THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES T THE WIFE'S VICTORY; AND OTHER NOUVELLETTES. BY MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWOMH. "Mrs. South worth is the finest authoress in the country. Her style is forcible and bold. There i* an exciting interest throughout all her compositions, which rcnderj them the most popular novels in the English language." .\ettt JVA- Mirror. Mrs. Southworth is the best American writer of the age." Pliili. MfrcJiant. " S-f-e has no superior ; and there is a chasteness and purity in all that she write? vvhi.-b ccmiu'-iirls her to the approbation of every ihoujjMful inind." BaUiniore JiepuUicMt She is a woman of brilliant genius." Olive Branch. "She is the best notion writer in the country." HuffjJo Ex]>rtss. "She is the most original and talented of living female writers." fkililic Ledger. $ I) H a ^ e I p 1) i a : T. B PETKHSON AND BROTHERS, 80S CHEST.NUT STREET. COPYKIGHT: 1875. MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH'S COMPLETE WORK& EACH WORK IS COMPLETE IN ONE LARGE DUODECIMO VOLUME. SELF-RAISE U; or, FROM THE DEPTHS. Sequel to Ishmael. ISHMAEL; or. IN THE DEPTHS. (Being Self-Made.) THE MOTHER-IN-LA W; or, MARRIED IN HASTE. '1 LIE PHA NTOM WEDDING ; or, Fall of House of / lint. THE MISSING BRIDE; or, MIRIAM, THE AVENGER. A BEAUTIFUL FIEND; or, THROUGH THE FIRE. VICTOR'S TRIUMPH. A Sequel to "A Beautiful Fiind.' '1HE FATAL MARRIAGE; or, Orville Devtlle. FAIR PLAY,- or, BRITOMARTE, the MAN HATER. HOW HE WON HER. A Sequel to "Fair Play." THE CHANGED BRIDES; or, Winning Her Way. THE BRIDE'S FA TE. Sequel to "The Changed Brides.' CRUEL AS THE GRAVE; or, Hallow-Eve Mystery. TRIED FOR HER LIFE. A Sequel to " Cruel as the Grave.' THE CHRISTMAS GUEST,- or, The Crime and the Curst THE LADY OF THE ISLE; or, The Island Princess. THE LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW; or, The Brothers. A NOBLE LORD. Sequel to "The Lost Heir of Liulithgow." THE FAMILY DOOM; or, the SIN OF A COUNTESS THE MA I DEN WID O W. Sequel to ' ' The Family Doom: THE GIPSY'S PROPHECY,- or, The Bride of an Evening. THE FORTUNE SEEKER; or, Astrea, the Bridal Day. THE THREE BEAUTIES; or, Shannondale. ALL WORTH ABBEY; or, Eudora. FALLEN PRIDE; or, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL'S LOVE. INDIA; or, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER. VI VIA; or, THE SECRET OF POWER. THE WIDOW'S SON; or, Left Alone. THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER; or, The Children of the Me BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN. Sequel to "The Widow's Son. 1 THE BRIDAL EVE; or, Rose Elmer. THE PRItfCE OF PARKNESS; or, Ilicknry Hall. THE DESERTED WIFE. HAUNTED HOMESTEAD. THE L OS T HEIRESS. THE SPE C TR E L Vh R. THE WIFE'S VICTORY. 7 HE FATAL SECRET. 'THE CURSE OF CLIFTON. THE TWO S/STERS. THE ARTIST'S LOVE. LOVE'S LABOR WON. MYSTERY OF DARK HOLLOW. RETRIBU210N. Above Books are Bound in Morocco Cloth. Price $1.50 Each. (3^* Mrs. Southworth's works are for sale by nil Booksellers, or copiet of any one, or more of them, will be sent to any one, j>os!age prepaid, of free of freight, on remitting the price of the ones wanttd, to the publishers, T. B. PETERSON $ BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. TO MISS CHARLOTTE LECOMPTE NEVITTE, OP MISSISSIPPI, ljt5 Unlam* is cflMflnflhlij insmbfir, BY HER SISTER, TEE AUTHOR. CONTENTS. in THE WIFE'S VICTORY, 31 W g THE MARRIED SHREW; A SEQUEL TO "THE WIFE'S VICTORY," 67 SYBIL BROTHERTON; OR, THE TEMPTATION, 85 3 THE IRISH REFUGEE, , 155 EVELINE MURRAY; OR, THE FINE FIGURE, 193 THE THREE SISTERS; OR, NEW YEAR IN THE LITTLE ROUGH-CAST HOUSE, 207 ANNIE GREY; OR, NEIGHBOURS' PRESCRIPTIONS, . , , 275 ACROSS THE STREET; A NEW YEAR'S STORY 30ft 449108 PREFACE. Tfi author does not know how, better to introduce this book to her friends than by telling them its short history. The nouvellettes that form the collection were written each to illustrate that distinct principle of Christian ethics or social philosophy, indicated by the text of Scripture selected as its motto. That they were the very first productions of the au- thor's pen composed in the midst of sickness, privation, toil, and great sorrow is her apology for their numerous imperfections. That they were, nevertheless, warmly wel- comed, and extensively copied by the literary and Chris- tian journals, and that their publication in book form has been called for, is her excuse for now collecting and presenting them in this manner THE WIFE'S VICTORY. The husband is head of the -wife, even as Christ is head of the Church ; Therefore, as the Church is subject to Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in everything. EPUESIAXS, v. 23, 24. Such duty as the subject owes the prince, Even such a woman oweth to her husband. SHAKSPEAKB. What thou bid'st Unargned I obey ; BO God ordains. God is thy law ; thou mine. MILTON. " I WOULD not have him, though he owned all the mines of Golconda," said bright Kate Gleason to her sister, Mrs. Lindal " And why not, pray '(" said gentle Mary Lindal. " Oh ! because he has got such a horrible temper." " How do you know that ?" " By a great many signs ; by the shape of his head and tho colour of his hair, the gknce of his eye, the curl of his nose, and the set of his mouth " "Oh ! stop, stop, stop; of whom are you speaking? That incomparable man, fh philanthropy a Howard, in wisdom a Newton, in patriotism a Washington, in " " Temper a Bluebeard." "Kate! I will not hear another word .of this. You are speaking of of " and Mary Lindal blushed (31) 82 "HE WIFE'S VICTORY. " Out with it ! of Grenville Dormer Leslie, your f'utura husband. But I give you fair warning, Mary, that though you may feel a vocation to become Mrs. Bluebeard, I am .not particularly inspired to play ' Anne ! sister Anne !' and run tho risk of catching my death of cold by standing on a windy tower, to ' see if anybody is coming,' when he is about to slay you for your disobedience." " But perhaps I shall not be disobedient," said Mary. " Perhaps you shall not be disobedient," repeated Kate, with a withering sneer. " Well, for my part, when / ain married, if ever my husband ventures to lay a command on me, I shall make a point of breaking it, at whatever cost of convenience, ay of asserting my independence." Not if you love, Kate." " Either way, either way. Now, I like Lem Dunn very well ; and if neither of us change our minds, we may be mar- ried when he returns from sea; but fancy Lem Dunn playing husband a la Grand Turque, and daring to say, 'you shall' and ' you shall not !' really, if I were in a good humour I should laugh in his face, and if in a bad one, I should be apt to box his ears." " I must believe you are jesting, Catherine." " Then I will be as serious as His Eminence Archbishop Leslie himself, and say that I really cannot see why we women should be called upon to ' honour and obey' so implicitly, un- less we could be first convinced of their superior excellence by whom such honour and obedience are claimed." " We are not. We should be first convinced of men's su- periority, before we give them that ' right Divine' to control our actions and destinies, which by all Christian and huroau law is the just prerogative of a husband, whether or not he be mentally or morally superior to his wife." " Pooh ! nonsense 1 fiddlestick ! with your Divine preroga- tive and the rest of it. If a woman marries a fool, I suppo,a she is bmnd to obey him 1" THE WIFE'S VICTORY. 33 11 When a woman marries a man whom she feels she cannot respect, she places herself in a false position, from which no- thing can extricate her; and, however repugnant, however galling they may become, the same duties of submission and obedience are incumbent upon her, in all cases where they do not clash with the laws of God. A woman, in such a case, is an object of deep commiseration, although, having brought the evil upon herself, by a desecration of all her most holy instincts, she suffers but a just and most fitting expiation of her fault. I could not love, and would not give myself away to a man on whose wisdom I could not rely as I>D God's, to whose will I could not submit as to God's." " Idolater ! Would you set up an earthly God, and fall down and worship him ?" " ' Wives, submit yourselves to your husbands as to the Lord !' There is Scripture for the idolatry, if you choosn to call it so." " Pshaw ! If you were not talking foolishly, you would be talking wickedly. 'Satan can quote Scripture for his pur pose.' " " So he can. I am now quite convinced of that fact. But do not let us trifle with such holy and beautiful mysteries, dear Kate. There is another text of Scripture to the same pur- pose " "Oh, yes! There are hundreds; pray don't recite them." " Just this one, Kate, I love it so much. ' The head of the woman is man; the head of the man is Christ; and the head of Christ is God.' Is it not a lovely chain, a beautiful climax, from weakness to Omnipotence; like Jacob's ladder from earth to heaven ?" " Sweet Providence ! You have put my brains in a complete whirl, with heaven and earth, and chains and ladders, and heads and husbands ; but out of the chaos one fact and feeling itands very di3tinctly. If Lem Dunn expects any such sub- 84 THE WIFE'S VICTORY. ordination from me, he will find himself very much mistaken/ but be is not so presuming, poor Lena Dunn " " I think you will find yourself mistaken in your estimate of his character and expectations." " Well, perhaps so j in that case, I shall only have a little more trouble in breaking him in. But suppose now, only for argument, that you are deceived in Leslie ; suppose his temper to be violent ?" ' " I will take care not to arouse it " " His will unbending ?" " I shall not waste my strength nor risk my peace by seek- ing to bend it." " His nature selfish ?" " Mcthinks, as I love and esteem him more highly than my- self, I should only unite with him in his self-worship." " His heart and mind unprincipled and depraved ?" " Impossible ! impossible I" exclaimed Mary indignantly. " I will not for a single instant suppose such a thing, even for argument's sake. I have seen my error in permitting you to go on so long. Leslie has none of the bad qualities you have named. He is every way worthy of the highest esteem." " And if he were not so ?" " If I were his wife, my duties would not be less incumbent upon me would not be less scrupulously performed. But 1 shall not find myself in the degrading position of a wife who cannot reverence her husband, in giving myself to Leslie. I obey a Divine instinct that will not mislead me; in loving him, I shall .offer the best worship, and in obeying him the most acceptable service to the Deity." Mary and Catherine Gleason had lost their parents during their infancy, and had become the charge of their grandfather old Captain Gleason, a retired merchant. At the time Captain Gleason received his granddaughters into his house, he was ivourning the loss of his younger son, who was supposed to have perished at sea, on his passage home from Europe. Th THE WIFE'S VICTORY. 35 snip in which he was to have taken passage had never been heard of since her setting sail from Liverpool, and was now believed to have been wrecked. Years flew by, and no clue was obtained to the fate of the lost ship or the lost son. Mary Gleason, at the age of sixteen, had, in obedience to her grandfather, given her hand to Mr. Lindal, a wealthy mer- chant, some twenty years her senior. In the second year of her marriage, she became the mother of a lovely little girl. Soon after the birth of the little Sylvia, the failure and death of Mr. Lindal left Mary again dependent on the bounty of her grandfather, who received her and her child with the deepest sympathy and affection. Little Sylvia soon became the espe- cial pet and plaything of the whole household. Although Mary Lindal had faithfully discharged her dutiea as a wife, she had never loved her husband, except as a friend. Her whole affections centered upon her child, the little Sylvia. She was her constant companion, in doors and out doors, in parlour, chamber, and street, by day ; and at night she slept encircled in her arms, pressed to her bosom. At the age of lour years, Sylvia had been attacked with a violent and con- tagious fever. No words can describe the anguish of the mother, as she watched, day after day, and night after night, for weeks, beside the bed of the little sufferer ; no pen can portray the joy when, at last, her darling was pronounced out of danger. Mrs. Lindal was very beautiful, graceful, and accomplished, and a co-heiress with her sister Catherine ; consequently, she was much followed and flattered. Notwithstanding her nume- rous admirers, and some very eligible offers, the seventh year of her widowhood had passed away, and she was still unmar- ried. In the mean time, Catherine Gleason had grown up to womanhood, more radiantly beautiful than her sister had ever been. At length, in the twenty-fifth year of her age, Mrs. Lindal taoamr acquainted with Mr. Leslie, the subject of the convcrsa- 36 THE WIFE'S VICTOR T. tion with which this sketch opens. Mr. Leslie was a man of great personal attractions, pure morals, and distinguished talents. Mary Lindal ever listened to his brilliant conversa- tion with delighted attention. Convinced by his clear-sighted views and able exposition of truth, she had insensibly acquired a habit of shaping her opinions by his own. There was one circumstance about their acquaintance that peculiarly attracted Mary. It was this : He never flattered her, never by any chance paid her a compliment, excepting this the most, the only acceptable one, of constantly seeking her society. I think it was that agreeable giber, Rochefoucault, who somewhere asserted that any woman may be safely flattered on any subject, from the profundity of her understanding to the exquisite taste of her fan. Without venturing to differ from such authority, I will simply assert that Mary Liudal was an exception to this rule. At the end of a twelvemonth's acquaintance, Grenville Dormer Leslie and Mary Lindal were married, and took pos- session of a handsome house, in a fashionable quarter of the city. An event occurred soon after their marriage, that greatly pained the affectionate heart of Mary. This was the death of her grandfather. The old gentleman had made a will, leav- ing his property equally divided between the sisters, Mary and Catherine. This property, however, as is frequently the case, was not half so large as had been reported, and his grand- daughters inherited only about twenty thousand dollars apiece. A few moments before his death, while holding little Sylvia's hand within his own, Captain Grleason turned his dim eyes on Leshj and said, " I have been thinking of this poor child, Leslie ; if time were allowed me, I would alter my will, giv- ing her mother's share of the property to her at her mother's doath, or perhaps at her own marriage. You are wealthy, THE WIFE'S VICTORY. 37 Leslie, and your children, if you shall have any, will be hand- somely provided for, while poor Sylvia " " Shall fare as one of my own," said Leslie. " I believe you, and I thank you; now call Mary." Leslie summoned his wife. " Mary," said the dying man, as she came up to the bedside, ' I leave you a certain sum ; I wish you and Leslie to consider it as intrusted to your care for the future use of Sylvia. Yon will, of course, have the use of it for for many years to come." The old man spoke with difficulty. Turning his fast- failing eyes once more on Mr. and Mrs. Leslie, he added, " 1 have been so strangely thoughtless of this poor child's future but now promise to do as I ask you." Mary promised, through her tears, while Leslie assured him that his wishes should be scrupulously fulfilled. The old man soon after breathed his last. Six months after the death of Captain Gleason, Mrs. Leslie and Catherine Gleason, who was an inmate of her house, were eitting together in the parlour, engaged in needlework, and talking of the expected return of Lieutenant Lemuel Dunn, the affianced husband of Catherine, whose marriage was to taka place upon the promotion of the lieutenant to a captaincy. There was a ring at the hall door, and a few minutes after " Mr. Gleason" was announced. Both ladies rose to receive him, looking strangely at each other, and at him. " I suppose it is impossible, ladies, that you should remem- ber or recognise a relative who left his native country while you were yet in the nursery. I am Henry Willis Gleason, at your service." Mrs. Leslie and Miss Gleason stood speechless with surprise and incredulity for an iiistant, but, quickly recovering their self-possession, greeted their new-found \elaUv with the warm- est affection. 88 THE WIFE'S VICTORY. "But my father ! girls, my dear old father. Where is he I How is he ?" The ladies wept. At last, Catherine found words to say " It is six months since grandfather went to Heaven." " Oh ! that he had lived to see this day !" exclaimed Mary. " Oh ! that he could have lived to be blessed in your return." " He believed me dead ?" questioned Grleason. " Yes," said Mary, " for the last ten years he has believed you dead." The reason for hia protracted absence and apparent death was now demanded and explained. It was a long story, in substance the following : Ten years before, he had left his na- tive shores, to make a voyage to Europe and a tour of the Con- tinent. After having travelled over the greater part of Europe, he visited the city of St. Petersburg and the court of Russia, where, after a residence of some months, he was so unfortunate as to give offence in some unknown manner to the Emperor, for which he was banished to Siberia for a term of ten years; and these ten years had actually been passed among the ever- lasting snows of Asiatic Russia. Upon his return to St. Pe- tersburg, after receiving his discharge, he met with some tra- velling countrymen of his own, who furnished him with money and everything requisite for his comfortable return home. Gleason had but just concluded his narrative, when Leslie en. tered, wh), on being introduced to him, expressed the most sincere satisfaction at his unexpected return. " Mary," said Mr. Leslie, entering his wife's room, on the morning suceeding that of Gleason's arrival, "Mary, I wisb to hold a few moments' counsel with you." Mrs. Leslie, who, with a flushed cheek and kindling eye, was gazing upon an exquisite picture upon the easel before Lei, while the brush was half raised in her hand to give auothei touch to the piece, did not immediately hear the entr mce or THE WIFE'S VICTOUV. 