and 
 who kept glancing at her continually, with a great deal 
 of quizzical meaning. 
 
 A Miss Morton, who was at the other end of the 
 table, happening to remark that she had seen Mr. 
 Locke going out very early that morning, the conver- 
 sation turned upon the habit of walking before break- 
 fast. Mr. Locke said he approved of it highly, par- 
 ticularly when there were any larks about. 
 
 " Larks !" exclaimed his sister, " what can you 
 mean, Norman ?" 
 
 . U O, nothing, Lin, ask Miss White, perhaps she 
 knows." 
 
 " Miss White," said Linda, turning to Hagar, " have 
 you any idea what my horrid brother is driving at ?" 
 
 " None, I assure you," replied Hagar, trying vainly 
 to repress her color and girlish indignation. 
 
 " I hope you did not get your feet wet this morning,
 
 262 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 my dear Miss White/' cai'elessly, said Norman, as he 
 peered over at her. 
 
 " Feet wet ! good gracious, Hagar, have you been 
 out in this heavy dew ?" demanded Jacqueline, " why 
 have you not mentioned it to me ?" 
 
 " I did not go very far," faltered Hagar, " and as 
 you were asleep when I came in, I could not speak of 
 it, of course. I suppose I must have forgotten it after- 
 wards." 
 
 " Miss White is probably fond of solitary rambles," 
 pursued the relentless Norman. " I saw her this morn- 
 ing walking on Glade Path with something of the speed 
 of lightning." 
 
 " And something of its brilliancy, too, I am sure," 
 said a chivalric gentleman at Norman's elbow. 
 
 " That's right, Fulton," cried Mr. Locke, as he 
 reached the biscuits ; " I thank you for it in Miss 
 White's name." 
 
 " Look here, Norman," exclaimed Van Zandt, rather 
 gravely, if you do not stop talking at Miss Hagar, we'll 
 have a battle. Jacqueline, why don't you keep him in 
 order ? Put him under the table." 
 
 " Pooh !" cried his sister, somewhat broadly, " He 
 will not find that anything new !" She rose from her 
 seat, and going to the window, called to the hunting- 
 dogs, who were gamboling on the piazza.
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 263 
 
 " What fine animals," remarked Hagar, anxious to 
 divert the conversation into a new channel. 
 
 " Are you fond of dogs ?" asked Mr. Randolph. 
 
 " Yes, very. Those are noble creatures." 
 
 " And horses? do you ride ?" 
 
 " A little, a very little." 
 
 " We will get up a party to-day, then. Riding is 
 one of Jacqueline's delights. You must ask her to give 
 you some lessons. She'll make a capital teacher, will 
 she not, Locke ?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed, as fine a teacher as I am sure Miss 
 White will make an apt pupil. Why cannot we have 
 the horses out this morning, Van Zandt ?" 
 
 " Why not, indeed. What say you, Miss Hagar ?'' 
 
 " I am all willingness." 
 
 " And you, Linda?" 
 
 " Ditto," replied Miss Locke, with more brevity than 
 elegance. She was an odd girl. I do not suppose 
 there ever was another with as much innate refine- 
 ment, who cared as little for its external display. 
 She was one of those original, strongly-willed young 
 creatures, who make either very bad or very good 
 women. 
 
 Shortly after breakfast the party set out. Hagar was 
 attired for the occasion in one of her friend's riding- 
 dresses. It was a dark green summer-cloth, and fitted 
 her like a charm. Though she could never look other-
 
 264 THE STORY OF HACAR. 
 
 wise than very plain, there was about her an air of 
 quiet self-possession not altogether unattractive. 
 
 Jacqueline asked Hagar, while they were dressing, 
 how she liked Norman Locke. 
 
 " I scarcely know as yet," she replied, " but I am 
 inclined to think he is both very witty and very well 
 educated." 
 
 It was all she trusted herself to say. 
 
 "Now, Miss Hagar," cried Mr. Locke, whip in hand, 
 as the two ladies came out on the front piazza to wait 
 for the horses, " now, Miss Hagar, if you will allow 
 me," (with a deep bow,) " I am going to be your escort 
 and cavalier servente for the ride." 
 
 " Softly there," said the voice of Mr. Randolph, as 
 he joined the group. " / first invited Miss Hagar to 
 ride, and I shall take upon myself the honor of her es- 
 cort." 
 
 " There will have to be a dividend declared, I am 
 afraid," laughed Norman, as he assisted Jacqueline to 
 mount, " for I shall not consent to any such proceed- 
 ing." 
 
 " O, Mr. Randolph," said Hagar, softly, " please 
 don't let me ride with him." 
 
 Van Zandt smiled, and said, " So ho, you do not 
 like him, eh ?" 
 
 " No, he annoys me so much !" 
 
 " Try not to mind him, Miss Hagar. He doesn't
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 265 
 
 mean the least harm in the world, it's only because 
 we spoil him here, and let him do as he likes. I will 
 ride by you, however, and see that he does not tease 
 you farther. Where's Linda, and the other ladies, 
 are they not yet dressed ? The horses are wait- 
 ing." 
 
 He put her in her saddle, gave her some quiet direc- 
 tions about the use of the curb, and turned to aid the 
 gentlemen to mount the ladies who had then just 
 arrived. 
 
 It was a long time since Hagar had ridden ; yet, 
 weak as she felt, she thought the exercise might benefit 
 her, as of late she had been so much confined to the 
 house. 
 
 Seeing that Mr. Locke had left Jacqueline for a 
 moment to assist the others, she rode round where 
 her horse stood to ask about the spirit of her own. 
 
 " He is as tame as a kitten, my dear," was Jacque- 
 line's response " you are just as safe as in your rock- 
 ing-chair. Bless me, Hagar, you are holding the curb 
 instead of the bridle. Wait a moment, I will make 
 Borneo come up to you. There, you had better let 
 the curb rest on the pommel altogether, and only hold 
 the reins. Now let's try a trot down the avenue 
 while they are getting ready." 
 
 Touching Romeo, away she went on a beautifully 
 even trot, Hagar following a little behind.
 
 266 THE STORY OF 11AGAR. 
 
 When they returned, every one was ready. Mr. 
 Locke led the way with Jacqueline, followed by Van 
 Zandt, Hagar and Linda abreast, the rest riding en 
 masse. 
 
 A short distance without the gates Mr. Locke 
 paused, to ask in what direction it was most desirable 
 to go. 
 
 " Why not to the Falls ?" inquired Jacqueline. 
 
 " Or over that mountain path we explored the other 
 day ; either is charming," put forth Linda. 
 
 " Our little friend there is not as yet able to stand 
 the mountains, I am afraid," said Norman, looking 
 back at Hagar. " Linda, can't you keep that animal 
 in a line with the rest ? Where is your whip ?" 
 
 " Good gracious !" exclaimed Linda, tossing back 
 her head, and throwing up the whites of her eyes in 
 burlesque dramatic style, " I've dropped my golden- 
 headed whip !" and she turned her horse's head, Van 
 Zandt following her to look for the missing article. 
 
 Hagar was thus left alone. She saw Mr. Locke 
 speak to Jacqueline, and then they both reined in 
 until she rode up to them. 
 
 " There they come !" cried Jacqueline, looking back 
 after a few moments had passed, " and I am going to 
 trot Romeo out to meet them." 
 
 " So, birdie," said Norman Locke, when she was 
 fairly gone, bending to the little figure at his side,
 
 THE STORY OP HAGAE. 267 
 
 " So, birdie, we are not to be friends, eh ? is it 
 so?" 
 
 " I have not said so, sir have I ?" 
 
 " No but you have thought it ! I will make a 
 much better friend than an enemy, Miss Hagar," look- 
 ing at her significantly. " Do you think, you innocent 
 songstress, that I did not hear what you said to Ran- 
 dolph on the piazza ?" 
 
 Hagar spoke not, but blushed deeply and painfully. 
 
 " I want you to like me, Miss Hagar. I desire to 
 be friends with you. If I annoyed you this morning, 
 I am very sorry. You started me yourself, you know. 
 I was as peaceable as a lamb, until you refused to let 
 me walk with you. Shall we, or shall we not, be 
 friends ? I await your decision." He bent down his 
 black eyes full upon her. Trembling, half with fear, 
 and half with a sensation she knew not how to 
 analyze, she answered faintly 
 
 "Friends, Mr. Locke friends, certainly." 
 
 " Well, then, let us touch hands on it." He put out 
 his own. 
 
 " No," said Hagar, drawing away and blushing, 
 " not now, I cannot." 
 
 " Why not ?" 
 
 " Because they are all looking at us," and she felt 
 regret for her words as soon as they were spoken. 
 
 Something very like triumph passed over Norman's
 
 268 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 face. He said nothing, however, for just then the ab- 
 sent trio rejoined the party, and Jacqueline took her 
 place at his side. 
 
 " Miss White will ride with us for a little while, 
 Randolph : Jacqueline and I are going to keep her," 
 cried Mr. Locke, as Van Zandt came up. Hagar 
 saying nothing to the contrary, Mr. Randolph fell 
 back, bringing his horse abreast with Linda's, who 
 commenced giving him an animated description of a 
 wolf hunt, in which she had once joined. 
 
 " That is about the twentieth time I have heard 
 Linda tell that story. The girl is proud of it I be- 
 lieve. Are you afraid of wolves, Jacqueline ?" 
 
 " Never having seen one, I cannot say whether I 
 am or not," she replied, smiling. 
 
 " Are you, Miss Hagar ?" 
 
 " Yes !" and she stopped suddenly, as though she 
 had been on the point of adding more. 
 
 " Hagar was going to say something about sheep's 
 clothing, I know she was," cried Jacqueline " I saw 
 her lips move." 
 
 Mr. Locke laughed, and turned towards Van Zandt 
 to ask if they should go to the Falls. 
 
 " Yes," said Van Zandt, " if the ladies are all wil- 
 ling. Have you ever visited them, Miss White.?" 
 
 Hagar replied that she had not. 
 
 " Then, that decides it ; and now, let us have a
 
 THE STORY OF UAGAR. 269 
 
 general race. Come, ladies, give us a touch of your 
 quality." 
 
 And away the whole party went, like so much chaff 
 before the wind, horses and riders equally excited in 
 competition, one with the other. Hagar was the first 
 that checked her speed ; the others gradually followed 
 her example, laughing and panting from their late ex- 
 ertion. 
 
 Mr. Locke being slightly ahead, Van Zandt Ran- 
 dolph joined Hagar, and entered into a pleasant con- 
 versation that lasted until they reached the Falls. 
 They talked of books, pictures, and music. Van 
 Zandt compared the three, and analyzed their separate 
 attractions, in so masterly a manner, that Hagar was 
 delighted. But one thing he said dissatisfied her, and 
 that was, when he expressed a greater love for books 
 than music. She had lived more in a world of music 
 than of literature, consequently she could not com- 
 prehend his taste, or understand his sincerity. 
 
 Arriving at the Falls, every one dismounted, because, 
 to see them in their full perfection, it was necessary 
 to descend the rocks, into the ravine, and look at them 
 from below. 
 
 Hagar had never beheld anything half so beautiful. 
 
 The wild dash of water over the gray old rocks, 
 flinging jets of diamond spray hither and thither, had 
 an inexpressibly charming effect. The body of faint
 
 270 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 mist that arose from it, floated off among the sur- 
 rounding forest-trees, like the great white wing of a 
 water-angel; at least it seemed so to Hagar. She 
 could have stood for hours and looked at it without 
 weariness. 
 
 One of the ladies found an Indian arrow-head in a cre- 
 vice of the rocks, and gave it to Hagar as a memento 
 of the spot. It was wrought out of stone, roughly, 
 but symmetrically. Hagar kept it for many years 
 among her treasures, and never looked at it, without 
 feeling something of the pleasure she had experienced 
 at the Falls themselves. 
 
 The return home was very pleasant. 
 
 Mr. Locke made no attempt to join or speak to 
 Hagar during the whole ride ; but was very attentive 
 and gentle to Jacqueline. 
 
 Hagar rode between Linda Locke and Mr. Ran- 
 dolph, and had she not been excessively wearied, 
 she would have enjoyed greatly their lively word- 
 battles. 
 
 When they reached the Farm, however, an hour or 
 two of rest refreshed and restored her sinking spirits. 
 She felt like another creature when Jacqueline led the 
 way to dinner, which was very tedious with Mrs. 
 Martyn Randolph's inviolable regulations. 
 
 In the evening, they assembled in the drawing-room, 
 and some of the ladies played and sang.
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 271 
 
 As Jacqueline had avowed her intention of making 
 Hagar retire early, in the beginning of the evening, 
 Mr. Randolph asked her if she would not sing for 
 them then. 
 
 Readily signifying compliance with the request, as 
 with one voice, there arose a demand for Shubert's 
 " Ave Maria." 
 
 It had become sacred to Hagar since the night she 
 had so poured out her soul in its supplications for 
 divine pity. She felt she could not sing it then and 
 there, before that group of careless triflers, without 
 wounding her own feelings. 
 
 No one but Norman Locke appeared to understand 
 her reluctance, and she was really grateful when 
 he declared aloud, that he would not allow them to 
 ask for the perpetration of such unexampled desecra- 
 tion. 
 
 He spoke as though he dreaded to hear it himself. 
 
 Hagar sang instead, the ancient ballad of " Auld 
 Robin Gray," and a brilliant Italian bravura. Then 
 she gave place to Jacqueline, whose gracefully easy 
 touch, and evenness of execution, were always wel- 
 come. Unperceived, she left the warm, highly illumi- 
 nated drawing-room, and passing out on the balcony, 
 sat down to think over the day's adventures. 
 
 The cool river breeze swept over the spot with 
 grateful freshness. She was faint and feverish from
 
 272 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 too much excitement, and leaning her head against 
 the wall, dejectedly longed to be at home again. 
 