39 remark of her husband, and she started with surprise and pa'm, as an impatient voice exclaimed at her side " I wish, madam, you would not consume so much time over that paltry daubing, nor become so engrossed in it as to be utterly unconscious of all that is going on around you." Mary instantly laid down her brush (and it was years before she again resumed it), and turned with a gentle and cheerful smile to listen to what her husband had to say. " At the time that Captain Gleason made his will, he sup- posed his son to be deceased, did he not ?" "Yes; from the loss of the ship, and as Uncle Henry did not return or write." " And, if he had known that his son was living, he would, of course, have left him the bulk of his property ?" " Doubtless." " Then you must see, as I do, that the property should and must be restored to him, as the rightful heir." " The whole of it ?" " Of course, the whole of it." " Catherine will not agree to it." 11 Catherine may do as she pleasee with that which she may choose to consider is justly as well as legally her own, but the portion left to us must be given to the proper inheritor." " The portion left to Sylvia, you mean," amended the mo- ther, gently. " I mean nothing of the kind," said Leslie, with cold gravity. " Surely you remember your promise," said Mary. " Surely, madam, I remember the promise given to a dying father, who little thought when he exacted it that he had a living son, or that the promise ever would be urged as an ex- cuse for keeping that son out of his just inheritance. I am pained to see, madam, that your feelings as a mother somewhat obscure your sense of justice. I shall be glad to obtain your 2 4l> THE WIFE'S VICTORY. cheerful cooperation in this matter, but if that is impossible I must act without it." Mary, who saw that she had been wrong, and that a cloud Lad gathered upon the brow of her irritable lord, hastened to dissipate it by saying, " Yes, my motherly love has made me wish to be unjust; forgive me, and do whatever seems to you to be right; my dear husband, I will subscribe to all." " Thank you, dear Mary ; and now I will confess to you that the giving up of that money will be as great a sacrifice on my part as it is on yours in behalf of your daughter; for just at this time my business is greatly embarrassed, and the use of twenty thousand dollars for a year or so would be of incalculable benefit to me. But the sacrifice must be made, notwithstanding." " Yes, it must be made. You are right, as you always are." But the child's interest was sacrificed, not so much to tha mother's sense of justice as to her wifely duty to her hus- band's will. " Mary Leslie !" said Catherine, bursting into her sister's bedroom, with a heated and angry brow, " I hope you have not really consented to sign away all that property you had in trust for little Sylvia ?" " Yes," said Mary, quietly. "And why? why? why have you made your child a beggar ?" " My husband thought it right to give up the property, and I obey his wishes." " Spaniel I" exclaimed Catherine, with a withering sneer, and flung out of the room. The necessary arrangements were soon made, and Gleason put in possession of one-half the wealth of his deceased father. Mary Leslie saw that her child's only chance of independence was cut off for ever; but she was a loyal Christian and a loving wife, and she reposed trustingly under the shadow of the good- uess of God, and in the righteousness of the husband to whom THE WIFE'S VICTORY 41 he had given her. And even though it did sometimes pain- fully cross her mind, that Leslie might have been a little more gentle with her, in a controversy in which her maternal feelings were so deeply involved, she considered that his somewhat overbearing temper was the sole defect in an otherwise ex- cellent character, and she prayed for patience and strength to "overcome evil with good." She remembered with pride and pleasure the purity and strength of principle that had forced him to alienate a sum which, however finally disposed of, would just now have so materially assisted him in his busi- ness. With Kate, however, she had much ado to keep her temper; and she looked forward, with secret joy, to the time when " Lena Dunn's" promotion should deliver her from the trial. Kate often indulged in a recreation which she herself denominated " speaking her mind," and which was anything but an amusement to Mrs. Leslie ; so that Mary could not always refrain from repaying her in kind ; for, in her love for Kate, there was not, of course, that feminine instinct of sub- mission that characterized her love for her husband. With Mary, love was religion ; and her love to God and to her husband always acted upon and augmented each other. Mary Leslie could not, therefore, be unhappy ; on the contrary, her daily sacrifice of obedience would have been a source of the greatest heart happiness, but that her husband, from real or seeming insensibility, never noticed the offering, by commend- ing the votary. But the greatest trial and the greatest triumph of the wife were now at hand. Twelve months succeeding the events recorded above, Mrs. Leslie sat in her parlour. It was eight o'clock in the evening, the snow was falling fast without, within everything wore an air of the greatest possible comfort. A coal fire was glowing in the grate, a snow-white cloth was laid for tea. Mrs. Leslie reclined upon a lounging chair, near the fire j her face wai somewhat paler and thinner than when we noticed her last. 42 TIIE WIFE'S VICTORY. but scarcely less attractive. Her large, tender eyes wore an expression of holy and meditative love that was very beautiful Her work (an embroidered slip) had fallen from her hands upon the carpet. Sylvia sat on a low stool at her feet, dress ing a doll, Catherine reclined upon a distant sofa, absorbed in a novel (her constant occupation, when not visiting, dress- ing or disputing). " Who are you making this for, mamma ?" inquired Sylvia, taking up the little dress. " For whom. You should try to speak correctly, darling," said her mother, coaxingly. "Well, then, for whom, mamma, are you working this little frock ?" persisted Sylvia. " First find out what rule of grammar you have just now transgressed, and then perhaps I may tell you, darling." " Why can't you tell the child ? For my part I don't see the use of mystifying children," exclaimed Kate, throwing aside her book, and coming to the fire. The front door was now heard to open, and in another instant Mr. Leslie entered. Going up to Mary, with more tenderness than we have ever Tet seen him display, he took her hand, and pressing a kiss pon her brow, said " How are you, this evening, sweet wife ? Nay, sit still f will ring for tea, or Sylvia, do you do so. Why, Sylvia, an affectionate daughter should be ever on the watch to save hex mother trouble." Sylvia sprang to obey. Tea was soon brought in, and they gathered around the table. "I bring you good tidings, Catherine, Lieutenant Dunn Las received his promotion." " Then I congratulate the lieutenants. There is one fool the less among their number," said Catherine, piqued, per- haps, that " Lciu Dunn" had not hastened to her with the news himself. THE WIFE'S vicToar. 40 "Capt. Dunn is now on duty, but will pay his respects to you to-morrow," said Leslie, divining her cause of dissatis- faction. After the tea service was removed, the conversation became rather constrained. Catherine took up her everlasting novel, Mary resumed her seat and her needlework. Sylvia, bent on following up the hint of her step-father, began to arrange ho? mother's work-box, while Leslie walked up and down the floor, after the manner of a man who has done, or is about to do, something disagreeable. At last he took a seat, drew a letter from his pocket, examined the superscription, turned it over, glanced at Catherine, who had closed the book, and was now looking at him with quiet impudence, and finally replaced the letter in his pocket. He evidently had something to say, but was withheld by the presence of Catherine. I am really mor- tified to be obliged to record such a weakness on the part of the stately Mr. Leslie, but truth must come, and Mr. Leslie really stood in a little awe of Catherine. He had no sort of influence over her. She would do and say just exactly what she pleased, however disagreeable it might be, and he could not prevent her; nor could he decently turn her out of the house, nor would he descend to quarrel with her. Consequently, Mr. Leslie was ever on his guard to avoid any chance of controversy with Miss Gleason. Fortunately, Mary, with her usual tact, saw the impatience of Leslie to unburden his mind, and, making an excuse to Catherine, retired early to her own room. Leslie followed her almost immediately. Catherine's beautiful lips were disfigured by a mockiug emile, as her glance followed Leslie from the room. " Come, Sylvia, honey, let us go up stairs to bed The I>ashaw is meditating some new atrocity. I know it b) hi? looks. He is afraid to let me know it, though." ' Ma'am ?" said Sylvia, raising her large eyes to the fac of her a\ot. 44 THE WIFE'S VICTORY. " Yes ; and I should not wonder if it was against you again, too. Perhaps he wants to black your face, and crisp your hair, and sell you for a negro." " Who no of whom are you speaking, Aunt Catherine ?" ." Of His Infallibility the Grand Seignior, your step-father." " Then, please do not speak of him in that way, Aunt Catherine, and call him bad names." " Why not, miss ?" " Because mamma would not like it." " Oh ! your mamma is as great a . But what are you staring me in the face in that manner for ? Don't you know it is very rude ? Come along up stairs, child." And they left the room. " Something has disturbed you, Leslie," said Mary, after waiting for a few moments in vain for Leslie to open the con- versation. "May I inquire, without indiscretion, what it is?" " Certainly, Mary. I have not now, nor have I ever had, any concealments from you. I have never, from a false senti- ment of tenderness, withheld from you any cause I might have for anxiety. I have several vexing cases just now. In one of them, you have an especial, perhaps you may think, an exclusive interest." Leslie then drew the letter from his pocket, and added "This letter is from Madame D'Arblay, of New Orleans, now in this city, at the Astor House." " From whom ?" ' Madame D'Arblay, the mother of the late Mr. Lindal, and the grandmother of your daughter, Sylvia." "Oh! yes; I recollect now having heard that the Another of Mr. Lindal married the second time a Frenchman by the came of D'Arblay, and removed to New Orleans; but that was many years ago." "Yes. Ani now she writes that she has been left, by th THE WIFE'S VICTORY. 45 recent death of Mr. D' Arblay, entirely alone, the srle mistress of a large fortune, without a relative on earth, except her grandchild, our daughter, Sylvia." " Well ?" questioned Mary, pale with a presentiment of what was coming. " Madame D' Arblay makes us the very handsome proposal to make Sylvia her heiress, on condition that we allow her to return with her grandmother to New Orleans, and reside per- manently beneath her roof." " But I cannot part with Sylvia," said Mrs. Leslie. "Do not decide hastily, Mary; you must consider in thia matter your child's interests, not your own feelings," said Leslie, tenderly but gravely. " I cannot ! I cannot part with her. Indeed, indeed, I can- not," cried Mary, trembling. " But this is childish, Mary." " It would break Sylvia's heart to leave me." " Not at all. By no means. Grief is very short-lived with children of her age." " Yes ! yes !" exclaimed Mary, passionately, "and affection, too ! and impressions, too ! She will soon forget her mother. She will only be consoled for her separation from, by ceasing to love, her mother !" " You have not a mother's disinterestedness, Mary, or you would be willing to make any sacrifice of your own feelings to secure for your child the immense advantages offered by her grandmother." " You did not seem to consider wealth such an immense advantage twelve months ago," said Mary, bitterly. " Mrs. Leslie forgets herself, and forgets what is due to me," said Leslie, rising and walking towards the door, adding, as he was about to leave the room, " I will leave you, Mary, by reflection and solitude, to recover your lost recollection." Mary sprang to his side, and, seizing his hand, exclaimed, id she burst into tears 46 THE WIFE'S VICTORY. " Forgive me! forgive me ! It-is the first time; it shall be the last. But my heart is so wrung, so tortured ; you do not know- you could not understand, unless you were a parent. But tell me, then, how you have decided; for that you have decided I know, and that your decision is immovable I know j therefore, tell me at once ; it will save us a world of useless argument, controversy, and vexation. How have you de- cided ?" " That Sylvia shall return with her grandmother," said Leslie, gently but firmly. Mary let fall the hand of her husband, and, growing very faint, sunk back on her chair. " These are the reasons that have influenced my decision," said Leslie, resuming his seat by her side : " We have deprived Sylvia, justly and righteously, it is true, but we have deprived her, of the reversion of a sum that would have made her inde- pendent. At the period of that transaction, I believed that I should be able to secure for Sylvia every advantage which that money would have given, and, finally, to have given her a portion of equal amount. I will now admit, that the tem- porary possession of that sum led me into a speculation which failed by the sudden withdrawal of it. I have never recovered that failure, and I am now on the very brink of insolvency. Nothing but the strictest economy and the most careful finan- cial diplomacy will save me. I have therefore great doubts of ever being able to carry out my plans for Sylvia ; conse- quently, it becomes my duty, my painful duty, to determine that our daughter be given up to her grandmother." " I did intend to say no more," murmured Mary, in a quivering voice, "yet " "Well?" " Madame D'Arblay, is she a proper person, at her advanced age, to bring up a girl ?" " Read her letter," said Leslie, handing it. " You will find no infirmity there ; and for the rest, you have doubtless THE WIFE'S VICTORY. 47 hoard enough of her piety and intelligence to feel secure that the moral and intellectual welfare of youi daughter will be safe, while her vast wealth will insure her all the more worldly advantages of which she is now deprived." " But is it not very sickly at New Orleans ?" " You have not yet read Madame D' Arblay's letter through, or you would see that she spends her summers at her villa on the Gulf, which, she says, is remarkably healthy in its loca- tion." " When shall we have an interview with Madame D' Arblay ?" " I was thinking to-morrow, about twelve o'clock, you had better make her a call." " And do you know do you know how long she will stay in the city ? I mean, how long'shall I yet have dear Sylvia with me ?" And the mother burst into tears. "I do not know, of course, as I have not yet seen Madame D' Arblay. But we will talk no more at present, Mary ; you must compose yourself. I will leave you for that purpose for a few moments. On my return, let me find you quiet." And Leslie descended the stairs. Mary threw herself on her knees, and prayed long and earnestly, then arose calmly, and retired to rest. " See here, Mr. Leslie," exclaimed Kate Gleason, as she entered the breakfast parlour the next morning, " What have you been saying to Mary ? She is up in her chamber in tears and Sylvia is sobbing by her side. I can't get anything out of her, but I know you are at the bottom of it. Now, what is it all about ?" " I have no explanations to make you, Miss Gleason," re- plied Leslie, taking his hat, and leaving the room to evade a quarrel. " I'll make Lem Dunn call you out for that, sir !" cried Kate, as he went out. Kate looked the very idea of a beautiful scold, as she stood there, her bosom heaving, her cheeks glowing, eyes sparkling, 48 THE WIFE'S VICTORY. lips curling and quivering, and the tangled masses of jet-black ringlets falling in tear-sprinkled disorder about her face and neck. " Captain Dunn !" announced a servant, throwing open the d.ior, and Captain Dunn entered. "Ah ! I'm glad you've come ! I'm very glad you've come. You're come in excellent times. Go after that man ! Go after him ! He's he's" Kate was out of breath. " What man, dear* Kate ? What is the matter ?" inquired Captain Dunn, in surprise. " That Leslie !" " Leslie ! Why, what has he done ?" " He has abused his wife, and insulted mo ; that is, he has nade her weep, and treated me with contempt." " Tell me all about it, Kate tell me all about it ; and if be has been wanting in proper respect to my little betrothed I'll I'll annihilate him," said Captain Dunn, laughing; for he had known Leslie too long and too well to imagine that there could be any real cause of complaint. Unfortunately, Catherine could tell him but little about it, and that little was not very much to her credit. " He's a terrible fellow, Kate," laughed Captain Dunn, as she concluded her account, " a very terrible fellow, indeed. Upon second thought, I should rather not fight him. He would shoot at me he might hit me in which case, I might be mortally wounded, and the service would lose" "A coward! an arrant coward! a poltroon, who will one day bring disgrace upon the flag, if he is not hung before that day comes !" exclaimed Kate, as she flounced out of the room, in a great passion, passing Leslie, who was about to re-enter Captain Dunn was laughing heartily. " You laugh now, my dear Dunn," said Leslie, smiling, " but will you laugh a year hence ?" : " Yes I oh, yes ! that is, I hope to do so." THE WIFE' 8 VICTORY. 49 " Have you no misgivings concerning your future peace ?" asked Leslie, seriously. " For my peace f I don't know; for my happiness, not ono. Kate's temper amuses me beyond measure." " Yet, I heard some ugly names called, as I came in." " Yes ! yes ! Oh ! I've no doubt Kate will have given me twenty beatings before this time next year." " You will weary of it." " Well, when the blows grow unpleasant, I have only to catch the little shrew in my arms, and hold her very tight, until she becomes quiet and good," said Dunn, laughing. " Ah ! and then do you know what she will do ?" "No. What?" " Try to frighten you to death, by going into a hysteric fit, or worse falling into a swoon." " Ha ! ha ! ha ! Is that Mrs. Leslie's method !" " No ! Bless dear Mary ! Don't jest with her name, Dunn." " I'll be hanged if I don't, just as much as I please. What ! Haven't you been jesting with Kate's? ' It's a bad rule that won't work both ways.'" Mrs. Leslie entered at this moment, equipped for a drive, and Leslie excused himself, and attended his wife to her car- riage. Mrs. Leslie drove to the Astor House, and was shown into the private parlour of Madame D'Arblay. Madame d'Arblay was at this time in her sixty-fifth year. Her tall, graceful, and majestic figure and stately carriage would have rather re- pulsed the gentle Mary, had not her face been so sweetly pre- possessing. Her countenance wore an expression of holy calm, of heavenly goodness, very beautiful to look upon. Mary was at once reassured by her countenance and demeanor. They conversed a long time, the subject being a recapitulation of and enlargement upon the plan proposed in her letter. She made many inquiries, however, about Sylvia, and expressed a great desire to see her. At Mary's earnest entreaty, Madame 50 THE WIFE'S VICTORY. d'Arblay consented to leave her apartments at Astoi's, and take up her abode for the period of her visit at Mrs. Leslie's. The next hour, Madame D'Arblay was comfortably ensconced in Mary's large easy chair, by the parlour fireside. Sylvi.-i who had fallen in love with her at first sight, was nestling at her feet. Mrs. Leslie sat with her back to the light, to shad j as much as possible her tear-stained face. Kate was sulking in her own room, and " would not be entreated" to come down and be sociable. There was so much in the pious and intelli- gent conversation of Madame D'Arblay to set the fears of Mary at rest on the subject of the welfare of her child, that when the dinner hour arrived, and Leslie, Captain Dunn, "Uncle Gleason," and Kate, had joined them, Mary had actually become cheerful. The month of Madame D'Arblay's visit drew to a close. Mary, after a severe struggle with herself, and much prayer, had grown composed, and tranquilly prepared Sylvia for her journey. Leslie was unusually attentive and tender towards her; Ma- dame D'Arblay mentally condemned the seeming indifference of Mrs. Leslie to the departure of her child, but she quietly ascribed it to the influence of her second marriage. Kate, with whom Sylvia was a great pet, had out-scolded her proto- type and namesake, and was now not upon speaking terms with any of the family, and had banished " Lem Dunn" into perpetual exile until recalled. Sylvia, child-like, was delight- ed with her new dresses, new books, and new toys, and the prospect of a long journey and new scenes, and had no room in her heart for painful sensations. * * * * * * * * * The last evening of Madame D'Arblay's stay arrived. "Oh ! Aunt Catherine ! Aunt Catherine !" exclaimed Sylvia, bursting into Kate's sanctum, " to-morrow we're going. I'm so glad. Mamma has just laid out my new blue pelisse and velvet hood, and my nice chinchilla muff, all ready for to-mor- row at six " THE WIFE'S VICTORY. 51 "Yes, miss!" said Kate, severely, "you seem very much delighted to leave your poor, pale, sick mother, who is grieving herself to death at the idea of parting with you, who do not cure for her." A thunderbolt fell upon the child's gladness, and destroyed it all at once. She burst into tears. " Oh ! Aunt Catherine, is mamma sorry ? Doesn't she want me to go ? I thought she wanted me to go. I forgot I had to leave mamma ; I only thought of the fun. I will run now and tell mamma that I won't go; no, that I won't." And Sylvia made for the door. " Mr. Leslie will compel you, miss," said Catherine. The name that was a spell to all the household arrested the flying steps of Sylvia for an instant, then saying " I will speak with mamma," she ran out. ********* Mary Leslie, who had nerved her gentle heart to go through the impending trial, was in her own room, still engaged in laying out such articles of dress as would be needed by Sylvia for the next morning. Mrs. Leslie's tranquillity was entirely overthrown by the impetuosity of Sylvia, who now burst into her presence, exclaiming, as she threw herself into her mother's arms, "Mamma! mamma! I can't leave you; I don't want to go any longer, now I know you do not wish it. I love you, mamma, better than fine clothes, and grandmothers, and jour- neys ; and so, mamma, I cannot go, and I will not go." Mrs. Leslie was quite unprepared for this outburst ; Sylvia had been so tractable and so cheerful up to this time. She repressed her tears with difficulty, and replied, with an effort " Cannot and will not, Sylvia ! why, what manner of words are those, and where learnt you them ? You will, of course, do as your parents wish you." " Aunt Catherine says that if they send me away from you, mamma, it will break your heart, for that you don't want me to go " 02 THE WIFE'S VICTORY. " Catherine is mistaken ; listen to me, my darling Sylvia I do want you to go ; and though I may be very sorry to part with my dear little girl, yet I shall soon get over the grief, because I know it will be for her benefit. And now," added the mother, with an effort at cheerfulness, " let us talk about the fine ride in the cars you will have, and look at the pretty things I have put in your nice little travelling basket." " No, no, mamma ! No, no, mamma ! I don't care for the ride in the cars, and don't want the travelling basket. I love you ! I want to stay with you," exclaimed Sylvi?,, bursting into tears. " Oh, mamma, don't let me go ! don't, please don't. I did not think about parting from you before, and I know I can't ! indeed I can't !" There was grief, there was agony, on the mother's counte- nance, as she crushed back the rising emotions of her heart, and choked back hor tears. She struggled to speak, but could not do so with the calmness requisite to soothe her child. She could only press her closer to her bosom in silence. Neither spoke for some moments ; at length " Mamma, do you know the night you were married, when I slept alone in my little bed ? Well, mamma, I cried all night; I could not sleep, because I was away from you. ] knew that I should see you soon in the morning, but still 1 wept; yes, and I wept many nights, too, although you did not know it, and although you were not further off than the next room, and I could see you every day. Now, so many days must come and go, and so many nights pass, and and no mother to to " and Sylvia, breaking from her mother's hold, threw herself, in a fit of hysterical sobbing, upon the carpet. " Oh ! God, have mercy on me, and give me strength," ex- claimed the mother, in strong emotion, as she went toward Sylvia, stood for an instant to gain self-contrcl, then took her child in her arms, and, reseating herself, pressed her to her bosom, smoothed back the shining ringlets of her hair, aud THE WIFE'S VICTORY. 53 imprinted kiss after kiss upon her fair brow, as she talked gently and soothingly to her, and, rocking her to and fro, finally succeeded in subduing her emotion. Exhaustion, after so much excitement, soon put Sylvia to sleep; yet still the mother rocked and sung, even as she had done when the littlo girl in her arms was a babe thinking, perhaps, that it might be the last time she should ever hold her thus. At last she arose, and, laying Sylvia on the bed, sunk upon her knees, and poured out her whole soul in prayer to her Creator first, that this trial might yet be spared her, " if possible ;" then, that if it were not, she might have strength and resignation to bear it cheerfully. How earnestly, passionately, fervently, she prayed ! And when emotion became so great that words failed, the upturned, straining eye, the clasped hands, and heaving sighs, bore up the silent prayer; and at last, when the weary head sunk upon the folded hands, and thought no longer took the form of words, the heart, the untiring heart, still bore up the prayer, in one intense, absorbing yearning after mercy. Unknown to Mary, there was one spectator to this scene. Leslie was standing within the door. He had entered, silently and unobserved, at the moment that Mary had lain the sleeping Sylvia on the bed, and sunk down bv her side in prayer. The first words of the prayer arrested his intention of coming forward or speaking. He had seen, and had heard and never before had the pure and holy heart of his wife been so unveiled as in that prayer ; and while it yet ascended, in all its Christian beauty and eloquence, he quietly withdrew from the room, murmuring, " The angel, the angel, how blind I have been ! I must save her this trial; there is but one way, for I must save her without sacrificing Sylvia." lie passed to the door of Madame D'Arblay's room, and knocked. The pleasant voice of the old lady bade him enter; he did so, and merely saying " Will you come with me to Mary's chamber, Madame ? She seems much distressed at the thought of parting with her daughter to-morrow." II< 54 THE WIFE'S VICTORY. accompanied her thither, and withdrew. Mary's voice wa still heard, but in low, interrupted, and quivering tones. Her tears were falling like rain, and her hands wringing and twisting over each other; but the words of Mary's prayer, breathed, as she deemed, to the ear of God alone, unfolded the most secret thoughts and feelings of Mary's profoundly pious heart. " Oh, God !" exclaimed Madame D' Arblay, ," I did not dream of this. Mary, Mary, my dear child, arise. Your prayer is heard and answered." Mary started in surprise to her feet, and was caught to the bosom of the old lady. " Mary, my dear daughter," said she, " your child shall not be taken from you, neither shall she lose anything by remaining with you. Oh ! Mary, how little did I know you ! How unjustly have I judged you, when I condemned the indifference with which you seemed to regard a separation from your child. But, Mary, how could you suppose that I would have taken my granddaughter away, had I not thought that you were willing, nay, anxious, for her removal to my abode ? Forgive me, Mary, but I fancied that your second marriage had unnaturally alienated your heart from your child ; I was therefore the more anxious to receive her. But, Mary, why did you not make me acquainted with your feelings on the subject?" Mary, who during this long speech had had time to collect herself, replied, " Mr. Leslie, Madame, had determined that Sylvia should go with you. He thought that her residence beneath your roof would be a solace to you, and an advantage to herself. I could not seek to thwart his purpose, by making an appeal to your sympathies, you know, Madame." " You were right, my daughter, perfectly right. You have won my deepest love, my highest esteem, Mary Leslie ! You have won it by your self-control. You have established your- self firmly and permanently in your husband's respect and affection; more than that, you have proved and known the THE WIFE'S VICTORY. 55 power of faith and prayer. Never forget it, my child ! Now, Mary, I must tell you my improvised plan. Though I will not take Sylvia away, neither will I leave her. I am glad thia has h ippened. I like you so much, Mary, I want to live with you. I have been so solitary j and, after all. a little girl is not company enough for an old woman. So, Ma*y, if you will give me an easy chair by your fireside, and a plar-e at your table, I will even spend the close of my life with you. I will do everything for Sylvia here, that I would have done at home; and when I die, I will leave her all I possess; and if she mar- ries before that event, I will dower her handsomely. What say you, Mary ?" " Oh, Madame !" exclaimed Mary, seizing her aged hands, and pressing them to her bosom and her lips, " if I have been silent, it has been from deep emotion. Words will not convey my thanks. It will take a lifetime to live my grati- tude." At this moment the supper-bell rang, and its alarum awoke Sylvia from her deep sleep, who, when informed of the change in her grandmother's project, was delighted beyond measure; and, after bestowing many caresses on her grand- mother and her mamma, ran to tell "Aunt Catherine" the good news. What effect the " good news" had upon Kate may be gathered from the following circumstance: Kate took pen and paper from her desk, and wrote a note. Meeting the errand-boy on the stairs as she descended to supper, she gave him the note, telling him to carry it to Captain Dunn, on board the store ship Endymiou, promising to give him a half-dollar if he returned with an answer very quickly. Kate's note ran thus "CAPTAIN DUNN : Will you be so kind as to pall at Har >crs' ; and get < Forest Days' for me. Jt JB just out. Bring 't to me this evening. Yours, &c. C. GLEASON. " Friday Eveniny" for Kate, with all her impetuosity, exercised a precaution which 56 THE WIFE'S VICTOR T. 1 would recommend to all young ladies, and would not commit herself, by writing love-letters or billets-doux; for she said, " 1 might change my mind, or he might change his; and then there !" Captain Dunn answered the note in person, and took his seat with the happy family at the supper table. Kato's good-humour was entirely restored. She welcomed back her exile with affectionate frankness. Sylvia's bright eyes were glancing and flashing from one face to another, each counte- nance seeming to reflect its own gladness. Madame D'Arblay regarded the scene with a look of quiet self-complacency, that seemed to say, " I have made them all happy !" Mary's coun- tenance expressed quiet and grateful happiness. Leslie's eyd were occasionally fixed upon the face of his wife, with looks of ineffable and holy tenderness. Leslie never subjected her lov to another trial. He was deeply moved by the gentle resigna- tion, the tender submission, with which she had yielded up the dearest object of her affections and her most cherished wishes, to be dealt with according to his good pleasure. That submission had given her a place in and an influence over his heart, that no beauty, grace, or accomplishments no, nor in- tellectual nor moral excellence without it could have secured. A month from this time, a gay party was assembled at Mr Leslie's to honour the nuptials of Captain Lemuel Dunn, U. S. N., and Miss Catherine Gleason. The married life of Kate Gleason, who entered upon hoi duties with views and feelings so opposite to those of Mary, which we have endeavoured to illustrate, will form the subject of another chapter. THE MARRIED SHREW: A SEQUEL TO THE WIFE'S VICTORY. OH I when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd ; She was a vixen when she went to school; And though she is but little, she is fierce. SHAKSPEABE. KATE DUNN entered the gay world of fashion first as a married woman, and decided was her success. Kate's life with her grandfather, and afterwards with the Leslies, had been very domestic, and, as she expressed it, very triste; she had gone "but little into society. Now she was resolved to have compensation, since no greater obstacle than " Lem Dunn" intervened. Formerly she was prevented from going to balls and parties by want of proper chaperonage ; now her state as a married woman rendered her independent of that. Kate was now resolved to combine all the pleasures of the maiden with the privileges of the matron ; consequently, in fashionable society, where her resplendent beauty and sparkling wit drew many admirers, she was always surrounded by a circle of young men, who were very well pleased to carry on a flirtation with a pretty woman, without the fear of a suit for breach of pro- mise before their eyes. There was one man, however, who was constantly banished from her circle, and that man was he* husband. (57) 68 THE MARRIED SHREW; A " There arc hundreds of intelligent men and pretty women here to-night; go and amuse yourself; I shall not be jealous ;" was the kind address of Kate to her husband, as he lingered by t-er side. Captain Dunn walked off, and took an extra glass of tcin-z. " Can you not comprehend that, as we are married now, your attendance can be dispensed with ; nay, more that it is outrt, absurd, to remember that you have a wife in the room ?" was the petulant speech with which she received him when he returned after an hour's absence. *' Decidedly, Captain Dunn, you are making yourself and me appear very ridiculous by this Darby and Joan exhibition of conjugal affection. Positively we shall be cited as a ' pat- tern couple ;' and I know nothing that could be more scandal- ous or alarming/' said Mrs. Dunn to the Captain, as they entered the carriage to return from a large party one evening. " I don't understand your opinions and feelings upon this subject, Catherine, but /don't like this fashionable manner of waiting upon any other woman .but my own wife, and seeing her attended by any other man except her own husband." " Oh, indeed, Captain Dunn, you make me quite sick, talk- ing so foolishly about ' own wives' and ' own husbands ;' the fact of our marriage is incontrovertible; there is no need to emphasize it so often." " Kate's head is a little turned by her French romances, but I feel sure her principles are really sound. I will not make myself 'ridiculous,' as she would call it, by freiting nd fuming, nor will I annoy her by useless remonstrance no'jo. Give her folly its full way; it will soon wear itself out, or" Captain Dunn paused iu his mental soliloquy, poured out and swallowed a glass of wine. A few weeks from this time, Captain Dunn was ordered to Bca, and made preparations, with a reluctant heart, to leave his bride A few days previous to joining his ship, he seated SEQUEL TO THE WIFE'S VICTORY. 59 Himself by the side of Catherine, and, passing his hands carcss- : ngly through her ringlets, said : " You will be very lonesome in this large house when I am gone, dear wife." "Oh! no, I shan't; I shall fill it with company; don't tumble my curls, please, Captain." Captain Dunn folded hia hands, and a sigh escaped him. " I have been thinking, Kate, of inviting my mother to take up her residence here during my absence." " To watch your wife, I presume, sir, and to look after your interests, of which you think me incapable." "Kate! how can you ; I had no thought beyond giv- ing yuu pleasure, by providing you with a desirable com- panion." " Then, Captain, I beg you will not trouble your mother to leave her own home, to come to me; it might greatly incon- venience her." " Not at all. Since my sister's marriage and departure for Europe, my mother is quite alone, and very sad ; she would be more cheerful here with you." u I do not think so old people are seldom contented out of their own homes." "Yes, but with my mother it is different; she has an excellent heart and most serene temper, and is prepared to love you as a daughter. Besides, her support has hitherto been my most agreeable duty; but I cannot now sustain the expense of two establishments; so you see the propriety, nay, the necessity, that obliges me to offer her a home here." "I thought it was all on my account," sneered Kate; "however, you may be sure she would be much better off in a good boarding-house." " Madam !" exclaimed Captain Dunn, in angry astonish- ment ; but, quickly controlling himself, and looking seriously in his wife's face, he inquired, " Am I to understand, Cathe- SO THE MARRIED SHREWj A rine, thai you are opposed to my mother's presence iu this house ?" Notwithstanding all her assurance, Kate's eyes fell, and her cheeks glowed under the gaze that was fixed upon her. She was determined to have her own way, however, though it would require some hardihood to tell the frank and noble- hearted man before her that she was opposed to having his mother under their roof. She replied with assumed firmness, but without raising her eyes " I have a great respect for your mother, Captain, and will show her every attention in my power ; but I do dislike the idea of a mother-in-law in the same house with me ; I cannot conquer my repugnance to your proposed measure j and you know, Captain, with such feelings on my part, your mother and myself could not get along comfortably together." " I certainly shall not insult her with t,h" proposition," said Captain Dunn haughtily, as he left the room. " I have conquered again," thought Kate. " Now, I really did feel like giving up once, but it won't do such feelings must not be encouraged they would soon enslave me. Men are naturally inclined to be tyrannical, particularly over their wives. Oh ! yes, decidedly, I was right in the affair of the mother-in-law. Good heavens ! I could not brook a prying, fault-finding mother-in-law in the house." Could Kate have followed with her eye her husband's steps that evening, through the various scenes of dissipation to which he resorted to drown thought, she might have exclaimed, with the conqueror of old, " Another such victory would ruin me." ********** Captain Dunn was absent three years, during which time Kate led a very gay life, despite the affectionate and repeated roD;:mstrances of Mrs. Leslie and Madame D'Arblay. She thought several times of writing to or visiting Mrs. Dunn, senior; but, unhappily, she did not know her address, being ignorant what arrangement Captain Dunn had finally mad SEQUEL TO THE WIPE'S VICTORY. 61 for her. The subject had never been mentioned between them since the evening it was first broached. Kate's summers were usually spent at some fashionable watering-place, and her winters in a round of visiting and amusement. The evening of Captain Dunn's expected return home, it chanced that a brilliant ball was given by Madame la Baronne V , the lady of the French ambassador. " The beautiful Mrs. Dunn" was among the most admired of the guests. It was after having gone through a waltz with a distinguished foreigner, that Kate sat down, when a note was placed in her hand, that read as follows : " DEAR CATHERINE : Come home; I am waiting for you; I should hasten to you, but I may not intrude. "L. D." " Tell Captain Dunn I will be home in an hour or two," said Catherine to the footman who brought the note. " Very well, Thomas," said Captain Dunn, on receiving this cool reply ; " bring me the morning papers, and a bottle of port." Notwithstanding the provoking coolnees of her message, when Catherine returned, a few hours after, the door was opened by Captain Dunn, who received her in his arms, and strained her to his bosom. " Good Heavens ! Captain," exclaimed Kate, releasing her- self, " you take my breath away and just see how you have crushed my dress and dishevelled my hair. Pray, don't be BO energetic." " You are looking in high health and beauty, my peerless Catherine," said Captain Dunn, as he gazed upon her with pridej not noticing her petulance. " Do reserve your gallant speeches for other women, Captain, and don't waste them upon your wife." However deeply pained Captain Dunn might have been by bis wife's coolness and levity, nothing of mortification or di- 62 THE MARRIED SHREWJ A jpproval was apparent in his manner. Captain Dunn liked & leave all his bad weather at sea. Some twelve months succeeding this event, Mrs. Dunn pre- sented her husband with a son and heir. " And now," thought the happy father, " my wife will love her home for her child's gake." But Captain Lemuel Dunn "reckoned without his host" ess, as a very few days demonstrated. "Where is the young sailor?" inquired he, as he took his seat by his wife's easy chair, a few days succeeding the birth of his son. " Mrs. Tenly has got him." " Mrs. Tenly who is she ?" " A young woman whom 1 have engaged as a wet mu.e." " Now, is it possible, Kate, that you mean to let your child be nursed at the bosom of another woman ?" " Yes j it is both possible and positive now, don't put on that disagreeable look it is not usual for ladies of my sta- tion" " Your station a rough sailor's wife" " Well, don't tease me ! my delicate health forbids" " Your delicate health ! Why, Kate, you have the finest constitution of any woman I know. You enjoy high I hat almost said rude health." " Well, then, if you must have it, I don't intend to spoil my figure by nursing a child. And I have no idea of going about the house in a slovenly wrapper, or ill-fitting corsage, for the sentimental nonsense of nursing my own baby." "Ha ! ha ! ha! that's the most amusing reason of all for you to give, Kate, who go about the house all the morning 'n a loose gown, with your hair in papers I" " Captain Dunn, you're a bore." " Well ! this nurse has she lost her own child ?" "No; she is raising it by hand." " Then you are really crutl, as well as silly." " Captain Dunn, please leave the room ; this interview ha fatigued me," said Kate, affecting languor. SEQUEL TO THE WIFE'S VICTORY. 