 She could not chase away the sense of ingratitude 
 that smote her for passing so happy a day, while her 
 uncle was on his sick bed, lonely and sad. 
 
 The flood of blended light and music that came 
 through the open casements, jarred on her feelings ; she 
 felt as though she could have flown to reach the be- 
 loved sufferer. 
 
 Jacqueline soon came in search of her. 
 
 Even by that uncertain light, she saw her friend 
 was not well, and kindly insisted on accompanying her 
 to her room. 
 
 Norman Locke was standing at the door as they 
 advanced towards it together, after Hagar had bid a 
 general good-night. He did not speak, but with a 
 silent and low inclination of the head, stepped aside 
 to let the two girls pass. 
 
 Hagar's eyes were bent upon the ground, yet she 
 knew he was looking at her intently ; the very throb- 
 bing of her heart told it her. 
 
 " You cannot guess what good things every one has 
 been saying about you," cried Jacqueline, when they 
 were fairly in their own rooms. 
 
 " I hope I merited them," murmured Hagar, faintly, 
 as she sank wearily in an arm-chair.
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 273 
 
 " Of course you did," answered her friend, warmly. 
 " There is Van Zandt declares you are perfectly 
 charming ; and if that is not true, I would like to 
 know what is ! And little Sara Rainsford says it is 
 good as going to church to look at you !" 
 
 Hagar heard her not. 
 
 Her head drooped a film came over her eyes, and 
 she half fainted from the pain of a strange sensation 
 in her breast. The over-exertion of the day had been 
 too much for her weak state. 
 
 Her insensibility lasted but a moment, however, and 
 the alarmed Jacqueline scarcely perceived her friend's 
 condition before she had partially revived. She aided 
 her, with alarmed haste, to undress, and bathed her 
 head in ice-water, until Hagar declared herself suffi- 
 ciently well for her young hostess to return to the 
 drawing-room and her guests. 
 
 Jacqueline then kissed her tenderly, and bade her 
 good-night, saying, affectionately, what a favorite she 
 was with every one in the house, and how Norman 
 Locke had told her that he loved her already. 
 
 As the door closed upon her, Hagar buried her face 
 in the pillows, and cried, passionately, 
 
 " I would he hated me !" 
 
 12
 
 274 THE STORY OF H A G A R . 
 
 THE next day, quite early, Hagar returned to her 
 home. Her anxiety to see her uncle was so great 
 that nothing could induce her to remain longer at 
 Randolph Farm. 
 
 Jacqueline had been rather injudicious in allowing 
 her friend so little actual repose, for she went back to 
 the cottage even in more miserable health than when 
 she left it. 
 
 The days flew on. James Kenworthy grew rapid- 
 ly worse. To the very last, he was buoyed up with 
 deceitful hopes of returning strength. He never 
 realized that he was going to die never for one mo- 
 ment did he believe that the Angel of Death hovered 
 around his couch. Hopefulness was one of the char- 
 acteristics of his lingering disease. 
 
 LONG as they had expected it, neither mother nor 
 daughter could accustom themselves to his loss. He 
 had been to them so tender and loving a friend ; he was 
 so pure, so saint-like in all his ways, so beloved by every 
 one who knew him, that there was, indeed, darkness 
 when his light went out forever. Charity's grief was 
 more wild, more passionate than Hagar's ; it had more 
 outward show, more uncontrolled abandonment ; but 
 the wound was no deeper, its agony no bitterer to 
 endure.
 
 THE STORY Or HAGAR. 275 
 
 It is strange how the slightest thing can recall the 
 past. The vacant chair, the silver-headed cane stand- 
 ing in a corner, or the sight of clothing, put off for 
 raiment of immortality, each and all combined to 
 keep the memory of their loss constantly before 
 them. 
 
 In a peaceful corner of the village church-yard was 
 laid all that was mortal of James Kenworthy. The 
 shadows of swaying branches flit over the lonely 
 mound, intermingled here and there with a few golden 
 gleams of sunlight a not inappropriate type of his 
 life, for its shade was deep its bright spots far be- 
 tween. A white stone, with name and date, is all 
 that marks the spot. Love needs nothing more. 
 
 JACQUELINE rode down to the cottage quite often, to 
 visit and console her afflicted friend. Sometimes she 
 was accompanied by Van Zandt, and sometimes by 
 Mr. Locke. She pressed Hagar very warmly to 
 spend a few weeks at the Farm, hoping that the 
 change might enliven her spirits and health ; but 
 Hagar would not leave her mother alone with her 
 sorrow. 
 
 About ten days after the event that had brought 
 desolation into that poor, plain house, Charity, for the
 
 276 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 first time, took her daughter into her counsel. It was 
 to debate about their future. 
 
 Hagar was much moved at this proof of confidence, 
 this first appeal to her judgment, and, principal^ be- 
 cause it reminded her of the now powerless will to 
 which her mother had hitherto turned for assist- 
 ance. 
 
 Charity had an important communication to make 
 to her daughter. She had known the subject of this 
 communication for some time before her brother's 
 death, but an unwillingness to add to Hagar's grief 
 had caused her to withhold it till then. 
 
 It was that they were penniless. The hardly earn- 
 ed money she had destined for her child was lost to 
 her forever ! 
 
 Unwisely attempting speculation, in the hope of 
 increasing the original fund, she had ruined herself 
 and her child in the experiment. 
 
 Hagar was less touched than she expected by the 
 tidings. Her mother looked for tears, exclamations, 
 and bursts of sorrow; but the calm breast of the 
 heroic girl contained her despair in silence. Her feel- 
 ings were always deep, yet she seldom gave outward 
 evidence that they were so. 
 
 She only cast her arms around her mother's neck, 
 saying " And you have borne this dreadful secret so 
 long alone, mother, to save me /"
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 277 
 
 A volume could not have expressed so much to 
 Charity as those few words. 
 
 " And now, my own child, that you know all, what 
 must we, what can we do ! We are not quite beg- 
 gars. This little house, and all that is in it, is yours 
 by your uncle's will. Oh, Hagar ! I had so longed to 
 place you above want, to feel that if I should die 
 suddenly, you were provided for as long as you 
 lived !" 
 
 And Charity wept Charity, the strong, iron-willed 
 woman, while that frail, little figure, stood tearless at 
 her side, striving to comfort her ! 
 
 " Dear mother, I beg of you, do not grieve over 
 this. As you say, we are not quite roofless, we can 
 work, sew, labor with our hands, until we have re- 
 placed our lost money !" 
 
 Charity looked at her, pityingly. " Poor child you 
 do not know what labor is." 
 
 "But I can learn. I am young and hopeful. I will 
 teach, sing, do anything, and everything that can 
 bring in gold." 
 
 And Charity answered, but by repeating ab- 
 sently, " Poor child you do not know what la- 
 bor is !" 
 
 She was thinking of the solemn vow by which she 
 had bound herself to her dead brother, never to return 
 to the stage. A momentary regret, a wild desire seiz-
 
 278 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 ed her ; but she thought of the peaceful childhood and 
 virtuous girlhood that vow had purchased, and the 
 temptation to break it vanished with wings of light- 
 ning. 
 