0.1 If the reader will forgive the digression, I will describe a Binall, mean dwelling, not far from Captain Dunn's handsome house. In the basement story of a dilapidated old house in a miserable room, with broken-down doors, and cracked and fly-stained window-glasses on a poor straw bed, covered with a thin, faded counterpane, lay a shivering babe. A Coloured girl, in tattered garments, was trying to coax a few embers to burn in the mildewed fireplace. At a cry from the awakened child, the girl gave over her hopeless efforts, and, taking the infant up, she sat down upon a low stool, and commenced rocking it backward and forward in her lap, to still its cries. At tnis moment tne door opened, and Mrs. Tenly, the fine ladies' nurse, entered, Irew near her infant, and, while the tears coursed down her cheeks, looked upon it in silence. The little creature was now lying languidly across the girl's lap j its small limbs hung flaccidly, its tiny features were sharpened and attenuated, and its slumbers were interrupted by distress- ing moans. " How has she been, Nelly ?" she asked of the negro girl, " Her has been cryin' a dreat deal, ma'am." " Poor baby ! poor little one ! Oh, it is wicked, it is cruel, to give your nourishment to another child your own nour- ishment, that nature has provided for your own poor little feeble self to give it to another babe, and let you perish." The mother wept convulsively, as she took the babe from the little negro. " Clare t' de Lord, I wouldn't do it, mam ;" exclaimed the little girl, as she busied herself making the fire, and heating Borne water. " Ah, Nelly, I've tried every other way at getting bread !" Mrs. Tenly, after washing her little one, and dressed her in her night clothes, indulged herself by rocking her a few moments in her lap. " This will not do for me, though," said he; "that other chi'd will wake and cry, and Mrs. Dunn wUl 64 THE MARRIED SHREWJ A be displeased." Pressing her child to her bosom once again, she laid her upon the bed, and prepared to go. " Oh ! Nelly, take yood care of the baby, and I will bring you something pretty will you, Nelly ?" " I alluz does take care of her, ma'am." " And keep the panado warm in the corner, and give it to her when she wakes and cries in the night." " Yes, ma'am." Mrs. Tenly turned back to kiss the child again, and tucked her warmly up ; then stopped the broken pane of the window, and left the house, her eyes streaming with tears. This is no exaggerated picture. There are many such cases " I speak that I do know." Mrs. Tenly had come over to this country in an emigrant ship, in company with her husband and some hundred others. They had suffered much from sick- ness and privation, and many of them were provided for as paupers. But Mrs. Tenly and her husband had found a home in this wretched cellar, where, within a week after their arrival, on the same day she thanked God for the birth of her first child and wept the loss of its father. Upon her recovery from her confinement, she tried, but in vain, to procure needle-work or washing. Her efforts to find a place at service were equally unsuccessful. At this time, the opportunity being presented, she put her child from her bosom, and went out as a nurse. Mrs. Tenly could at least have gone for a while to the alms- house, which, though humiliating to the poorest and lowest, was yet better than the sacrificing of an infant's life, by cru- elly and dishonestly depriving it of its natural rights. There is but one circumstance that can exempt a woman from the duty of nursing her own children and that is, ill health ; and even then she has no right to engage a nurse, if, by so doing, she deprives another babe of its mother. ********** One morning, soon after Mrs. Dunn got about again, her nurse enta her own room, outraged and indignant ; and Captain Dunn at his hotel, busily preparing for his voyage. * * * * * * * * * The last day of Captain Dunn's stay arrived. His ship was to sail the next morning. He had made a last ineffectual effort to see his wife. She delighted to afflict him to the last safe moment, yet designed to have a full reconciliation before his departure. " Yes," said she, " to-morrow morning I will see him, and forgive him. It will not do to let him go away in despair; for during three years' absence, he may cease to love me and now this evening to shine the most resplendent Btar in the constellation of beauty to be assembled at Madame Le Normand's ball. It is very fortunate, by the by, that this shocking affair has not got wind yet." That night, Mrs. Dunn, superbly attired, seemingly in high beauty and spirits, entered the magnificent saloon of Madame Le Normand. That night, at the same hour, Captain Dunn took his melan- choly way towards his now desolated home. Before leaving his native shores, he wished to look again upon the face of his infant son. The whole front of the house looked dark as he approached it. Entering and groping his way through the gloom, along the dark passage and up tlie stairs, he readied SEQUEL TO THE "WIFE'* VICTOR 1. 73 the nursery door, and entered the room. A small lamp waa sitting on the hearth j its feeble rays revealed a scene that sent all the blood from the father's cheek. Straight up in the bed sat the infant, in an attitude fixed and immovable as marble his cheek blanched his eyes wide open in a frightful stare his lips apart with horror, while his gaze was fixed in dea.lly terror upon a dressed-up bugaboo at the foot of the bed. In an instant, seizing the bundle of sticks and rags that composed this figure, Captain Dunn threw it out of the window, and turned to his boy. The removal of the figure seemed to have dissolved the icy chain that bound the boy ; for he now fell back in the bed, in violent convulsions. Seizing the bell-rope Captain Dunn now rang a peal that presently brought every remaining servant in the house to his presence. " Thomas," said he to the first one that appeared, "run immediately for Doctor Wise. William," said he to the other man, " where is Mrs. Dunn ?" " At Madame Le Normand's ball, sir." " And her nurse ?" " Gone out to a tea-drinking, sir." " And the housemaid and cook ? Gone, too, I suppose ?" " Yes, sir." " You may leave the room. Stay, call me a carriage." Yes, sir." Captain Dunn now turned to his son, whose spasms were over, and having placed him in a comfortable position, awaited the arrival of the physician. At length, the Doctor entered, and, having looked at tha child, ordered a warm bath, wrote a prescription and sent i* off. " And now, Doctor, is there any chance of his recovery ?" in quired Captain Dunn, after having given the Doctor a full account .if the causes that led to the child's seizure. " For his full recovery, very little this will be likely to affect him through life." 74 THE MARRIED SHREW; A Dunn groaned. " Doctor, could he be removed with safety, by a steamboat journey, some ninety or a hundred miles up the river ?" " With perfect safety," said the Doctor, " Then, sir, 1 will trouble you, if you please, to write at length your orders for his treatment on the journey, as 1 shall take him away to-night." The physician, with a look of surprise, complied, and soon after took his leave. Captain Dunn, raising the sleeping infant in his arms, threw a cloak around him, descended the stairs, entered the carriage, which had been some time- before the door, and was driven towards the steamboat wharf. At the same moment of time, Catherine Dunn, radiant with beauty and gayety, was led, smiling, to fter place at the head of the cotillion forming in Madame Le Normand's saloon. ********** Day was dawning when Mrs. Captain Dunn drove up to her own door, and, wearied out with the night's dissipation, would have immediately sought her pillow, when her maid placed a note in her hand. She took it listlessly, and ran her eyea over its contents. They were as follows : "Farewell, Catherine; farewell, infatuated woman, undu- teous wife ! neglectful mother I I leave you to the retribution that I pray may overtake you that I pray may overtake you, in the hope that it may bring you to repentance, happily to reformation. I take your child where he may find, what he has never yet possessed, a mother's care and love our child, whom your neglect has possibly made an idiot for life." Frightful was the picture of passion presented by the Wretched Catherine ! Tearing the paper to atoms, she threw the fragments upon the floor, and would have ground them to powder with her heel. Her bosom heaved with fierce con- vulsions her eyes scintillated then pressing her hands sud- SEQUEL TO THE WIPE'S VICTORY. 75 dcniy to hei mouth, she sank upon a chijr, and thence upon the floor, a stream of dark blood trickling from her lips. Her maid in great alarm raised and placed her upon the bed j then, summoning her fellow servants, sent off for Mrs. Leslie and the physician. Both soon appeared. Mrs. Dunn had broken a blood-vessel, and the long-continued hemorrhage left ner in a state of utter prostration, with her life in imminent danger. On the afternoon of that day, as Catherine lay prostrate, placid, snowy, " like a broken lily on its icy bed," her car, rendered supernaturally acute by her condition, heard the physician's whispered injunction to her attendants " She must be kept perfectly quiet ; complete rest is abso- lutely necessary. She must not be permitted to raise a hand, scarcely to lift an eye-lid, or hear a sound. Even with the best precaution, a second hemorrhage will be very apt to ensue. Her life hangs upon a cobweb shred." " And is Death hovering so near ?" thought Catherine ; and in an instant, as though invoked by the powerful magicians, Conscience and Fear, the errors of her past life arose before her. Catherine, like most young people in high health, had never contemplated the possibility of death approaching her- self, except at the close of a long, long life, at a remote, out of sight distance. Late at night, Mrs. Leslie,, who had never left Catherine's side since her attack, was stealing from the room. The quick senses of the invalid detected her. " Oh ! do not leave me, dearest Mary, to die alone here, with the servants." " Dearest Catherine, I must go home a few moments, lo attend to some little family matters. I will return very soon " " Ah ! go, go; I must not detain you from your family. I have no claim upon you, nor upon any human being nuiu. There was one upon whose love I had every claim. He would have worn out his life in watching by my side but hitu I have outraged, him I have alienated " 76 THE MARRIED SHREW; A ''Oh ! Catherine ! Catherine ! do be quiet, love ; I will stay with you ; but you must be perfectly quiet." The injunction came too late. The hemorrhage broke out again, and the patient was brought immediately to the very Terge of the grave. ********* At early dawn, at the same hour of Catherine's attack, a Steamboat stopped for a few moments, to land a passenger, near the beautiful town of C., on the west bank of the Hudson. Captain Dunn, leaving the boat with his boy in his arms, took his way towards a white cottage, nearly hidden amidst the trees, on the bank of the river. Passing quickly through the white painted gate, and up the neat gravel walk bordered with roses, he paused and rang the door bell. Early as was the hour, the inmates of the cottage were astir. He was met by a cleanly maid servant, who showed him into a neat parlour, and went to summon her mistress. An old lady, in the dress of the Friends, entered the room, and embraced the visiter, saying : " Welcome, welcome, my dear son. How hast thou been these many days ?" "Indifferent, mother; indifferent! but," said he, uncover- ing the infant, " I have brought you my son ; if you love me, dear madam, take charge of him during my absence." "But thy wife, Lemuel? Where is she? How is she?" inquired the lady, as she received the child, and proceeded to disencumber him of his outer garments. " I know not ! I care not I" T one of the lower counties of Maryland, and in one of the first settled neighbourhoods, surrounded by forest-crowned hills, and embosomed in trees, stood the mansion of the Brotherton family. It was a queer, old-fashioned house, with many gable ends, and a very steep roof, and windows of diamond-shaped panes set in lead sashes. These sashes, with the bricks of which the house was built, had been impoited from " the old country." It was the pride of the Brotherton family that they had come over with Lord Baltimore ; but whether as friend or foot- man to his lordship, tradition saith not. I can go no further back than Hubert Brotherton, who flourished about a hundred years ago. He was a notorious fox-hunter, and a celebrated bon vivant in general ; gave great hunts, great dinners, and great balls and discovered a great talent for the manufa< tur- ing of wings wherewith his acres might fly away. His wings *' worked extremely well," as inventors and patentees say, M (85) 86 SYBIL BROT II ERTOW. well that Hubert Biotherton, who at twenty-one cculd stand upon the highest point in his native county, and, looking around, call all the land in sight his own, died at f r "-ty. a poor man. It is a good illustration of the vicissitudes of life, the fact that the descendants of Hubert Brotherton, who in 1747 owned nearly a quarter part of the whole State of Maryland, in 1848 do not possess a foot of land in any country; and that the children of James Howlet, a domestic of the Brother- ton family, have risen to the highest places in the Army, the Navy, and the Senate; but then the former sunk through idle- ness, sensuality, and extravagance ; the latter rose by energy, industry, and sobriety. Brotherton Hall had been some years in chancery at the time our story commences. The sole representatives of the Brotherton family were, now, Mrs. Judith Brotherton and hef granddaughter Sybil. That dear old lady was a character I Heaven bless her ! I fear I shall caricature the portrait in try- ing to portray her excellent, but somewhat complex nature Just as when I was a little girl, and would have some beauti- ful ideal face haunting my imagination, and, taking a pencil to draw it, would produce some hideous monstrosity, and throw away pencil and sketch in disgust. Mrs. Brotherton had been very handsome in her youth, and was still a fine-looking old lady. She had a tall, stately figure, with singularly small feet and hands. Her high forehead and small Roman nose were relieved from hauteur by the tender expression of her deep-blue eyes, and the beautiful contour of her mouth. Now, don't sneer, young ladies and gentlemen; I have seen both old men and old women with very beautiful and attractive faces, albeit somewhat gray and wrinkled, and, when I was a school girl, I was very near falling in love with an old gentleman of sixty, for his beautiful smile and musical voice, and the fervent soul breathing through both. But to my story. Mrs. Brotherton, to complete her por- trait, generally wore a black satin dress, with a fine white THE HOMESTEA D T II E F A M I L T. 87 /Buslin handkerchief folded over her bosom, and a plain cap of lace on her head. Mrs. Brotherton's character was very remarkable for three qualities high family pride, warm bene- volence of heart, and great romance of mind. Her benevo- lence always kept her pride in check, so that it never became arrogant, but was only manifested in her great solicitude in keeping her children from forming acquaintances or connexions with the nouveaux riches of the neighbourhood. Her benevo- lence had made great inroads upon her small fortune, and, for her thirdly-mentioned distinguishing trait, her romance of dis- position, so far swept her flights of fancy, that, at the age of sixty, she would look upon her beautiful Sybil, and wish she could send her " home," as she fondly termed Old England, where she felt sure her lovely child would captivate some baron, earl, or duke. There was one rare feature in her mind more charming than even her benevolence. It was the simple, child-like trustfulness of disposition, that led her to reverse the rule of the worldling, and to believe every man and woman to be perfectly good, until she had experimentally found thorn to be otherwise. Sybil Brotherton was a slight, fair girl, with a broad white forehead, large pensive blue eyes, and a sweet smile ; a child of gentle and graceful movements, of low sweet tones, and of loving and pious heart. Sybil, too, was fanciful she could not have been otherwise and so, gently as she treated her ] artuers at the village dancing-school, she thought them all s \d\y unlike the courtly Sir Charles Grandison and the stately Lord Mortimer; and she act down this world of reality to be a marvellously " flat, stale, and unprofitable" place to live in, and life itself, without a handsome and rich lover, to be a vf rj dull story founded upon fact. 83 1YBILBROTHTLRT05. THE MESSENGER THE NOVEL READERS. IT was evening, the ground was covered with snow, and the last rays of the setting sun lit up into blazing splendour the icicles pendant from the pine trees that crowned thr^ hil's surrounding Brotherton Hall. In a quaint old wainsi-.cltJ parlour, before a blazing hickory fire, sat Mrs. Brotherton and Sybil. The old ladj was employed in knotting a valance, the young one in tambouring a muslin apron. Before them stood a little, round, spider-legged tea-table, covered with a damask cloth, and set out with a service of grotesque old China. " It is growing dusky, my dear child ; ring for Broom to bring in the lights," said Mrs. Brotherton, as she rolled up her valance, and put it in her basket. Sybil complied by putting away her own work and ringing a little silver hand-bell that stood upon the table. There were no bell wires running through the house, like nerves through a human body, in those days, reader. The door opened, and, in answer to the summons, an old gray-haired domestic appeared, with a candle in each hand. " Making a reverence" as he entered, he sat the light upon the table, saying, as he did so " Madam, a man from Colonel John Henry Hines is waiting without. He brings a message for you." " Bring him in, Broom." " Yes, madam," and, with a second obeisance, the old man left the room. There was this peculiarity about Mrs. Brotherton and her household, that, from a limited intercourse with the world, and a familiar acquaintance with stately old dramas and novels of the last century, the old lady had acquired a somewhat stiff aiid courtly manner of speaking and acting, except when thrown off her guard by strong feeling. This stately manner Was particularly admired by her two old servants, Katy and Broom, who copied it upon all possible occasions THE MESSENGER. 89 " Sarvint, madam sarvint, miss," bowed the smart foot- man of Coloiiel Hines, as he entered the presence of the ladies " 1 understand you bear a message from Colonel Hines," said Mrs Brotherton. " Yes, madam; Colonel John Henry sends his 'spects, and pays, with your permission, he will do himself the honour of calling, with his sister, in his carriage, to take Miss Brotherton jto the ball to-morrow evening." " Convey my grateful acknrwledgments to Colonel Hines, and inform him that I shall be pleased to consign Miss Bro- thcrton to his guardianship for the evening." Overawed by the dignity and bewildered by the eloquence of the old lady, the man bowed and left the room, followed by Broom. "Broom!" said he, "what the old 'oman mean by that? She going to let the gal go ?" "Mr. Trimble!" said Broom, drawing himself up stiffly, " in de first place, my name is Mr. Broom ley, and not Broom : my lady is Madam Brotherton, and no old woman; and my yointtj lady is Miss Brotherton of Brotherton Hall, and no gal." " Well, then, but what am I to tell the Colonel ? That she is going to let the gal I mean the young lady go ?" " Brcss your stupidity, Mrs. Brotherton is pleased to 'sign Miss Brotherton to his garden for the evening." " 'Fore de Lord, I don't know what that is ; but I shall tell Colonel Hines that she is going to let the gal go." " Look here, you man in livery, you green and yellow poll parrot, if you call Miss Brotherton a gal again, I'll cane you j eo be off with the message, now," said old Broom, flourishing his black-thorn stick. The man went his way, and old Broom went into the kitchen to carry in tea. Having set supper upon the table, and see* the ladies seated, he took his stand behind the chair of Mrs. Broth, n-toa. 00 SYBIL BROTUERTON. " There, you may leave the room now, Broom If we should need anything, Miss Brotherton will ring." The old man went out. " Now, my dear Sybil," said" the old lady, " but for the kind attention of Colonel Hines, I should not permit you to attend this ball, for I do not wish the face of my granddaughter to be seen too often at these village balls." t( Indeed, dear grandmother, if Colonel Hines is to attend me there, I would rather not go." " And why my dear ? What objections have you to Col- onel Hines ? Is he not very polite and attentive ?" " Yes, madam, oppressively so." " Then, permit me to inform you that the attentions of Col- onel Hines are a distinguished honour, even to Miss Brother- V>n." " Yet, indeed, dear grandmother, I would fain dispense with the honour." " Explain your antipathy, if you please, Sybil." " Why, in the first place, dear grandmother, he is quite an old gentleman, near thirty, is he not ?" " Colonel Hines is forty-seven years of age, quite in the noon of life." " And I, in the morning twilight," said Sybil, sadly. " Any other objection, Sybil ?" . " Then he is short and thick, and has a broad red face, and a bald head, and a big that is, a large I mean a stout in a word, he is a round old gentleman, who gets into a great heat when he dances " " Miss Brotherton, I am shocked, I am humiliateu, at your tanguage," said the old lady, trying to look severely at her pet. " Now, do me the favour to ring for Broom to remove the tea-equipage." When the table was cleared and the fire replenished ."Now, Broom," said Mrs. Brotherton, "bring in the box of books that last arrived from Baltimore, and open it " The THE NOVEL READERS. 91 box was brought in, and the lid forced off, and the wealth of entertainment displayed, all in handsome bindings. Old Broom was on his knee at the box, officiating as gentlo- man usher to the books. " There, Broom, hand me that book in red ah ! ' Tha Romance of the Forest.'" " Oh ! Grandmother, let us read that that must be vcrj 'j interesting." " Here, my child, take it," said the old lady, forgetting he displeasure. " Hand me those others, Broom ' The Bandit's Bride,' ah ha !" " Oh ! Grandmother, that ! that ! let's read that to-night." " Stay, my love, let us look further. You are too excitable," said the old lady, continuing her Axamination with-intense interest. " < The Young Protector,' ' The Royal Captives,' < The Children of the Abbey' " " Indeed ! oh, grandmother, that ! that ! we ve heard so much about that do let's read that to-night." " Very well, then, my dear, lay it by. Here, Broom, take these books up stairs, and put them in the book-case ; and then go and tell Katy to bring in half a dozen eggs and a bottle of port (we will have some mulled wine before we retire ta rest, darling," said she in a low voice to Sybil), " and then, Broom, if you and Katy wish, you can come in and listen to the rad- ing." Much pleased, the old man hastened to execute his mission. Now, do not think, gentle reader, that there wag any inconsistency between Mrs. Brotherton's pride and h^r practice of admitting her old domestics to her evening read- ings. Her people, as she called them, had grown up with her they were old and tried servants, perfectly faithful and respectful. And she had long observed with what greedy ears they would linger in the room and listen while she read. "Well ! old Katy soon brought in her knitting, and old Broom followed her with his cards and wool, and one sat on a low seat in one corner of the fire-place, and the other on a eroket in the opposite corner, quiet, attentive, and pleased. 62 SYBIL BROTHERTON. Mrs. Brotherton and Sybil sat before the fire, with a work- stand between them, upon which stood a brightly burning lamp, work-basket, scissors, snuffers, &c. The old lady wiped her spectacles, put them on, opened her book, and commenced reading, amid profound silence, to most attentive and interested auditors. Sybil employed herself with her tambour ftame. When Mrs. Brotherton grew weary of reading aloud, sho 'would pass the book to Sybil, and take up her knotting Miss Brotherton would then lay aside her work and read for an hour ; and in that way they would agreeably relieve each other until it was time to retire to rest. Then old Broom would mull the wine, lay the cloth, and set out a few light sponge cakes. After Mrs. Brotherton and Sybil had partaken of the refreshments, the remainder was carried into the kitchen, for the solace of the old servants. Family prayer concluded the evening, and the little circle separated for the night. THE BALL AND THE BEALX. THE next day was a busy one with Mrs. Brotherton and Sybil. At length, at seven o'clock, Miss Brotherton was arrayed for the festival. As I have never minutely described Sybil Brotherton, I had better do it now, while she is in her " best bib and tucker," when Katy declared she " looked like any angel" (angels don't wear white satin, mechlin lace, and pearls, Katy). Sybil Brotherton was rather below the middle stature, with a slender frame, yet full formed, with rounded and tapering limbs, and a grace so natural that every move- ment expressed the poetry of motion. Her forehead was Droad,. high, and white; her eyes large, clear, and blue; her lips full, glowing, and beautiful. Her. complexion was of that delicate and transparent white, so seldom seen except in con- sumptives, and in her cheeks was burning that fire of death that so resembles the rich rose of health. Her dark brown Lair fell in long and shining ringlets upon her graceful neck THE BALL AND THE BEAUX. 93 ind rounded bosom. Her pure and delicate beauty was set off to advantage by the ric4i dress of white satin and niechlin lace, and the bandeau of pearls contrasted well with her dark hair. The carriage of Colonel Hines drew up before the door at eight o'clock, and Sybil, curefully wrapped in her velvet mantle and hood, was handed in, and driven off. On the morning after the ball, Mrs. Brotherton and Sybil were scateJ at breakfast, when the former said " You must now tell me, darling, whom you saw at the ball, and who were your partners in the dance." " Well, dear grandmother, there was the same old set. The Etheringtons, and the Somervilles, and the Kinlocks, and the Oh ! by the way, Hector Kinlock presented the Hon. Meredith Mills, one of our Representatives in Congress. He is from the lower part of the county, but he has purchased Blocksloy Place, and is coming to reside in this neighbour- hood." " Ah ! Meredith Mills. What sort of a person is he, my dear?" " Why, he is a young man, talented, I rather think agree- able and not married, grandma, if you mean that," said Sybil, with a sly smile. " I am sorry to see you, rather disposed to levity, my dear Sybil ; pray avoid it. Meredith Mills the name is familiar. Oh! yes; certainly, I know the family; a very old family, originally from Lincolnshire; came over with the Calvertsj certainly, the Mills's of Meredith Place; and coming to live in our neighbourhood; and not married" " And very much smitten with Sybil Brotherton, and coin- ing to see her this morning." " Sybil !" exclaimed the old lady, gravely looking over the top of her spectacles. " My dear grandmother, you know one must be merry tka day after a bull, if they are not fatigued." " Aud is Mr. Mills coining here this moruiug?" 91 SYBIL BROTHERTON. " He said that he would do himself the honour of calling on us this morning." " And what did you icply ?'' "Whj, that Mrs Brotherton would be happy to receive him." " That was correct. Did you form auy other new acquaint- Alices, Sybil ?" "N n o, madam, none except" " Except whom ?" " Nobody, in fact, but" " But whom ?" " But a young gentleman who came with Mr. Mills." " And who was he ?" " A young artist." " Humph ! you are reserved, Sybil. What was his name ?" Middleton." " And he was very agreeable." "Dear grandmother, I never said so." " And you were very much pleased with him." " Dear grandmother ! pleased with a gentleman at the first interview ! I thought you had a better opinion of me." The old lady smiled. *" Oh ! a gentleman, was ho ? I thought you said he was a painter." " An artist, grandmother, an artist ; and surely an artist is a gentleman, if any man is." " Humpi. ! that depends upon whether he paints for money or amusement. But I shall not in future trust you to the care of any one. When I cannot attend you myself to pubHc places, you must remain at home." They were interrupted by a knock at the hall door and the entrance of old Broom, who informed the ladies that two gen- tlemen, Mr. Mills and Mr. Middleton, had called and were waiting in the drawing-room. BALL AND THE BEAUX. 95 " Go in and see them, my dear Sybil. I will come pre- sently," said Mrs. Brotherton. As Sybil entered the drawing-room, Mr. Middleton advanced and led her to a seat, with the courtly grace of " sixty years since," hoping that Miss Brotherton had suffered no inconve- nience from the fatigue of the preceding evening, or from the ride through the night air. Miss Brotherton had suffered no inconvenience, and was much obliged. Sybil then addressed herself to Mr. Mills, and trusted that he would find the neighbourhood pleasant and the neighbours agreeable. Mr. Mills was pleased with the neighbourhood, and antici pated much pleasure from a more intimate acquaintance with its residents. At this moment the door opened, and Mrs. Brotherton en- tered. Both gentlemen arose from their seats, and Sybil named Mr. Mills Mr. Middleton Mrs. Brotherton. The latter gentleman met Mrs. Brotherton, led her to the sofa, and took a seat near her. Mrs. Brotherton expressed to Mr. Mid- dleton her gratification at forming his acquaintance. Mr. Middleton bowed reverently, and expressed his deep sense of the honour conferred upon him. The conversation then be- came general. Mr. Middleton quite won the heart of Mrs. Brotherton, by descanting upon the beauties of Brotherton Hall, its antique look, its picturesque situation, its pleasant locality, &c. Mrs. Brotherton, in acknowledgment, legged that he would frequently honour the Hall with his presence. All this time, Miss Brotherton was trying to amuse the Hon. Meredith Mills, and was in no small degree astonished and pleased at the wondrous penchant her grandmother had con- ceived for " the portrait painter " The problem was soon solved. The gentlemen arose to take leave. Madam Brother, ton hoped they would soon repeat their visit. The gentlemen declared that they should feel so happy in accepting her iiivita- 96 SYBIL BROTIIERTON. lion, and they bowed themselves out. When the sound of their horses' feet had died away " Well ! what do you think of our visitors, grandma ?" asked Sybil, gayly. " \\'hy, my dear Sybil, I think Mr. Meredith Mills a \e- m.irkably handsome, intellectual, and polished young gentle- man. Of Mr. Middleton, I had not much opportunity of judging. He, as I regretted to see, had his attention entirely engrossed by yourself during the whole time of his visit. One thing, however, did strike me. I never saw a fairer illustra- tion of the fact that good blood will show itself through all disguises. Now, observe those two men they were both equally well dressed, perhaps equally well educated, and re- ceived in the same society; but now observe the difference. In Mr. Meredith Mills, you saw the high-bred air of a gentle- man of family ; in Mr. Middleton was equally visible the mau- vaise honte of a low person. Mr. Mills was easy, graceful, and conversable ; Mr. Middleton shy, awkward, and embarrassed. I never saw a fairer illustration of high-bred aristocracy and of upstart vulgarity." Sybil listened to this disquisition, with eyes and lips wide open with astonishment. " Why, my dear grandmother !" said she, " are you not under a mistake ? Which of the gentlemen did you suppose to be Mr. Mills?" " Why, of course, the Hou Meredith Mills was the gentle- man who converged with me, while you were so much occu- pied with the other young person. 7 ' A smile flashed into the eyes and curled around the lips of Sybil for an instant, and vanished, as she said, seriously " My dear grandmother, it's all owing to my awkward pre- sentation, I suppose; but you have made the most amusing mistake. The tall, handsome, graceful, accomplished, knd lugh-brcd man, who led you to the sofa, and who charmed you so much by his intellectual conversation, and whom you have LORDMAINWARIN0 97 so highly approved and praised, was Harold Miduleton, the portrait painter; and the little drab-coloured gentleman, in light hair and a gray coat, was the Hon. Meredith Mills, of Meredith Place." " 1 hope you do not jest with me, Miss Brotherton," said the old lady, looking curiously, between surprise, pique, and embarrassment. " Or rather, you hope I do jest, dear grandmother, but 1 speak truth ; however, your rule, I suppose, still holds good. This is but an exception." The old lady seemed consoled, and remarked, with a smile " There is one thing, however, that pleases me, my dear Sybil. It is, that you kept that young man, Middleton, at a proper distance, while you showed fitting respect for Mr. Mere- dith Mills." Sybil smiled, but there was something sad, almost remorse- ful, in her smile. " MY GRANDFATHER, LORD MAINWARING." A FEW weeks passed away. Sybil met young Middleton often in society. Indeed, he even came often to the house, where Mrs. Brotherton, in consideration of the pressing invi- tation extended to him on his first visit, continued to treat him with civility, if, indeed, the charming manners of the young man had not put it out of her power to treat him other- wise. Then, his unembarrassed manner to Miss Brotherton led off the suspicion that his affections were interested in her. The following ciseuuistance opened the eyes of Mrs. Brother- ton to the real position of the parties. Colonel Hines had proposed for the hand of Miss Brother ton; Mrs. Brothertou had made known his wishes to her granddaughter, who received the news of the revival and press- ing of the obnoxious suit with so much agitation and distress, that Mrs. Brotherton perceived that her heart was no longer free, and, by her questions, soon ascertained who had becouin 98 SYBIL BROTHERTON. its master TTpon the same evening, it happened that young Mjddleton called, and was received by Mrs. Brotherton alone and coldly. Sybil was- weeping in her own room. Youug Middleton, perceiving the change in her manner, suspected the truth, for he had become well acquainted with the -Id lady's foible; he therefore soon arose to take his leave, re- marking, as he did so, " This is probably the last opportunity I shall have of pay- ing my devoirs to the ladies of Brotherton Hall ; for my grand- father, the Earl of Mainwaring, has written to command my immediate return to England." " Sir ! did I hear aright ? Your grandfather, the Earl of Mainwaring !" exclaimed the old lady, thrown off her guard. "Yes, madam," said young Middleton, quietly. "Permit me to wish you a good evenitg. Pray present my most respectful regards to Miss Brotherton. Good evening, madam." " No, no ; do not go yet. You must take leave of Sybil and pray do me the favour to touch the bell. Perhaps you would take some refreshments." The young man complied with her request, and " Broom !" said she to the old servant who answered the summons, " go and give my compliments to Miss Brotherton, and ask her why she keeps us waiting thus, and desire her to come down ; and, Broom, serve refreshments. Mr. Middle- ton has ridden far, and would like something. Mr. Middle- ton, do be seated." A sinister smile flitted across the young man's countenance as he sat down. Greatly wondering at the summons, Sybil entered the room, followed by Broom with refreshments. The young man's hurry seemed now to have evaporated, as, event- ually, did the strong necessity for his going to England. It was late when he left the house. Sybil pleaded fatigue, and retired soon tc bed. Many a fine aerial castle did Mrs. Brotherton build that evening for her pet. " Humph ! indeed !" soliloquized the old lady, as she walked THE YOUNG WIFE. 99 restlessly about her chamber floor. " Who would have thought it ? Lord Mainwaring ! I wonder whether young Middleton'i father is the eldest son of the Earl, the heir to his titles aud Bvstates. I should like so much to know. Dear ine ! the Earl of Mainwaring ! The Earl and Countess of Mainwaring ! Lord and Lady Mainwaring! I will go to England with them my granddaughter, Lady Mainwaring !" said the old lady, ringing all the changes on the coveted title. "I must have a wedding. I will get Otto, the great Baltimore confectioner, and Sampson, the French cook, to provide the breakfast. Then we must go to Baltimore ourselves, and speak to Madame Modiste to furnish the bridal dress and veil, and we must con- sult her upon the trousseau generally" and " Countess of Mainwaring!" muttered the old lady, as she sank to sleep that night. " How well a coronet will grace that angel brow !" " God help old madam I" said Katy to Broom that night at the kitchen fire. " she has been talking to herself all the eve- ning." Young Middleton's return to England was indefinitely post- poned, and, before the trees had put forth their leaves, or the snow was melted off the ground, Sybil Brotherton was the wife of Harold Middleton. The young couple, much to the comfort of Mrs. Brotherton, had concluded to spend the first year of their married life at Brotherton Hall. Mrs. Brotherton had ascertained that the father of her son-in-law was the third son of Lord Mainwaring, and that at least three persons stood between him and the Earl's coronet. But at least he was the grandson of a peer, and that was much. THE YOUNG WIFE. How soon was the sweet dream of Sybil broken ! How soon the beautiful illusion of Sybil dispelled ! How soon " the veiled prophet" of her idolatry stood forth in all his hideous deformity ! A few months after their marriage. Harold AJiddleton began to absent himself from his young 100 SYBIL BROTHERTOIf. wife all day, and sometimes all night. The playful and lonr.g expostulations of Sybil were kindiy taken at first, and ex- planations, which she received with confiding affection, wure given of his absence. But even this disguise was at la&t thrown off. About twelve months after her marriage, Sybil was sitting reading with her grandmother, in their little parlour. Karlier than usual, the old lady couiplained of fatigue and drowsiness and retired to rest. Sybil did not seek her chamber, but, desiring Broom to bring some refreshments, and sending Katy to her chamber for his dressing-gown and slippers, she drew her chair to the fire, to await the coming of her huslmd She could not read, she laid her book down, her very face breathed joy. Sybil had ascertained that she would become a mother, and, with the confiding love of a young wife, she wished to make her husband a sharer of her joy. Long did Sybil wait, but not impatiently, for her face was still beaming with gentle happiness, when the sound of a horse's feet, fol- lowed by an impatient rap at the door, caused her to start joyfully up, and go to open it herself, exclaiming, as she met her husband " Oh ! dear Harold, how glad I arn that you have couie at last ! I have been waiting so long for you !" Repulsing her offered caress, he said, sternly and angrily " I have before this intimated my desire that you should retire to rest at your usual hour, instead of sitting up for me, Mrs. Middletou. Do not give me occasion to repeat the in- junction." A woman of more spirit would have resented this ; a woman of less sensibility might not have felt it. Poor Sybil, from tin very manner of her education, as well as from her native temperament, was the victim of a morbid sensibility. This was the first occasion upon which Middleton had spoken un- kindly to her, and she felt, it deeply. Pale and trembling, he sui-k into her seat; Middleton threw himself upon th THE YOUNG WIFE. 101 Kofa The coffee grew cold, the oysters became turbid in ihoir liquor, the candles burned low, the fire died out, and Sybil's sweet news remained untold. Silent tears werp steal- ing