 " Hagar, my dear child," (she always called her 
 " child," though she had entered woman's sunniest 
 period,) " you are pale and haggard. Do not let this 
 misfortune afflict you too much. Go out and breathe 
 the fresh air, take a walk, anything to bring the 
 red back to your cheeks. If we must work, we will 
 work together ; we shall be happy yet, in spite of 
 Fate and Fortune!" 
 
 She tried to smile as Hagar obeyed and left her, but 
 it was a wan, ghastly smile, pale and white as moon- 
 light shining on snow. 
 
 Throwing a scarf over her head, Hagar left the 
 house, and walked she scarcely knew whither. 
 
 The blow was so sudden, so unexpected, that it was 
 difficult to learn resignation. She tried to think of 
 some plan, some way, by which their fallen fortunes 
 could be retrieved. 
 
 She remembered her mother had once been an 
 actress. Was it impossible that she might become 
 one also ? She knew she had genius she felt it 
 Swaying in a tumultuous tide within her ; could she 
 not turn it and her voice, that voice so often praised
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 279 
 
 as rare and melodious, to some account in their now 
 reduced circumstances ? 
 
 The idea gave her comfort. The very means, now 
 lost, were accumulated by her mother on the stage. 
 
 With a thankful heart she saw there was at least 
 one way to independence. 
 
 In a reverie, Hagar wandered on until she reached 
 the little ivy-covered church. From the force of 
 habit, (for much of her time was spent in that green 
 church-yard,) she unfastened t the gate, and passed 
 within the walls. She did not know she was there 
 until she found herself kneeling on the damp grass, 
 beside the simple stone that bore her uncle's name. 
 
 For the first time since her mother's avowal of their 
 poverty, she wept. They were burning tears, yet full 
 of exquisite relief. Leaning her young head against 
 the marble, she gave free vent to her feelings, and 
 sobbed as though her heart would break. 
 
 She was startled by hearing a sound as of some one 
 coming towards her from among the tall old monu- 
 ments. She knew who it was before she turned to 
 look. When she did so, she beheld the grave counte- 
 nance of Norman Locke. 
 
 " I came to find you," he said kindly, touching her 
 black dress as he spoke, with a sort of tender pity. 
 " I have been to the cottage. The servant told me 
 you had walked this way."
 
 280 THE STORY OF IIAGAR. 
 
 He sat down on a tomb, and seemed to be looking 
 around him. Hagar ceased weeping, and after awhile 
 managed to ask in a low voice, how he had left Jacque- 
 line. 
 
 " Well, and quite anxious to see you." 
 
 " And Miss Linda, and all the rest ?" 
 
 " Linda is at home. There are no visitors at the 
 Farm but me. Why don't you come to us, Hagar ? 
 Do you not suppose we should be glad to care for 
 you ?" 
 
 His deep voice vibrated to the core of her heart, 
 but she did not answer. For a moment there was si- 
 lence. 
 
 He came beside her. 
 
 " Hagar," he said passionately, " notwithstanding 
 the sacredness of this place, I must speak ! It may be 
 long before I have the opportunity again. I love you, 
 Hagar I love you with an affection as strong as life. 
 When I heard your voice that night upon the river, I 
 knew even then that my soul at last had found its 
 mate. Hagar !" 
 
 She was weeping again. 
 
 " Listen to me," he said. 
 
 Suddenly she turned upon him. Her mild eyes 
 flashed, her puny form was erect with outraged dig- 
 nity. 
 
 " How DARE you speak so to me ? how DARE you
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 281 
 
 speak to me of love, you, pledged in the sight of God 
 as the husband of Jacqueline ?" 
 
 ''Jacqueline !" oh, with what ineffable bitterness he 
 tossed the word from him. " What is Jacqueline to 
 me ! Has not she promised herself as my wife, solely 
 because it is her policy ? Has not her proud mother 
 worked, schemed, and mano3uvred to bring us together, 
 when both mother and daughter merely endured me 
 for money's sake ? Answer me that ! Love ! Jacque- 
 line Randolph does not know the meaning of the word ! 
 I tell you, Hagar, she knows no more of a love like 
 that I bear to you, unbounded and enduring as hea- 
 ven, than you do, poor lamb, of hatred." 
 
 Hagar made a movement to leave him. Her sense 
 of her own passion for this man grew stronger every 
 moment. She panted to go from him before she was 
 tempted even to wrong her friend in thought. 
 
 He saw her design, and placed himself before her. 
 
 "Hagar, you must listen to me. I implore you to 
 stay. I promise solemnly not to utter one word that 
 your delicacy can resent." 
 
 Passively she sat down on the slab from which he 
 had just risen ; she could not resist the magnetism of 
 his wildly earnest eyes. 
 
 " Hagar, like you I have a widowed mother, and 
 like yours, she is a noble and beautiful woman. I am 
 her only son. On me devolves the hopes of her life-
 
 282 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 time and her great wealth. In my early life, it was 
 her fondest prayer that I should become a good and 
 great man. She saw I had genius, she saw, too, I 
 had violent passions, and she trusted to the one to cor- 
 rect the others. 
 
 "It was not so fated. Temptations assailed me, and 
 I fell. With staring eyes I rushed into sin, and per- 
 verted my talents to the basest purposes. As I grew 
 older, I wearied of my shameful life. In disgust I 
 turned my back on my late associates, my former 
 haunts, and sought the love of woman as a haven of 
 rest. 
 
 " In Jacqueline, I thought I had found my ideal of 
 the sex. Like you, she is tender and sweet, and gen- 
 tleness was always necessary to tame a lion like my- 
 self. Her mind is well cultivated, she is a lady in the 
 truest sense of the word, and for awhile I was at peace 
 in her society. 
 
 " Like a ship that has tossed upon a wild and stormy, 
 ocean, and at last comes smoothly into safe harbor, 
 so was it with me. Temptation to do evil had now 
 no power over me ; I became a better man. 
 
 "I loved Jacqueline as I had never before loved 
 woman, and my wickedness was subdued by that love. 
 I had thought I possessed her own in return ; I had 
 thought I controlled her heart. By degrees, my eyes 
 were opened. She never has, and does not love me !
 
 THE STORY OP HAGAR. 283 
 
 Her mother is her master. She said to her, ' Jacque- 
 line, it is my will that you marry that man,' and her 
 daughter dared not but obey. I am rich, and Mrs. 
 Randolph's ambition for Jacqueline is wealth. 
 
 "Hagar, although I discovered that I was nothing to 
 Jacqueline, I would have married her, I would have 
 fulfilled my word and gone with her to the altar, know- 
 ing she did not love me, and with my own longing for 
 sympathy thrust back upon me ! 
 
 " But you came between us ! From the instant I 
 heard your voice, and in it read your soul, I felt that 
 you were created for me alone ! You are my destiny, 
 my wife ! 
 