down her cheeks. This seemed rather to harden the heart of her husband, who now said, sternly 'This course of conduct looks very like a wilful disregard cf my wishes, Mrs. Middleton. Perhaps they were not ex- plained with sufficient clearness?" Sybil started as the first angry tones or his voice fell upon her ears, then looking into his face with an expression of distressing inquiry, and meeting nothing there but sullen anger, she arose from her seat, and, taking her night-lamp, was about to leave the room. Seeming to take a second thought when she reached the door, she turned back, and, setting down her lamp, approached her husband, and putting her arms around his neck and pressing her lips upon his brow, she murmured " Do not be angry with me, dear Harold. I will not stav up for you another time, if you will love me now." This caress was received in sullen silence, and not returned. The gentle words of Sybil remained unnoticed. Unclasping her arms, after a few moments, she withdrew to her chamber, and sought her pillow, where, like a child as she was, she soon wept herself to sleep. " A poor, pale, whining creature," muttered Middleton, looking after his wife as she left the room. " If I had know, that this old place was in chancery, I would have seen her in Jericho before I would have married her. Strange ! that i never happened to hear it until to-night. And you, Inez ! my bright, my beautiful, my dark-browed girl of Italy ! Was it for this, 1'cast you away? No matter; fetters not riveted with gold fall easily from my wrists, bright Inez ! And if this property should slip from its present posses? ws" 102 SYBIL BROTHERTON. Middleton fell into a deep revery, so that it was near luern ing when he retired to his chamber. A few months passed, and the case in chancery was decided against the Brothertons, and a suit entered to eject them from the premises. From this time, the mask of hypocrisy assumed by Middleton, and which had occasionally slipped aside, was now laid by for ever. With what funds he could wrest from his gentle wife, or, through her, from Mrs. Brotherton, he would frequent L , the county seat, and spend whole days and nights in dissipation. Sybil grew pale and melancholy, and, having lost all esteem and respect for her husband, took no further comfort in her love; and, indeed, with her delicate health and timid temper, she generally felt rather relieved, when, after she had given him all the money she could raise, he would take himself off for a week, for then she felt secure, Ht least, from personal violence and danger to herself and her unborn babe; for, alas ! Sybil Middleton, the delicate, the sensi- tive, and the refined, had felt the weight of her husband's hand in anger, had trembled for her life in his presence. But these scenes of violence would generally occur after Middleton had been drinking freely. And Sybil had another sorrow; she perceived, with grief and dismay, that her beloved grand- mother was falling into premature dotage. The trials of the old lady's age had been too great for her to bear. The loss of the Brotherton estate, the unworthiness of her son-in-law, the misery of her darling granddaughter, and the prospective ejectment from the home of her youth, all pressed upon the old lady's mind, and at length broke it down. THE YOUNG MOTHER. " STAY with me to-night, dear Harold ; I am ill, and I am frightened. Stay with me to-night," pleaded Sybil, timidly taking the hand of her husband as he was about to loa\e the house. THE YOUNG MOTHER. 103 "I am not a physician, Mrs. Middleton," replied ho, coldly. " Yet you are more to me the only one who can givr me comfort and strength in my coming trial. I am weak and fearful; I know I am a fool, yet bear with me a while, und stay with me to-night." " You have your grandmother with you." " Alas ! my poor grandmother ! she herself needs care and attention She is incapable of giving me comfort. Oh ! do not leave me !" exclaimed she suddenly, catching his hand, as he was about to go. " Stay with me to-night." " You are importunate, Mrs. Middleton," said he, releasing himself, " and I regret to say that I cannot comply with your request. Good-evening." And he left the room. Sybil turned aside to weep, but wiped her tears hastily away, as she perceived her poor grandmother totter into the room. " Weeping again, Sybil, my poor child ?" said the old lady, sinking into a chair, and holding out her arms to her grand- daughter. " Come to my bosom, my dear child. What is your grief, Sybil?" " Nothing, my dear grandmother, only I am not very well," said Mrs. Middleton, pleased, yet wondering at the temporary revival of the old lady's intellect. " No, my poor child j you are far from well. I see that. You must go to bed, Sybil, and I will send for a physician. Katy ! tell Broom to saddle a horse, and ride over to Doctor Hall's, and ask him to come over directly ; that Mrs. Middle- ton is ill ; and, Katy, do you carry an armful of wood up into your young lady's chamber. Lean on me, my dear Sybil, and come up stairs." Lean on her ! Poor old trembler ! There was something inexpressibly touching in her protection of Sybil, while she herself so much needed support. Mrs. Middleton gained her room, and was assisted to bed Mrs. Brotherton took her seat in a large arm-chair by her side. Sybil repressed her complaints, that she might not give pain 104 SYBIL BBOTIIERTON. lo the tender-hearted old lady. The physician lived .en miles c % 7f ; the night was far advanced, and he had not yet arrived feybil lay perfectly quiet and silent, except when she would entreat her grandmother to go to rest, and leave old Kuty to watch. " No, no, darling; no, no, my poor child," would be the old lady's answer. Sybil at last said " Dear grandmother, I would like to go to sleep, but T can- not sleep while I see you there. Will you not retire to bed ?" " Are you better, then, my love ? I am so glad ! Well, as soon as I see you asleep, I will go !" " Good-night, then, dear grandmother 1" " God bless you, darling !" Sybil closed her eyes and affected to sleep. After a few moments, the old lady arose and looked over her, but she could not see by the dim light of the taper the corrugated brow and the clenched hands of the sufferer. "She is asleep!" murmured the old lady. "Bless her, poor thing, I was afraid she was going to be sick." And she glided from the room, telling Katy that she would dispense with her services for that night, and charging her to sleep by the bedside of her young lady, in case she should need any thing. In an hour after, Sybil Middleton pressed her first-born child to her bosom. Thank God for my beautiful boy ! Thank God for my spared life !" fervently exclaimed the exhausted mother, a& she received the babe in her arms. " Now, my dear young lady, as you are comfortable, hadn't I better wake madam ?" "No, Katy; let uer sleep, and I must rest now. How proud Harold will be of his son ! How happy poor grand- mother will feel that my trial is safely over I" vas the last thought of Sybil, as she sank to rest. THE YOUNG MOTHER. 105 "Oli! my dear young lady! my dear young ladv!" ex- ikimed old Katy, bursting into the chamber of Mrs. Middle ton at early dawn. " Why, what is the matter, Katy ?" inquired Sybil, in affright. " Your poor grandmother ! your good old grandmother !" "Katy! what is the matter? What of my dear grand- tiother ?' " Dead in her bed ! dead in her bed !'" With a smothered shriek, Sybil fell back on her pillow. Old Broom, who, unable to find the Doctor, had returned late at night, was despatched to Colonel Hincs's. The Colone and his sister quickly obeyed the summons, and hastened It Brotherton Hall. The family physician also arrived early in. the morning, and a messenger was despatched *o Mr. Middle- ton, at L . In the mean time, Colonel Hiues and hig sister Rachel took the direction of affairs; and truly the kind offices of these good Samaritans were needed, for Mrs. Brother- ton had expired during the night in a fit of apoplexy, and Mrs. Middletou was lying extremely iil and delirious. Mr. Middle- ton returned late in the evening. On the fourth day from her decease, the funeral of Mrs. Brotherton took place. It was attended by all the gentry of the neighbourhood. The wild delirium of Mrs. Middleton had been subdued, but she lay in a stupor, insensible to all that was passing around her. Miss Rachel Hiues kindly volunteered to reuiaiu at Brotherton Hall to nurse the invalid. At length "Sybil was raised from her bed of illness, and, iu d fortnight from the day on which she first sat up, she left her room. Miss Rachel Hiues had returned home It was eve- ning, and Sybil said to herself " I will surprise Harold, and please him, by joining him at tea." And wrapping her shawl around her, she descended to the parlour. Old Broom was just setting tea upon the table ai Ob SYBIL BEOTHERTON. ehe fnvrrfd. In answer to her inquiry, the old man told hei that ^Jr. JUiddteton was talking with a strange man iu the entry Desiring Katy to go up and remain with her infant, and telling Broom to be in waiting upon the table, Sybil took her seat. Middieton entered, and, as he sat down in his place, icmarked " I am glad to dee you out of your chamber, Sybil, for we *hall be obliged t-i get out of the house very soon." " As you please, dear Harold. I am ready to accompany you, when and wbere you please." Harold Middletjn smiled darkly. " But it is not as I please, Mrs. Middieton. Let me tell you, it is far more easy to get rid of one handsome establish- ment than to find another." Not comprehending the cause of his ill-humour, but seeing from his inflamed face that he had been drinking, Sybil an- swered gently .and soothingly " Dearest Harold, believe me, I an, willing to do just aa you see fit. I had as lieve remain here as go elsewhere, if you prefer it." " You are dull, Mrs. Middieton ; you do not seem to com- prehend that a writ of ejectment has been served upon us, and that we must go." " Oh ! it is sad, indeed, to leave our home upon compulsion. But, dearest Harold, do not call me Mrs. Middieton, and speak so coldly to me. You know I have no one to love me now but you." " You are irritable, and not very agreeable, this evening, Mrs. Middieton. I think you have left your chamber too soon; I advise 1 you to return to it." Sybil left the room. On the morning succeeding this conversation, Middieton left home for Baltimore, and was absent about a week. At the end of that time he returned, and, entering the parlour, where his wife sat at work, informed her that he had received THE YOUNG MOTHER, 107 a letter from his father requiring his immediate presence in London to attend a lawsuit; and that he should go in the next packet, which would sail in two weeks. " Very well, dear Harold, we must make some provision for the two poor old people in the kitchen, and I shall be so glad to go. I like the arrangement very much. I shall be delighted to cross the ocean, and so happy, so very happy, to know your father and mother. I shall find parents again in them; ami they will be so pleased, will they not, to see our babe, their grandchild? Oh! yes; I shall be quite ready in a week." " Well ! have you done, Sybil ?" Sybil raised her large, tender eyes to his countenance with an inquiring glance, and remained silent. " I never contemplated taking you to England, Sybil ; at least when I go. I do not indeed know how you would be received by my family. It will take, I fear, some considerabU diplomacy to reconcile my father to this somewhat inconsi- derate marriage of mine." The blood rushed to the face of Sybil, and the tears to her eyes ; to conceal which, she stooped and raised her babe from the cradle. " But this is my design. I will attend promptly my father's summons ; meet him in London, and, after the hurry of busi- ness is over, I will endeavour to reconcile him to our marriage, then send or come for you and the child." Mrs. Middleton was reassured by his words, especially as his manner was kinder than usual, and he had called her " Sybil" through the conversation. She inquired " And how long will it be, dear Harold, before you send ?" " Oh ! in a few months from this in the fall, probably ; and, in the mean time, I will take a house for you in Balti- more for the summer." " It seems a long time until the fall ; but then I suppo&e [ am weak to feel so," said Sybil, repressing a sigh. The next few days were employed in selling ofi the farni* 108 SYBIL BROTHER-TON. turc and plate at Brotherton Hall. A few family portraits and some pieces of old-fashioned furniture were reserved for the use of Mrs. Middlcton during the summer. Two weeks from this time, Sybil found herself the occupant of a small cottage on the suburbs of Baltimore. Katy was retained in her service, upon reduced wages; and old Broom, who had "saved a penny," went to live with some of his re- lations. It was the morning of Middleton's departure. His trunks were all on board, and the packet was to sail with the first tide. At early dawn, Middleton and Sybil stood at the cottage gate. " And will you indeed send for me in the fall, dear Harold?' said Sybil, sadly. " Why, certainly, Sybil ; why do you doubt rue ?" said Mid- dleton, smilingly. " I do not doubt you, but I love, to hear you promise again and again." " Well, I must be gone j farewell, Sybil." ' " Good-bye ! good-bye ! Oh ! come back ; let me take a long, long look into yoar eyes a look that will last me till we meet" "Well! will that do, Sybil? There there I must go. Be cheerful; farewell. I will send for you soon." And they parted ; he with a lie on his lips, rejoicing in his release ; she to her lonely hearth, profoundly grateful for his seeming kindness, and building many bright hopes upon his faithless promises. KATY'S MISHAPS IN THE CITY. THE leaves were falling, and the cold north-west wind was blowing them in drifts about the cottage of Mrs. Middleton. Old Katy was roairiag about the garden, gathering sticks to KATY'8 MISHAPS IN THE CITY. 109 !nake a fire ; in the course of her gleaning, she passed into the front yard. Seeing the figure of an old man leaning on a stick at the gate, she dropped her bundle and hastened forward, joy- fully exclaiming " Lor' a' mercy upon me, Broom ! Is this you ? Is this you ? Bless your ole soul, I am so glad to see you once again in this worl' ! Come in, come in ; how have you been this long " Thanky, Katy, thanky; I'm so-so, 'cept the rheumatics, uid the phthisic, and the asthma and lumbago, and the liver complaint, and the consumption, except that I enjoys prettj good health in general." " 'Deed ! I'm glad to hear you're so hearty. It's more than I am ; I'm trouble with a stiff neck." " Yes ! you were always stiff-necked, Katy." Now, Broom, that was a libel on Katy ! " Well, Katy, how is the young madam and the little child, and when is she going to foreign parts?" " Ah ! poor dear child ! I think she's in a 'sumption, Broom. She used to be purty as a picter, Broom j now she's all pale and thin, and her eyes are hollow. She's never hearn a word from that vilyun (God forgive me) that she married. She's gone to the pos' office now, poor dear heart, to see if there's a letter for her. She seen in a newspaper how the snip that he, wtTrt out in has corned back, and so she's gone. But come in, Broom, out o' the cold ; you shall see the child, poor little cretur, by the kitchen fire no ! by the kitchen fire-pla;-e no fire there ! Dunno when there will be." " Why, you don't go to make out how the young madam wants for anything, do ye ?" " Don't want for nothing, don't she? I tell you, Broom, that vilyun (mercy on me) never left her a single dollar made out he'd want all the money to carry him to foreign parts. / know, 'cause, you sec, she wanted tea and sugar the day aftei tic went a'vay; aud so she seat her silver .spupus to be sulJ~ 110 SYBIL BBOTHEBTON. Sent 'em by me; and by the same token, the silversmiff where I took them took the spoons away from me, and sent for a cons'able, and had me 'rested on 'spicion of stealing them ; yes I and 'rested me there all day, till the young lady could be gent for. Lor', Broom, how my feelings were hurted that day I that ever Catherine Ann Gallagher should be 'rested for istealin' silver spoons ! You don't know how I was hurt 1" " I can 'magine, Katy ; I can 'magine. You know, though, you used to hear the ole madam say, as none of the people in cities ever come ober with Lord Baltimore, so how can you 'spect better from them ?" " Well, I was going to tell you, Broom but come in out of the wind there's the baby ! The very image of the old madam, aint he ? There I don't wake him ; sit down. I was a-going to tell you, that after that, the young madam always wrote a line when she sent me to sell anything; and she sold almost all the silver she had, to buy things and pay rent ; for only think, Broom, people here have to pay for living in houses !" " Pshaw ! I could have told you that long ago." " I didn't know it. Well, there's nothing left to sell, now, but the blade of the butter knife and her thimble that's silver, I mean ; and what we are to do, now the winter's setting in, the Lord knows. We been living on black tea and rye bread all this summer. The poor child wanted me to go hire out where I could get wages and better living ; but no, I says ; if I've got a black skin, I've got a white soul; and I ain't a- going to 'sert her in her 'fliction." " No, no more I wouldn't, Katy. Dear, dear, dear," sighed the old man ; " this is very 'stressing, very ! But couldn't the young lady teach the pianner, or paiut picters, or diskiver some rich relations, like the 'stressed ladies in the story books, he used to read to us about ?" " Well, I often thinks o' that myself; and I thinks, what's the good o' larn'V unless it helps people to get along jn the KATY'S MISHAPS IN THE CITY. Ill World. But, poor thing ! her mind is 'sturbed enough. Some- times she does walk about a whole day, looking for needle* work ; but she is a stranger, and gets no luck, and she comes home, and mopes, and mopes. I 'vises hei to smoke a pipe \ but she won't take 'vice. I tells her, if it hadn't a been for smoking a pipe, I should have gone ravin' 'stracted mad, when Colonel Ilines (Heaven forgive him) sold my poor dear gal to Georgy. My poor gal ! my poor gal ! your poor old mother will never see you again in this world. My poor dear gal ! all the child I had in the world !" Here the poor old soul lost recollection of everything but her own sorrow, and sobbed hysterically. " Don't cry, Katy ! don't cry ! that's a good 'oman !" " Hush, Broom, hush ! you never had no child sold away irom you." " No, Katy, because my wife was sold away from me the first year we were married, and I never had the heart to marry again." " My poor gal ! my poor child !" " Come, Katy, don't take on so j don't, that's a dove !" When the old creature had exhausted herself with weeping, dhe wiped her eyes. Then Broom said to her " You never told me, Katy, how it was that you were free and your child a slave." " Why, you see, Broom, I was left to Colonel Hines by his uncle, but I was left to be free at twenty-five ; and I had my little gal before I had served my time out, and so she was a slave. I had been living with Mrs Brotherton ever since I was ten years old, and I was there when my poor gal was sold. She tried to prevent it, but couldn't. You were gone with Colonel Brotherton to the wars then. Don't ask me any more, please, Broom ;" and the old creature fell to weeping again. At last, wiping her eyes, she said " Well, well ! well, well ! may be it will all come right in another woiM. Give me that bundle of chips, Broom; I H'2 SYBIL BBOTHEBTOM. must make a cup of tea for Mrs. Middleton, against she comes. I wish I had a little wood, to make a fire in her room." " Now, you stop, old 'oman. How long before she'll be back ?" " \n hour or so." " Well !" said the old man, brightening up, " I'll just tell you what I goin' to do. I goin' after a load of wood and a basket of good things ; and I'll just have 'em brought home, and don't you let on who sent them, 'cause the young lady might feel bad at 'ceiving a favour from the likes o' me, 'cause that's a little worser than anything we ever heard about in the books at night." The old man was as good as his word. In an buar a blazing fire was kindled in Sybil's room, and the tea-table spread with nice white bread and fresh butter, while a pot of fragrant hysoa was drawing on the hearth. The babe was awake, sitting on the carpet, blowing a whistle with great glee. At last Sybil entered, pale, languid, and weary, and, dropping into a chair, held out her arms to the babe, who crawled fast upon his hands and knees to reach her lap. " Ah ! she's got no letter," thought old Katy, as she came in to set the tea on the table. " The silvcrsmiff has been here, ma'am (Heaven forgive mo for lying," muttered she to herself). " The silversmith, Katy !" " Yes, ma'am j and he fotch two dollars, as he said was due on the spoons; and so I took the money, ma'am, and bought some wood and some other things; (Heaven look over fib- ling.") ' Very well, Katy, that was a Godsend, indeed ; but you loft the babe to do this." " N T o, ma'am ; old Uncle Broom 'rived this morning, and 1 got hi:n to go." . ''Poor old man! IJas he travelled all the way up here? Send him iu to see uie, Katy." THE CAPTAIN'S NEWS. 113 "Scuse me, Mrs. Middleton; but did you ^t a letter, tua'am ?" " No, Katy ; but to-morrow I will go and see the captain of the vessel; perhaps he has a letter or a message for me." THE CAPTAIN'S NEWS. THE next morning, after an early breakfast, Sybil put her babe to sleep, and went her way in search of the captain of the packet in which her husband had left America. In going towards the vessel, she had to pass through crowds of coarse women and rough men, whose ribaldry caused her nerves to tremble and her cheek to burn with shame. At length, finding it difficult to reach the vessel, which was lying off the shore, she inquired where the captain was likely to be found, and was directed to his lodgings in the city. She hurried thither, was so lucky as to find him at home, and was shown into his presence. He was a fat, red-faced, self-satisfied looking man, tflio arose to receive her with rather an insolent leer. " You are Captain Blackston, I presume ?" " At your service, miss." " I am Mrs. Middleton." " Ah ! I beg your pardon, madam." " My husband, Mr. Harold P. Middleton, went to Liver- pool in your ship about six months since. I have come .te inquire whether you have any letter or message from him for me, and whether he was in good health when he landed." " Whew !" whistled the captain. " Will you please to tell me, sir ?" " Why, madam, here seems to be a great mystery. Mr. Middleton, certainly, was my passenger to Liverpool ; but ho took with him a lady whom he called Mrs. Middleton, and whom I supposed to be his wife. Heavens ! ma'am, don't faint here in my room I" exclaimed the captain, seizing the bell rope, and ringing an alarm. 