 " Think for one moment, Hagar, of what power you 
 hold. You may make me a noble and honored man, 
 worthy the esteem of my fellow creatures ; you may 
 be the good influence of my life, or, if you cast me 
 from you, you destroy me forever ! I feel that if you 
 reject my love, I shall thenceforth wander through the 
 world an aimless and sinful creature, wrecked for 
 time and eternity. My fate is in your hands, be 
 merciful!" 
 
 She tried to speak to him, but excitement had taken 
 away the power of her will. 
 
 " Hagar," Norman Locke continued, gently taking 
 her hands within his own " I know you love me. I 
 knew it almost as soon as I knew yourself. I read it
 
 284 T II E STORY OF II A G A R . 
 
 in your face, in your actions, in your very avoidance 
 of me. Jacqueline is the bar, the only obstacle that 
 lies between us you feel it a dishonor to supplant 
 your friend. Oh, Hagar ! speak but the word believe 
 me, freedom will be as welcome to her as to myself. 
 Without your promise to become my wife, I never 
 will break the bond that binds us together that, and 
 that only, can give me a right to do so. Speak, 
 Hagar, speak tell me you will some day be my 
 wife !" 
 
 Hagar did speak at last. 
 
 She rose from her seat, and ejaculated, firmly, 
 
 " Never !" 
 
 Then convulsively clasping her hands, she added, 
 solemnly 
 
 " By every token through which one woman reads 
 the heart of another, Jacqueline loves you ! If she did 
 not at first, with all her soul, she does now I Norman 
 Locke, / love you too, but rather than degrade 
 my womanhood by crushing my friend's heart, I 
 
 will " a half sob choked her utterance, " break 
 
 my own !" 
 
 She turned, and gliding among the headstones, was 
 gone. Awed and astonished, he made no effort to fol- 
 low her. Her dignity, the majesty of her determina- 
 tion, and the sublime beauty of her sacrifice, impres- 
 sed him with wonder.
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 285 
 
 Much as he loved her, he had not dreamed that 
 Hagar White was capable of such grand virtue, such 
 heroic nobility. 
 
 IT is not necessary to recount by what arguments 
 and entreaties Hagar combated her mother's resolu- 
 tion, nor how, at last, she gained her consent for pre- 
 paration for the perilous experiment of the life of an 
 actress. She had confidence in her own abilities, she 
 felt the incentive of the holiest of motives, and to her 
 inexperienced eye success was certain. 
 
 In vain her mother pointed out the difficulties, the 
 trials that had beset her own path, and told her of the 
 long struggling warfare before they were conquered. 
 
 " You did conquer !" was the ever ready and hope- 
 ful answer. 
 
 Hagar had no desire to become a mere actress. 
 Her ambition, her genius soared high above that. 
 The possession of so glorious a voice alone, gave her 
 a burning desire to study for, and appear on the 
 Italian lyrical stage. Since the ordeal in the church- 
 yard, through which she had passed with a triumph 
 bought only at the price of untold agonies, she had 
 been feverishly anxious to begin her studies.
 
 286 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 Mr. Van Dyke was, as a friend, admitted by both 
 mother and daughter into the secret. 
 
 The good little man became half frantic with grief 
 at the prospect of the future misery to Hagar which 
 the mere idea involved. He told her of the years of 
 severe study thrpugh which she must pass before a 
 de'but was possible, and of the heart-burnings, the 
 daily insults, the rivalries there were to endure, even 
 supposing that debut successful. 
 
 Hagar received all he had to s'ay as immovably as a 
 rock. 
 
 She had decided she had gained her mother's con- 
 sent, and thenceforth nothing could shake her purpose. 
 
 Mr. Van Dyke, of all other men, was the one best 
 calculated to advise under such circumstances. In 
 Germany he had passed the greater part of his life 
 among struggling aspirants for the lyrical stage. He 
 knew the labor and the probable reward. 
 
 When he found that Hagar's resolution was un- 
 changeable, he advised her to go with her mother to 
 Naples, and immediately place herself in one of the 
 theatrical-musical schools there located, her progress 
 in which could alone-decide her future. 
 
 Then came the terrible, the momentous question 
 where were to be found the means to defray the ex- 
 penses of the long journey, and this necessary and in- 
 valuable training?
 
 THE STORY OP HAGAR. 287 
 
 " We can sell the house and furniture," said Charity, 
 " but even that will go but little way. Oh, Hagar, give 
 it up ! Do not go from Briartown ! Every time I think 
 of it, I cannot help doubting your strength of body 
 and mind, for the attainment of that to which you look 
 forward as the crown of your efforts." 
 
 " Mother," Hagar replied proudly, " your scepticism 
 gives me but another reason to succeed." 
 
 From that day, Charity ceased to dissuade. 
 
 She remembered her own aspirations at Hagar's age, 
 and had pity upon her, blessing God that in her new 
 life, her child was not without protection. She was 
 not to rest solely on her own strength for the resistance 
 of temptations incident to her profession. 
 
 The house, once the home of Hagar's grand-parents, 
 was sold. It was simple and poor ; the purchase- 
 money was indeed but as a drop in the well. 
 
 Something more must be done. 
 
 Mr. Van Dyke counselled giving a concert in Briar- 
 town, and promised, unsolicited, to secure for the oc- 
 casion the voluntary assistance of the first artists in the 
 neighboring city. 
 
 But Hagar shrank from the idea of singing before 
 the hard, cold eyes, the well-known faces of that un- 
 generous village. 
 
 She was well aware that curiosity alone would fill 
 her concert-room ; but with the natural independence
 
 288 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 of her temperament, even in her present poverty, she 
 scorned the money of those who had never given her 
 kindness. 
 
 The city of Charleston was distant not many hun- 
 dreds of miles from Briartown. It was decided that 
 her touchingly beautiful organ should for the first time 
 there be heard in public. 
 
 The reputation of the place is that of liberality, and 
 especially in musical matters. Charity felt assured of 
 her child's triumph in any concert-room, and a brilliant 
 success was scarcely to be doubted, among the open- 
 hearted, enthusiastic southerners ; at all events, their 
 whole little property was risked in the experiment. 
 
 Mr. Van Dyke voluntarily took the management of 
 the affair. None could be more anxious for the result 
 than he. 
 
 Knowing the positive necessity for properly varied 
 attractions, he would cot listen to Hagar's request 
 that, in order to make the expenses as light as possible, 
 the principal burden of the entertainment might come 
 upon herself. 
 
 He engaged the most desirable hall for the occasion, 
 got together, and caused rehearsals of a full orchestra, 
 and secured the services of a tenore and basso, both of 
 whom were public artists of the first reputation and 
 merit. 
 
 In three weeks from her uncle's death, the day dawn-
 
 THE STORY OF IIAGAR. 289 
 
 ed on which Hagar was to leave for Charleston, and 
 begin her pilgrimage of patient labor. 
 
 From the first moment that Mrs. Randolph had 
 been informed of the destination of Hagar's genius, 
 of her intended theatrical life, with lofty indignation 
 she forbade Jacqueline all further intercourse with her. 
 It had been bad enough to tolerate her mother, and 
 that, she told Jacqueline, she had only done from pity 
 to Hagar herself. 
 
 The circumstances of the case were now changed. 
 Their friendship must cease, who ever heard of a 
 sternly virtuous Randolph knowingly associating with 
 a woman of public reputation, an a'ctress ? 
 
 So Hagar lost her only friend. She left Briartown 
 beggared in every thing but hope. 
 
 Jacqueline never thought of disobeying her mother. 
 She looked upon her will as law, and as such it in- 
 fluenced all her actions. She had never entered a 
 theatre. Her ideas of its evils were much exaggerated, 
 a sense of its counteracting beauties did not exist in 
 her mind at all. Grieving, therefore, over the de- 
 pravity of Hagar's heart that had led her to choose so 
 unnatural a lot, she tried to deaden the thought of her 
 into oblivion. 
 
 Poor Hagar ! but one ever knew the awful sacrifice 
 she had made for that unfaithful friend.
 
 290 THE STORY OF IIAGAR. 
 
 The evening of the concert arrived. To Hagar it 
 was freighted with agony her heart sank, and her 
 courage left her, for on that night's events depended 
 her own and her mother's future. If she succeeded, 
 all was clear before her, at least it seemed so then; 
 if she failed, despair, want, abject poverty awaited 
 them. She knew if she could only command her voice, 
 success was certain, but in her dismay she was attack- 
 ed with the presentiment of its leaving her at the most 
 critical and important moment. She had heard of 
 such things, had read of their actual event in the biog- 
 raphies of celebrated prime donne. She could not 
 chase the fear away. It had haunted her for weeks ; 
 and, as on that eventful night she sat, trembling in the 
 dressing-room, listening with a sick heart to the per- 
 formance of the overture, it rushed upon her with re- 
 newed force. 
 
 The decisive moment arrived, and Signor , the 
 
 well-attired 'and elegant tenore of the evening, came to 
 lead her out for the opening duetto with himself. 
 
 Every one knows what interest a " first appearance" 
 creates, and what anxious desire is felt for the earliest 
 glimpse of the coming debutante. 
 
 There was some applause, a little excitement, and a 
 great deal of curious attention as Hagar took her place 
 by the footlights. There was nothing in her personal 
 appearance calculated to attract admiration, or cause
 
 THE STORY OP HAGAR. 291 
 
 the slightest sensation of enthusiasm. She had attired 
 herself very simply in a white lace dress, made low in 
 the neck. Her sleeves were looped up with a few na- 
 tural green leaves, a wreath of the same encircling 
 her head, and a graceful spray quivering on her breast. 
 These leaves were her only, adornments. Charity had 
 taken pride in arranging them with classical simplicity. 
 The duetto was the celebrated one, " Da qual di che 
 t'incontrai" from Donizetti's opera of " Linda di Clia- 
 mouni." It opens with a brief recitative movement, 
 commencing at the line, 
 
 " Non so quella canzon m'intenerisce mi rattrista." 
 
 The orchestra prelude finished, there reigned a dead 
 silence of expectation throughout the vast and well- 
 filled music-hall. 
 
 But in vain Hagar attempted to sing ; she essayed 
 again and again, a husky and almost inaudible sound 
 was all that passed her lips. She felt as though she 
 were sick, dying, she could hear the wild beating of 
 her own heart. 
 
 The leader of the orchestra, practised in cases of the 
 kind, gave a private signal, and the symphony was 
 again executed, that the frightened girl might collect 
 herself. The respite was a god-send. By the time 
 those brief chords were again sounded, she had become 
 calmer, and in a tremulous, unequal voice, executed
 
 292 THE STORY OF IIAGAR. 
 
 her part of the recitative. Carlo's solo then gave her 
 an opportunity to regain farther composure, and at the 
 conclusion of her own, which follows immediately 
 afterwards, so admirably, so effectively was it rendered, 
 that a burst of liberal and unanimous applause inter- 
 rupted the duetto. 
 
 Hagar naturally sang with great feeling and dra- 
 matic abandon ; her lights and shades were always 
 exquisitely managed, but during the remainder of the 
 duet, she surpassed even herself. It was not her sing- 
 ing, however, (for that was still in the rough,) as much 
 as her pathetic and mellow voice, that excited the 
 sympathies of the audience, and the duet was well 
 calculated to exhibit its finest qualities. 
 
 Throughout the piece, and especially at the pretty 
 melody, " O consolarmi affreltisi? tokens of generous 
 appreciation brought Hagar from despair to rapture. 
 At its termination, shouts of excited approval follow- 
 ed her from the stage ; an encore was demanded, and the 
 magnificent junction of those two rare voices again de- 
 lighted the surprised and gratified audience. They 
 came from curiosity, or to while away a few idle 
 hours, and that poor agitated village girl had at once 
 won them from apathy to enthusiasm. 
 
 Charity stood leaning her regal person against a 
 side-door, behind the scenes, a position from which 
 she saw and heard all that passed. As soon as Hagar
 
 THE STORY OF UAGAR. 293 
 
 left the stage, she flew to that exultant mother's arms* 
 and wept for joy. She felt that her ambitious dream 
 was not to remain all a dream she was conscious 
 that she had that night stepped on the borders of its 
 reality. 
 
 If she had been an angel, she could not for the mo- 
 ment have felt happier. 
 
 The programme for the evening was excellent. Mr. 
 Van Dyke had taken good care of that. The brilliant 
 assemblage had not the slightest cause for ill humor or 
 indifference. 
 
 The other artists were cordially received, not only 
 for the sake of the debutante, but because they were 
 deservedly public favorites. 
 
 Hagar's next essay was a quaint Irish ballad, one of 
 Moore's. Its rendition was appropriate, unexaggerat- 
 ed, and pleased by its graceful flow of melody. 
 
 Her great effort her crowning glory, for it proved 
 such, was reserved for the last. It was, " Qui la Voce 
 sua soave ;" she sang it as she never sang it again. She 
 never afterwards felt the same inspiration. Like a 
 flood of sunlight, she made it to float around the hall. 
 A holy presence seemed to pervade the building it 
 was like reality ; one appeared to see something ! 
 
 " Good heavens !" a veteran musician was heard to 
 exclaim as he left the house, after the concert, " why 
 on earth is that girl advertised as going to Italy to be
 
 94 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 educated ? All that science can do, will but spoil her 
 originality and freshness !" 
 
 THE entertainment over, exhausted by the efforts of 
 the evening, Hagar begged to be taken at once to her 
 hotel. She longed for darkness and silence, that she 
 might weep away some of her excited pleasure. 
 
 As they were passing down the stairs to the rear 
 entrance, where the carriage was stationed, one of the 
 workmen of the hall put a folded slip of paper in her 
 hand. Looking at it hastily, she saw by the initials 
 at the bottom, that it was from Norman Locke. He 
 had been there, although she had not discovered his 
 presence. 
 
 Hagar was tremblingly glad that her mother had 
 not noticed the incident, for she wished to bear this 
 grief alone it was sacred. 
 
 When disrobing for the night, she had an opportu- 
 nity to peruse the note carefully. Thus it ran. It 
 was written almost illegibly, in pencil. 
 