114 SYBIL BROTHERTON. " William !" cried he, energetically, to the man that an- ewered the bell, " call a hackney coach for this lady." Sybil mastered her emotion by a great effort, and entered the coach that had been called for her, for indeed her tn.nibling limbs refused to convey her home. It took Sybil's last dollar, the produce of the sale of the butter-krife, to pay her fare. For many days, Sybil remained almost stupefied with grief, sometimes wandering restlessly about, sometimes sitting for hours in one mournful position, sometimes catching up her infant, and weeping passionately over it. Poor old Katy was distressed almost to death, but could not guess the cause of her acute sorrow. A few weeks from this time there was an arrival from Liverpool, and a few days after, Sybil saw a let- ter advertised for her in the paper. Too weak to go herself, she hurried old Katy off to the office. Poor old Katy was always sure to fall into adventures, when she was sent into the city. When she arrived at the post office, and was asked by the clerk what she wanted, she answered " That letter, if you please, sir." What letter, aunty ?" " Why, the letter from foreign parts, if you please." "Yes; but whose letter ?" " Why, hizzen, sir, hizzen." " What name, old woman ?" " Why, Mr. Middleton, the gentleman as went to foreign parts." The clerk looked over his list, and answered " There is nothing here for Mr. Middleton." " The letter ain't for Mr. Middleton, sir." " For whom then, old woman ?" said the clerk, growing im- patient. " Miss Sybil that was, sir Miss Sybil Brotherton, of Bro- therton Hall, come over with Lord Baltimore, sir," said Kaiy, surtsying at every clause. " There is no letter here for Miss Brotherton." THE CAPTAIN'S NEWS. 115 t: She's not Miss Brothcrton now; she's Mis. Middlcton." " Why, what a stupid old beast is this ! Here, here is your letter." " Thanky, sir ! very kind of you, indeed, sir; thanky, kindly. I wouldn't take a golden guinea for this letter." It was raining hard when Katy left the office, and she looked around in despair for Katy had no umbrella. A hackney coach was standing near, and Katy looked longingly at it Observing this, the driver said, jeeringly " A hack, ma'am ?" " Thank you, kindly ; yes, sir, if you please." Finding a customer, the driver changed his tone, and let down his steps, and handed the old woman in with respectful alacrity, put them up again, jumped into his seat, and drove off. " Dear me !" said old Katy, as she sat back in the carriage. " This is very nice and comfortable so much better than sploshing through the mud and getting wet to the skin. I love the motion of a carriage, too it tintillates one's feelings so pleasantly. What a very polke young man, to offer ma a ride so different from other people. Ain't he got manners ? I shouldn't wonder if his family didn't come over with Lord Baltimore. What nice soft cushions !" The end of this soliloquy brought Katy to Mrs. Middlcton's door. The " very polite young man" jumped from his seat, and, letting down the steps, handed Katy out. " I ain very much obliged to you, indeed, sir, for your kind ness, sir. I'll do you a favour whenever I have a chance." "Very well; you're quite welcome; your money is just as good as anybody's else. It's a dollar." "Sir?" It's a dollar." "What's a dollar?" " It's a dollar >-ou owe me for bringing you home in mj hack." T16 SYBIL BROTHERTOW "Why, you invited me to ride in your hack, 1 never asked jou; it was your own offer, and I thank you kindly. But you're not going to charge me, now, I hopes." " Come, that's rich." "Good -morning; I thank you kindly; I must go in now." " Look here, old woman ; none of your nonsense ; hand me that dollar." " I shan't do no such a thing ! I shan't do no such a thing ! You 'vited me to take a ride, and I rid; and now I know it was all to cheat me out of a dollar." " See here, you old devil, if you don't pay me that dollar, I'll put you iu the hands of a constable for swindling." " Now, the mercy upon me ; where am I to get a dollar from?" Words now grew so high between the belligerent parties, that the noise drew Mrs. Middleton to the door; and great was her perplexity when she understood the cause of dispute for poor Sybil was penniless. Telling Katy that she was in the wrong, and explaining to the hackman Katy's mistake, and promising to pay him the next day, Sybil separated the combatants, and, receiving her letter, she retired to read it. She opened it eagerly. There was no enclosure ; and merely remarking that little Hubert would go without his flannel some time longer, she began to read. Her cheek grew pale and paler as she read, the letter dropped from her hand, and she sat as one stricken with epilepsy. Presently, the blood rushed back in torrents to her face, and, clasping her hands to her throbbing temples, she started up and paced the floor with irregular steps, exclaiming " Oh ! the fiend ! the fiend ! yet not the fiend, either, for there is something large about the devil, after all the reptile ! the reptile, rather ! Coldly to tell me he does not care for me- falsely to tell me that he suspects my fidelity to renounce his wife, to disown his child, and slander both, to colour his base- Where sleeps the justice of God? What stays th TH* CAPTAIN'S NEWS. 117 thunderbolt, that it does not strike him down in his rampnnt wickedness?" And Sybil threw herself, writhing, upon (he bed. The scathing thunder and lightning of passion passed, and the rain fell. Sybil wept as she murmured Oh, Harold r Harold ! I never thought to have felt towards thee thus! I never thought to have spoken cf you so!" Sybil sat, pale, exhausted, and alarmpd, at the typhoon that bad passed through her gentle soul " Great God !" said she, " this, then, is passion ! this, then, is anger ! Oh ! now, indeed, I know there is no need of a lake of burning fire ; oar bosoms may be a hell, as mine has just proved; our own passions may be tormenting fiends, if turre be no others.'' Sybil sunk upon her knees and prayed ; and from this mo- ment may be dated the commencement of her true knowledge of God, of herself, of the value of life and the use of suffer- ing, of the reality of another and a happier state of existence. Amid the confusion, the storm, the whirlwind of her excited passion, arose " the still small voice" that whispered, " P'-ace, be still," and "Be not afraid; it is I." Sybil arose from her prayer, calm, composed; prospects became clearer before her mental vision, and she thought " Though it is all over now with me and my husband, yet, now that I know the worst, I can bear it ! I have no further thoughts of going to him. I must bestir myself to find some means of support for myself and child. I will trust to God'a blessing on my best exertions. I will work and pray ; and I shall succeed, I know I shall." With newly inspired courage, Sybil put on her bonnet and shawl, and went to the door ; but the rain, that again tame down iu torrents, arrested her purpose of going out. Sybil was a good performer on the piano and harp, and she nought to obtain pupils in hex art ; but she was a stranger, without letters of introduction, and her efforts of course failed 118 SYBIL BROTHERTON. of success. She then thought of writing to her relative, Gene- ral Bushrod Brotherton, the successful litigant in the suit in chancery, and the present possessor of Brotherton Hall. She wrote, and, telling him of her destitution, requested him to obtain for her the testimonials of some of her former neigh- oours. GENERAL BUSHttOD BROTHERTON. A. WEEK from this time she went to the postcoffice, hoping U receive her expected packet of testimonials. Before she came nome, a storm of wind and snow arose and raged with great violence. Old Katy stood at the cottage gate, looking the picture of dismay, and whispering to herself " Pooi ihitig ! she'll catch her death ; and then all her trou- bles will X>e over !" In the tkuosc of Katy's lamentation, a travelling carriage drew up before thtr door, a servant jumped off from behind, let down tLe s'cps, and an old gentleman, with a military air, alighted and walked towards the house. " Well ! brcss too Lord ! if here ain't General Bushrod Brotherton himself t f exclaimed Katy, in a low voice, as she hastened to open the gate. " Well, old woman ! Katy, are you not ?" " Yes, sir Katy, sir yes, sir," answered the old woman, curtsying at every two words. " She's gone out, sir j she'll soon be home, sir. Will you come in ?" General Brotherton followed the old servant into the house, and in half an hour after, Sybil came home. Katy was on the watch for her, and, meeting her, said " Oh ! Mrs. Middleton ! who you think is here, ma'am ? General Brotherton is in the house. Come round the kitchen way, to change your dress. I stole your best gown out of your room, for you to put on there." GENERAL BROTHERTON. 119 Be it known to the reader, that there was no getting into Sybil's chamber but through the parlour; hence Katy's little piece of finesse. Sybil changed her dress quickly, and went into the parlour. " My dear Mrs. Middleton, or my sweet cousin Sybil if } m will permit me to call you so how pleased I am at this opportunity of making your acquaintance !" cordially exclaimed General Brotherton, advancing to meet her. General Bro- therton was a tall, stout man, with a broad, rosy, good-hu- moured face, and gray hair. Sybil was rather prepossessed with his appearance, and received him kindly and gracefully. After a little unimportant conversation, and a few remarks that led to the subject, General Brotherton observed " I hope, my dear little cousin Sybil, you will do me the justice to believe fchat I would never have molested Mrs. Bro- therton in the possession of her home during her life." " Had she lived," replied Sybil, " Mrs. Brotherton would have acknowledged the kind intention, as I do, with deep gra. titudc." " There is more I wished to say to you, my dear cousin Sybil ; but I am a blunt old man, and may not know how to approach the subject with the necessary tact and delicacy, per- haps ; and I may offend when I desire to please. If I do, you will forgive me, will you not, my dear cousin ? Well, this is what I wished to say : First, I have received your letter, and that has brought me to town. Of that, more anon. Well; at the time my attorney entered suit for possession of the Brotherton property, I had heard that Mrs. Brotherton was dead, and that you, Sybil, had been some time married to a wild young fellow, the son of a man of wealth and family, and that you were both soon going to England, Hence the suit. But within a month, my dear cousin Sybil, I have heard ano- ther story that my cousin's husband was an impostor and a villain ; that he has left her and her child iu poverty and want, 120 8 5f B I L BROTIIERTON. excusing his base desertion by charging her with conjugal in- fidelity." Sybil covered her burning face with her hands. " Oh, Lord !" she groaned, " I did not know, I did nol dream, any one but myself knew of this !" " It is all over our neighbourhood j but, of course, no oi.e believes the wicked lie." " You need not tell me that, sir," exclaimed Sybil, sud- denly assuming the air of an outraged empress. "It is not within the wide range of possibility that my bitterest enemy, even were he the most credulous of fools, could believe such a thing ! And I only wonder that any one should allude in nay presence to such a story." " There, there," muttered the General, seemingly much mor- tified, " I knew I should offend I am such a rough old wretch I blurt things out so." His manner touched Sybil, and produced a reaction in her feelings. She hastened to say "Forgive me, my dear sir; much trouble has made mo very irritable, and I cannot bear the least allusion to that subject." " Very well ! All's right ! Now, to come to the point and purpose of my visit. He has left you that is plain. lie has taken a foreign girl out with him one Inez Inez de I forget ! but I heard all about it. Weil ! I have no nearer re- lation than you in the world ; and if you will return with mo to Brotherton Hall, and live with me and my old wife, and be our daughter, and if you will apply to the Legislature for a divorce, and have your sou's name changed to that of Brother- ton, I will execute a will, leaving, at my death, all the Brother- ton property to you for your lifetime, and afterwards to your eon. Come, Sybil, what say you ?" The vision of wealth, comfort, ease, and her child's interest, arose before her "mind's eye," her heart beat quickly, her face flushed. GENERAL BROTHERTOS. 121 " Come, my dear little cousin ! what say you ?" The "still small voice" whispered the moral bearing of the question, and Sybil's heart paused in its violent beatings to listen the flush died away from her face. '' Come, my dear Sybil, your answer." " Will you give me a few days to think of this, my dear sir? and in the mean time believe me most grateful, most deeply grateful, for your kindness." " Selfishness, pure selfishness, dear Sybil. My wife and I are lonesome in the old house j we want company. Think of my proposition a whole week, if you will I don't like hasty decisions myself; but give me an answer at the end of that time. But mind, cousin Sybil, my conditions are positively unalterable for I know very well, if one condition is not in- sisted upon, that just as soon as my old head is laid low, and you in possession of Brotherton Hall, that fellow would be sneaking back, and then you'd receive him. I know oh ! I know you women so well. He'd be so penitent ! and you so forgiving ! and in five or six years the Brotherton estate would be lost at the faro table, and you would be beggared. Oh ! 1 know I know so well I" So saying, the old man took leave, entered his carriage, and was driven off. Now, this proposition would not have tempted Sybil, had a single spark of affection or esteem for her husband remained in her bosom ; but it was not so. Her regard for Middleton had rather been a girlish fancy, than a woman's deep affection j though, with a woman of Sybil's domestic tastes and affection- ate heart, this regard would have deepened into love, had not all respect been so soon lost. It was not his dissipation, nor l.b brutali'y, nor even his desertion of her, that had alienated tin heart of his wife, but the cold, fierce, determined malignity of iniriu the unmixed, unredeemed, unredeemable depravity yf heart manifested throughout their entire married life, but most plainly discovered in the only letter he had ever written to her. Sybil's heart, therefore, was not defended against the 122 SYBIL BROTHERTON. flolicitations of self-interest and maternal love by any affection lingering there. The test of principle could therefore be fairly applied to her unguarded, unsupported heart. When the old man was gone, Sybil sat down to consider She was a stranger and friendless; her money was all spent, anl her plate and jewelry all sold ; her store of fuel and pro- visions nearly exhausted, and winter coming on. Lastly, and worse than all, she was deficient in that spirit of enterprise and ene-gy required to meet the difficulties of her situation. Yet her mental debate was not very long; for all her early im- pre"sions and all her religious principles were against the pro- pped measure. In a few hours, therefore, Sybil's mind was fu n y made up. The winter set in very cold. The air was frosty and nip- ping ; snow-clouds darkened the sky. The day on which Sybil was to give her answer to General Brotberton dawned. It was intensely cold. As Sybil arose from her bed, shrinking and shuddering from the biting air, she covered up closely her sleeping boy, saying " God bless thee, poor little one ! You will freeze if I take you up to-day." She passed into the parlour, where Katy was attempting to open the shutters. They were so bound with ice and blocked up with snow, that it required considerable effort to push them open ; and then the dreary aspect abroad, the ground deeply covered with snow; the sky, gloomily darkened with clouds, was rendered still more dreary by the severely felt privations at home. " My dear Miss Middleton, you're shivering from head to foot; let me go get your shawl," exclaimed Katy, with chatter- ing teeth. " Do, Katy. But, Katy, is there no wood left to make a fire?" asked Sybil, shuddering. . " There's one blessed long log left. I going to split it up GENERAL BROTHERTON. 123 now. 'Deed and 'deed, Miss Middleton, if I was you, I'd take the child, and I'd go settle down on some o' my relations.'' "Without an invitation, and perhaps without a wei.