 " Oh, Hagar ! I can save you all this ! Such a life 
 is without your sphere you were made to love, and 
 receive love, and not to gather Fame. 
 
 " Be, then, my cherished and honored wife fulfill 
 your destiny, for I am yours as certainly as God 
 meant you to be mine !
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 295 
 
 " Hagar, you were born for me without you, I am 
 nothing you must be mine ! Do not think to fly 
 from me. I shall follow you to the ends of the earth. 
 If you go to Italy, as they say you will, I shall pur- 
 sue and haunt you till you yield. I am reckless and 
 violent when my passions are aroused. 
 
 " Oh, Hagar ! my own, my decreed wife give me 
 up your love ! I am less to Jacqueline than the earth 
 she treads. I have tried her assayed the affection 
 she professes, and found it dross. Yet I cannot break 
 my word, until you give me a holy and imperative 
 right. 
 
 " I am a man of honor ; I will sacrifice even YOU 
 for my honor's sake. Say but you will marry me, and 
 I am free to act acknowledge that your happiness 
 depends upon the rupture of my tie with Jacqueline, 
 and I will break it guiltlessly. 
 
 " I beg of you, Hagar, give up your scruples ; they 
 become false and sinful when so much is at stake. 
 Write to me give me but the least sign, and all will 
 yet be well. For me, everything is risked. I am in 
 your power you can do with me as you will. 
 Shape my course upward or downward dower me 
 with heaven or hell ; you have at your mercy 
 
 "N. L. 
 
 " I am staying at the hotel. Oh, Hagar !
 
 290 THE STORY OF IIAGAtt. 
 
 you will never be so loved again, should you live until 
 God destroys the world !" 
 
 She read this strange and contradictory note with 
 some tears and much sorrow. That a man so care- 
 fully punctilious of his honor, could still persist in. de- 
 manding the sacrifice of her own, were two things she 
 found hard to reconcile together. 
 
 Hagar's was not an everyday character. Most 
 women, circumstanced like herself, would have yielded 
 to the promptings of nature ; but with her, principle 
 triumphed over passion. 
 
 She placed the note under her pillow and wept her- 
 self to sleep. Her tears, strange to say, were those of 
 mingled joy and grief joy for her public success, grief 
 for her ill-fated affection. 
 
 She knew that she should never become the wife of 
 Mr. Locke. His love for her had grown up like 
 sudden flame, and like flame, she thought that it was 
 fated to perish. 
 
 The next day, Norman Locke received from Hagar 
 the following brief answer : 
 
 " I cannot unsay what I have said. ONK above saw 
 the unalterable sincerity I felt, when I uttered those 
 words. Oh, Mr. Locke, give the affection you offer
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 me to Jacqueline. She is worthy of that happiness 
 she loves you with a true woman's devotion. 
 
 " I suffer from this as bitterly as you, but God helps 
 me to bear my burden patiently. Oh, Mr. Locke, 
 there is no consolation like to His !" 
 
 The strong man wept like a child, as he read. 
 He bowed his head upon his clenched hands, and 
 moaned 
 
 " Then, God console me !" 
 
 Norman Locke did not follow Hagar to Italy. Six 
 months after, Jacqueline Randolph became his wedded 
 wife. 
 
 IT was on a Sunday that Charity and Hagar sailed 
 for Italy. There was peace in the day and in the air. 
 The sounds of labor had all ceased, not even the 
 rumble of wheels was heard in the broad and silent 
 streets. Peal after peal of soft Sabbath bells was all 
 that met the ear. To Hagar, they were laden with 
 balm. As the vessel moved from her moorings, 
 solemn and sad, they rang out upon the still air, filling 
 it with holy music. Thoughts of patient resignation 
 came with them, quelling the misery of her who list- 
 
 13
 
 298 THE BTORY OF HAUAR. 
 
 ened. It was the last sound she heard as the steamer 
 left the American shores. 
 
 ALL that young girl's soul was with her Art. She 
 turned to it the entire strength of her being, and in it 
 sought forgetfulness for the past. 
 
 Mr. Van Dyke had given her a letter of introduc- 
 tion to Count Silva, one of the principal patrons of 
 a musical dramatic college, in Naples. On this letter 
 hung all Hagar's hopes. 
 
 A few days after their arrival in the Italian city, 
 Charity sent the letter to the Count, accompanied 
 with her own and Hagar's card. In the evening of 
 the same day, the gentleman himself called upon 
 them, and what with his imperfect English, and the 
 help of Hagar's still more imperfect knowledge of 
 Italian, gave them to understand that the school was 
 already overstocked with pupils, and not even to 
 oblige his amico, Mr. Van Dyke, could he add to the 
 number. 
 
 Charity, however, saw at a glance that he said this 
 merely because disappointed in Hagar's unattractive 
 appearance, and her face, latterly, had indeed acquir- 
 ed a stolid expression, far removed from that of a 
 musical genius. It was evident to her that the Count
 
 THE STOKY OF HAGAR. 299 
 
 fancied he was escaping from introducing an extreme- 
 ly undesirable dead weight in- the establishment under 
 his patronage. 
 
 Hagar also, read the real meaning of his excuse. It 
 did not alarm her. She knew the exact merit of her 
 glorious organ. When the Count rose, and, with a 
 great deal of Italian suavity, was bowing himself out, 
 expressing his regret at his inability to oblige them, 
 Hagar said to him, with some malicious satisfaction, 
 although he had not offered to try her voice 
 
 " Will you not hear me sing, Signer ?" 
 
 He- hesitated for an instant looked as if he wished 
 himself somewhere else, and then, his native gallantry 
 coming to the rescue, expressed delighted willingness 
 to listen to her. 
 
 Hagar was not at all frightened. She had never felt 
 cooler in her life, than when she sat dowrf to the in- 
 strument, and she was well aware that the Count was 
 a critical judge of music, an amateur composer him- 
 self, and a distinguished patron of the Art 
 
 With perfect self-possession, and an ease at which 
 she herself was astonished, she began a canzonette 
 that she had learned since leaving America. It was 
 quite pretty, and displayed her clear upper notes very 
 finely, in a sort of Tyroline refrain at its conclusion. 
 
 The effect on Count Silva was all that Hagar could 
 desire. He sprang from his seat, without uttering a
 
 300 THE STORY OF IIAGAR. 
 
 word, rushed to the piano, and examined the sheet of 
 music from which she had been singing. 
 
 " Did you use this key ?" he demanded, abruptly 
 " or did you make a lower transposition ?" 
 
 " I sang it exactly as it is written," was the com- 
 posed response. 
 
 " Madre di Dio ! is it possible your voice has such 
 power in its upper register ? Sing it again or, no, 
 just try the refrain." 
 
 She complied. He was evidently astonished at the 
 quality and compass of voice which she displayed. 
 
 " Signorina !" he exclaimed, with unaffected sin- 
 cerity " I congratulate you. As far as I can judge 
 from your execution of this canzonette, you possess a 
 rare and admirable organ will you allow me to hear 
 you try another and more difficult solo, before pro- 
 nouncing critically on its merits ?" 
 
 Hagar now felt slightly alarmed. With some trepi- 
 dation she sought for her copy of " Qui la Voce,'' 
 which she rightly esteemed her master-piece. 
 
 Her embarrassment increased when Count Silva in- 
 sisted on accompanying her himself. 
 
 When she had finished, she had the mortification of 
 knowing that she had by no means done herself jus- 
 tice. The Count praised her highly, however, and to 
 the great delight of the poor, friendless, and ambitious 
 girl, told her, although there was much for her both to
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 301 
 
 learn and unlearn, her voice was so uncommonly fine, 
 that it deserved every advantage of cultivation. He 
 ended by complimenting her correct taste, and assur- 
 ing her that she should be admitted to the col- 
 lege if twenty other pupils were displaced to receive 
 her. 
 
 Then kissing her hand, he went away. 
 
 The next morning, Hagar was introduced to the 
 maestro of the Institution, and, after passing the 
 necessary examinations, was admitted as a student, 
 the annual payment, being, fortunately for her, a 
 merely nominal affair. This circumstance enabled 
 her to commence an additional course of private les- 
 sons with one of the best masters in Naples. 
 
 Her improvement was rapid. She astonished and 
 delighted all who were interested in her progress, by 
 her zeal and perseverance. So great was her assi- 
 duity so unconquerable her application to the study 
 of her beloved Art, that Charity became alarmed for 
 her health. Her fragile form grew daily more slender, 
 her face thinner and older looking, while a bright, hec- 
 tic flush, burned ever upon her cheeks, and a sensation 
 similar to that she had felt 'at Randolph Farm, very 
 often flashed through her chest. 
 
 Charity tried to reason with her, and pointed out 
 the absolute necessity for occasional rest and exercise ; 
 but the excited enthusiasm that was gradually causing 
 
 13*
 
 302 THE STORY OF UAGAR. 
 
 the spirit to wear away the frame, grew impatient of 
 control. 
 
 Count Silva became one of their best friends. 
 Although naturally exacting and selfish, towards those 
 whom he liked, he was as amiable and genial as could 
 be desired. To Hagar, he took an especial fancy. 
 Independently of her talent, her gentleness pleased 
 him, from its agreeable contrast with the dispositions 
 of his own country-women. 
 
 To the Count, Hagar owed many a pleasant drive, 
 and glimpse of country verdure, for which she would 
 otherwise have longed in vain, and for another and 
 vaster delight, she was likewise indebted to him. The 
 Count possessed a box at the Opera, and quite fre- 
 quently placed it at the disposal of his protege" and 
 her mother. 
 
 There, Hagar first heard what great singing was 
 there first beheld the magnificence of impassioned 
 acting, and there, I need scarcely say, her own ambi- 
 tion was still more strengthened and excited. 
 
 Years two fleeting years mingled with the past. 
 Years of misery and happiness, struggles and peace, 
 contest and victory to Hagar. She was now nearly 
 twenty years of age.
 
 THE STORY OF HA GAR. 
 
 303 
 
 IT was the night of her debut. She had grown per- 
 fectly fearless of its results, and dreaded it not ; a 
 sublime courage was infused into her very soul. She 
 felt as though she could have gone before the whole 
 world, and defied intimidation from it. 
 
 A legion of demons thrusting despair at her spirit, 
 could not have impaired her faith in her own beautiful 
 steadfastness. 
 
 The shadow of angel wings hovered over her even 
 then. 
 
 The Opera was injudiciously chosen. Count Silva 
 was its composer. It was new, and called by the 
 whimsical title of " II Prieco D'Amore." Although 
 scientifically composed, and full of thrilling detached 
 beauties, it was heavy and inglorious as a whole. The 
 plot of the libretto was barbarously wild and unnatural 
 the product of some rabid imagination let loose. 
 
 Count Silva had written this Opera for Hagar ; he 
 had studied her voice, and adapted the part of the 
 principal character to it. From very gratitude for 
 those two years of kindness, she could not refuse his 
 request to perform' in " II Prieco D'Amore," on the 
 night of her debut. She would have preferred to have 
 chosen another and popular creation, an Opera by one 
 of the composers of the people ; but to Silva she 
 owed a debt of thankfulness, and, at any sacrifice, she 
 determined to repay him.
 
 304 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 She knew the work could not but fail, or, at best, be 
 " damned with faint praise ;" yet heroically she vowed 
 to save it if she could from its impending destiny. 
 
 It was placed upon the stage with perfect scenery 
 and surroundings ; gold was lavished on it in showers, 
 for its princely author longed for Fame, and, alas ! 
 after thirsting and toiling for it, found at length that he 
 had bowed at the shrine of the unattainable and far. 
 
 II Prieco D'Amore failed. Its libretto alone would 
 have dragged it down. Not even with Italians could 
 such fantastic imaginings succeed ! 
 
 Great heaven ! whose were those flashing, burn- 
 ing eyes, gleaming down upon the young prima 
 donna ? 
 
 She had braved the scorn and hisses of the outrag- 
 ed audience she had stood undaunted before their 
 frantic disappointment ; but, beneath the power of 
 those two eyes, she sank abashed. 
 
 There was something in them that revived, she 
 knew not how, old thoughts, old feelings, they 
 thrilled her with recollections of a wild dream, faded 
 long ago forgotten despised. 
 
 The curtain fell. 
 
 Hagar left her mother gesticulating violently, as she
 
 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 305 
 
 spoke to the excited maestro, at one of the wings, and 
 staggered to her dressing-room. 
 
 Standing at its entrance she beheld, as she felt she 
 should behold, NORMAN LOCKE. 
 
 No word of greeting passed his lips no sign of re- 
 cognition took place between them; but, coming to 
 meet her, he said, hoarsely 
 
 " At last, thank God, I MAY claim your love ! 
 Jacqueline is an angel in heaven ! / am free /" 
 
 She looked at him as though he were a dream- 
 phantom a creature of her own brain. He appeared 
 like one broken down with age and infirmities. By 
 the deep set lines of his ever-expressive face, it was 
 evident he had been " a man of sorrows, acquainted 
 with grief." His cheeks were sunken, and his eyes 
 glittering with the unnatural brightness of excite- 
 ment. 
 
 Hagar did not utter a word. Her gaze was fixed, 
 riveted, fascinated, as it were, upon him. 
 
 How could she speak ? How tell him, then and 
 there, that she deemed her old passion for him a mere 
 infatuation of her youth ? How say to him, that as 
 time healed the first bitterness of her feelings, she had 
 grown to rejoice at her escape to look upon him as 
 unworthy of her love how tell him that ? 
 
 A dimness came over all around her. The old sen-
 
 306 THE STORY OF HAGAR. 
 
 sation of sharp pain vibrated in her breast uttering a 
 faint cry, she fell. 
 
 Wildly catching her in his strong arms, Norman 
 Locke called for assistance. It came too late. The 
 drama of her life was ended. 
 
 Haaar was DEAD ! 
 
 THE END.
 
 A 000 961 230