-om* either, Katy ?" *' I dunno, I danno, Miss Sybil ! Cross looks don't bite like this cold." " No, Katy, but worse ; one bites the fingers and toes, but the other gnaws at the heart." Katy made no reply, but went out, and soon returned with her arm full of split wood, of which she made a fire. "Now, Katy, what have we for breakfast?" inquired Sybil. " One blessed pint of flour, and one teaspoon full of black tea." " Then, Katy, get it ready, and we will eat our last meal by our last fire." The poor meal was scarcely over, and the table removed, before there came a knock at the door, followed by the en- trance of General Brotherton, who, taking a seat at the fire, unceremoniously exclaimed t letter, the whirlwind of anger that had shaken her 128 8 T B I L B R O T 11 E R T O N. soul, her subsequent alarm and repentance, and the peace and hope that had filled her bosom since. To this naive confession tlie pastor listened with deep interest; for by that glimpse into the soul of Sybil he recognised a nature capable of the highest religious and intellectual culture, and one therefore likely to be refined in the seven times heated furnace of afflic- tion. Moral philosophy was the pastor's f.ivourite study; and men and women, with their trials and temptations, were the books he read upon the subject. The refined, the strong, the tempted and struggling soul of Sybil Middleton attracted him forcibly, and he resolved to watch, to shield, and strengthen it in its contest. But, of that, more by and by. He did not for a moment lose sight of the immediate object of his visit the temporal welfare of his intended protegi. He dis- covered Sybil's musical proficiency, and advised her to com- mence by instructing a few young ladies in that accomplishment, and volunteered to go among his parishioners, and seek out pupils for her. Mrs. Middleton expressed her gratitude, and the pastor arose to take leave. His eye fell upon Sybil's book- shelves, filled with romances, and a slight smile curled his lip, as he asked " Is this your favourite reading, Mrs. Middleton ?" " In my days of ease and cheerfulness, I used to delight in these books," answered Sybil; "but now" " But now you require the most precious thoughts of the most holy writers to comfort and sustain you books that you can feed upon. Shall I send you some such ?" " If you please, Mr. Livingston; I shall be very grateful But, indeed, you are too kind to me to me, who hav no claim upon you, or any one else." "Pardon me ; you have a claim upon me, and a claim upon society/ ; and the claim is mutual. Society demands of you, that you cultivate all your natural gifts to the utmost, and use them for its benefit. You. then, have a right to demand of society, happiness." THE PASTOR. 129 The minister took leave, and the same day went about among the members of his congregation to solicit pupils for his nef proti'ue. The Rev. Stephen Livingston was more than popu- lar among his parishioners; he had a rising name, and they were proud of him. Any enterprise, therefore, favoured by their pa.-tor, was very likely to be highly successful. Mr. Livingston's proteye was enthusiastically taken up and exces- sively patronized by his congregation. A class of fifteen pupils was soon made up for Mrs. Middleton. Many of them, at Mr. Livingston's instance, paid in advance; and in that way Sybil's immediate wants were relieved. From this time, the light of hope sparkled agaiu iu the eyes of Sybil, the rose of health bloomed again ou her cheeks. Her new profession introduced her among an intelligent and cultivated circle of acquaintances, some of whom, who were not too aristocratic to notice their children's teacher, eventually became warm friends. Mrs. Middleton became deeply yet healthfully interested in the progress of her pupils ; and when her list of fifteen in- creased to thirty, nearly all her time iu the day was taken up in attending upon them. The day would thus pass quickly and pleasantly away ; for my heroine, reader, was of a cheerful and grateful temper, and did not call her daily occupation toil, nor her interest in it anxiety. Then upon her return home iii the evening, she would find a blazing fire, and tea prepared iu her little parlour, and perhaps a new book left by the pastor, awaiting her. When the weather would permit, little Hubert would be at the gate waiting, and would totter forth to meet her. At such times, the mother's heart would bound to meet her boy, and, catching him up in her arms, she would hurry into the house, and, sitting down, would strain him to her bosom, covering him with kisses the while. Katy, since she was no longer pinched with hunger or chilled with cold, ^as as blithe as a bird, and sung at her work all day long; while old Broom, who had run his visit into a permanent stay, employed himself in sawing and packing away wood for the 130 6FBIL BROTHER-TOW. winter's use; in clearing up the garden, which he meant to put under cultivation in the spring; and in attending to little Hubert. THE PACKET. ONE cold, damp evening, near the spring, Sybil returned home later than usual. It had been drizzling all day long, and towards evening the rain had fallen in torrents. Sybil had remained with the pupil whom she had last visited until near dark, hoping that the rain would cease. At last, borrow- ing an umbrella, she set out for home. How cheerful looked her little cottage, with the lights gleaming through its parlour windows ! She entered the house, and, throwing aside her cloak and hood, looked around for little Hubert. Not seeing him, she passed into her chamber, where he lay asleep ; kissing him softly, and murmuring a blessing, she returned to the little parlour. Everything was comfortable there; the wood fire was blazing cheerfully ; the tea-table was set, and Sybil's work-stand and basket placed in the corner, with her rocking- chair and footstool near it. Sybil sat down at her workstand while Katy brought in tea. " The parson been here, ma'am," said Katy ; " waited for you a good while; just gone away; left this book for you in your work-basket." Sybil took up the book, murmuring to herself " ; Paley' ; oh ! Mr. Livingston is so kind ! No one was ever BO kind to me before, except my poor old grandmother. JJut what is this, Katy ?" said she, about taking up a packet di- rected, in a strange hand, to herself, and bearing a ship stamp " who left this ?" "That! Yes, ma'am: he brought that, too, from the pos' ofB2e for you." Sybil tore off the envelope. It was a London^ paper. She unfolded it, and read with astonishment and grief the follow- GENERAL AND MRS. BROTHERTON. 131 ing notice, to which her attention was directed by a couple of pen strokes : " DIED, at his residence in Portman Square, on the thirtieth of October, Harold Preble Middleton, son of the Hon. Fenton Preble Middleton, and grandson of the Right Hon. the Earl of Mainwaring." The paper dropped from her hands, and Sybil fell into thought. She did not reflect upon the man who had oppressed, deserted, slandered her; she thought only of the lover of her youth, the father of her child, and her tears began to flow faster than she could wipe theui away. " Well, I declare, Mrs. Middleton," said Katy, coming in, "you have not touched a mouthful of supper. I took such pains with them sponge cakes, too; and the tea is best 'perial." " You may take the table away, Katy," said Sybil, and, arising and passing into her chamber, she fell weeping upon the crib of her child. GENERAL AND MRS. BROTHERTON. To say that Sybil was the " inconsolable" widow of a man whom she had married upon a slight and insufficient acquaint- ance ; who had remained with her comparatively but a short time; who had abused her even unto personal violence; whc had forsaken her at her utmost need ; aspersed her character, and disowned her child to say this would be an incredible libel on her sanity. " Some natural tears she shed, but wiped them soon." She remained at home a fortnight, and occupied herself with making up her mourning, without thinking of the necessity of sending notes of explanation to her patrons, who wore left by that omission to conjecture the cause of her pro- tracted absence from her pupils. These conjectures at length reached the ears of the pastor, and he resolved to call and see Mrs. Middleton. He found Sybil calmly at work with her needle, while her little boy played upon the carpet. No chum'* 132 SYBIL BROTHERTON. in Sybil's looks warned him of what had occurred, so he said to her playfully " My dear Mrs. Middleton, I have resolved myself into a committee of inquiry, to ascertain the cause or causes of your Belf-immersement." In their lively moments, Sybil had always answered his smiles with smiling, and his quibs with quiddities, but now her grave countenance seemed to rebuke his jesting. Request- ing him to be seated, she arose from her chair, and, taking from her writing-desk the London paper, put it into his hands, and, pointing to the obituary notice, ?aid, while the tears arose to her eyes " The knowledge of that event has kept me at home for some time past. Will you please inform my patrons of it?" Her large, tender eyes were raised to the pastor's face as she spoke, and she observed with surprise and displeasure the sudden, the involuntary flush of something that lighted up the pastor's face as he read. Well ! I own it j for my part, I do " expect perfection from human beings," at least from some of us, and especially from Christian ministers ; and I feel hu- miliated to be obliged to acknowledge the existence of a single human weakness in Mr. Livingston ; but so it was, the Rev. Stephen Livingston, the fervent Christian, the beloved pastor, the rising divine, had not lately, with his whole soul, wor- shipped one God, but in the temple of his heart one niche was occupied by an idol. Little did he suspect this, however, until, in perusing the paragraph, he discovered the real nature of his regard for Sybil, by the sudden recollection of the pos- sibility of its gratification. Reproaching himself immediately and bitterly for this feeling, he returned the paper to Sybil, saying coldly, as he arose to take leave ' Mrs. Middleton, you may, and I hope will, command ray services in this distressing affair, whenever they may be re- quired." GENERAL AND MRS. BROTHERTON. 133 Sybil thanked him, and returned his cold " Good-evening, madam," with a distant " Good-night, sir." "And now," thought the pastor, as he turned from the door, " I do not see that I have effaced one error of sinful exultation, by another error of studied coldness. Poor child ! at the very moment that she required consolation, advice, and assistance, to leave her so abruptly, without offering a single word of comfort. I must certainly see her again soon, and make amends for this." Mrs. Middleton also indulged in a soliloquy to this effect " I am afraid, after all, that I havv. a very bad, or at least a very conceited mind ; to think that I should be so vain as to suppose that Mr. Livingston was that he felt that the pastor thought" Sybil durst not finish the sentence, even mentally, but, with a feeling of self-abasement, endeavoured to force her thoughts from the subject, after saying to her- self " Yes, yes ; I have done the good pastor foul wrong by my vain suspicions. Well, well ; I will be more reasonable when he comes again, if, indeed, he ever comes, after my cold in- gratitude." The next day the pastor called with more friendly offers of assistance, and his visit passed off in the easy manner of their finst acquaintance. At his suggestion, Sybil resolved to do many things, very necessary to be done, but which, with hei limited knowledge of life, she would not else have thought of doing. For instance, the obituary notice was sent to some of the Baltimore papers; a letter was written to General Brother- ton, informing him of her widowhood ; and another letter was written to the Earl of Mainwaring, inquiring the particulars of Mr. Middleton's decease. Having assisted Sybil in all these matters, Mr. Livingston refrained from visiting her again. It was now, by missing it, that Sybil began to esti- mate the society of the pastor at its full value ; she also divined 134 SYBIL BROTHERTOtf. the cause of his absence, though no word or glance had hinted it such is the mental free-masonry of affection. A few weeks after this, when the spring had well opened, Sybil received a visit from General and Mrs. Brothertou They had come to renew their generous proposal to Sybil, and, in (he event of her rejecting it, to invite her to pass the first year of her widowhood at Brotherton Hall. In thinking of Mrs. General Brotherton, and in hearing her called by the General " the old lady," and " the old wife," and " my old lady," Sybil had pictured '.o herself a venerable woman, not unlike her departed grandmother. What was her surprise, then, when the General introduced her to a handsome, fash- ionable-looking Frenchwoman, really forty-eight, but appa- rently about thirty-five years of age. Sybil had heard, it is true, that General Brotherton, during his service in the old French war, had been taken prisoner, and, during his captivity, had fallen in love with and married the daughter of a French officer, but she had lately forgotten it. General and Mrs. Brotherton remained in Baltimore a fortnight, and, during that time, the old proposition to Sybil was renewed. As there now existed no obstacle to its acceptance, Sybil gratefully acceded to it, and began making active preparations for a removal to "JJrotherton Hall, the General superintending the packing tip and off of the furniture, while Madame busied herself among viilli:iers and mantua-makers, compelling Sybil to go with her on all her excursions. Though no two people could be more opposite in temper than the lively Frenchwoman and the thoughtful Sybil, yet (for this very reason, perhaps) they were strongly attached to each other. Sybil had parted with all her pupils, and taken leave of all her friends, and so she felt and looked very serious as she entered the carriage with 'General and Mrs. Brotherton, on the morning of her departure j so that Madame said to her " Come ! ma belle, you put on a look of fortitude quite gratuitous, under the circumstances; for really, I cauuot see f.YBIL'fl DREAM OF IIAPTINESS. 135 that it requires so much moral courage to reconcile you tc a black dress, when it becomes you so extremely well. If I, now, with my dark complexion, were compelled to make my- self hideous in widow's weeds, it might be a matter of regret; but you a fine girl like you could not wear a more becoming colour; therefore, leave that look of resignation, for I shall neither pity nor praise you on account of it." Sybil raised her eyes to the face of Mrs. Brotherton in simple wonder. "Ah! ah! miynonne," exclaimed Madame. "Your eyes are quite large enough, ana very beautiful, just as they ape; do not try to stretch them any larger; for, en vt-ritt, I think your look of wonder even less attractive than your look of martyrdom." "She's not mad, cousin Sybil; at least, not raving mad, although you may fear it. I assure you there is no danger. Madame is a harmless lunatic," said the General, seriously Sybil laughed, in spite of herself. The object of her two relatives was effected; they had rallied her into cheerfulness. It was in May. It was late at night, and the full moon waa shining brightly when they arrived at Brotherton Hall, and Sybil re-entered the home of her childhood. SYBIL'S DREAM OP HAPPINESS. A YEAR had passed since the arrival of Mrs. Middleton and her child at Brotherton Hall a year during which she had won the affection of her relatives, who esteemed her as a daughter a year dotted with a few bright days, the occasions upon which her sometime pastor had blessed Brotherton Hall with his visits. Her letter to the Earl of Mainwaring had not been answered ; but then a voyage across the Atlantic, fifty years ago, was not the at'turnpon excursion that it is now; so that Sybil waited fire or six mouths without anxiety At the end of that time, Io6 SYBIL BROTHERTON she had written again, and, to insure the safe delivery of her etter at its destination, she had enclosed it to the American Minister at the Court of St. James. She was now expecting an answer to this last letter. The spring of 1800 opened beautifully. The sunshine abroad was not more bright, \v;um, and genial, than the sunshine of the breast enjoyed by Sybil Middleton. At no period of her short life had Sybil been so happy. By a judicious attention to the laws of physiology, her early constitutional tendency to consumption had been con- quered. By free exercise in the open air, and frequent bath- ing, she had attained high health ; and, during the course of her acquaintance with Mr. Livingston, her intellectual faculties had become greatly unfolded ; and now Sybil Middleton, in the full development and high enjoyment of mental, moral, and physical life, dreamed that she was about to attain the acme of human happiness; for one who had assisted her iu difficulty, advised her in prosperity, sympathized with her iu sorrow one who had developed and cultivated her intellect, enlarged and elevated her moral sense, enlightened and exalted her Christian faith one whom she loved and worshipped next to God himself had received her promise to become his wife. It was with the candour of pure affection that Sybil expressed the full joy she felt in giving him her hand. It is true that, for some months past, Sybil had expected this proposal; yet, now that it had been made, she could scarcely believe in the reality of her happiness. That Livingston, upon whose words she had hung with such deep joy that he from whose instruc- tions she had derived such strength and comfort he upon whom she constantly depended for guidance he whom she revered and honoured first upon earth, and whom she had lately grown to love with the whole strength of her earnest soul that he should take her to his bosom, to pass her whole life with him, to bear his honoured name, to share his Me.->;ca labours oh ! this seemed a happiness too full for earth, and THE AWAXENISO. jS7 Sybil trembled amidst her joy, as the day of (heir marriage drew near. " In cue -hort week, my own dear Sybil ! in one short week we meet again, to part no more on earth. Oh ! the joy, the joy to feel that this is our last brief separation ! for I have grieved to leave you, even for a few days, my Sybil 1" exelaimed Mr. Livingston, as he folded his betrothed bride to his bosom. "Oh! yes, \u one week more," murmured Sybil; ''yet, ah! my own l<.vc, I grow superstitious, and tremble lest this joy be too full to last." She raised her head from his bosom, and looked into hia face ; their eyes met in a long, full, earnest gaze ; again be pressed her to his bosom in a silent embraee. Ah ! if they could have died in that embrace ! They parted. THE AWAKENING. MR. LIVINGSTON, on his arrival at the parsonage late that night, found letters awaiting him. The first that arrested big attention bore a foreign mark; it was evidently from an ac- quaintance of his in London, and in answer to a letter of inquiry, written on the part of Mrs. Middleton. He took it up, opened the seal, and began to read. Did a basilisk blast his sight? Had he plucked up a mandrake to drive him mad? The paper fell from his cold hands ; dashing his clenehed fists against his burning brow, he groaned out " My God ! my (iod ! This is too much for humanity to bear ! Let me die now !" He rushed out into the air, and up and down, through the cool streets he walked, without calming the fever of hia blood, or cooling the fire in his brain up and down through the silent streets, muttering halt-smothered words of despair and grief up and down through the dark streets, with a stiange light gleaming in his eyes, until morning dawned; then hurry- ing to his house, he shut himself up in his study, saying 138 SYBIL BROTIIERTOX. " No, no , I must not see her in this state of mind ! I must strive to conquer this. Good God! shall I, who pretend to strengthen and- console others, go mad, or die myself?'' When the sun arose, and shone into the study of the pa?- tor, its beams fell upon a face that seemed to have grown old in a night. He was sitting at a little table facing the win- dow ; his face was pale and haggard, his eyes hollow, his gaze strained upon a text in the open Bible before him, his thoughts concentrated upon a point long he remained soj at length his head drooped upon the book he prayed ; it was the first time he had dared to pray since the opening of the fatal letter; he was strengthened j he became composed though all day long he remained in his study without refreshment, reading, praying, and meditating though all night long he kept a vigil there, yet upon the following day, which was Sunday, -he preached with his usual power and perspicuity. It is true .A/at his congregation were shocked at his haggard countenance and shaking frame, and many of them made anxious inquiries concerning his health. Their pastor confessed that he was not well, and finally succeeded in escaping from his officious friends, and regaining the privacy of his home. Early on Monday morning, the pastor arose, and, having saddled his horse himself, mounted, and took his way towards Brotherton Hall. He was again changed. Not a vestige of emotion was visible in his face or manner. His countenance was sorrowful, but calm, resolute, and still. His manner gentle and serious, yet determined. That day Sybil was sitting alone, at work, singing in the overflowing joy of her heart. The little boy was trundling a hoop in the yard, and ever and anon, his merry laugh and shuut came in at the open windows. General and Mrs. Bro- therton were out taking a ride. Presently, there was a sound of a horse's feet in the yard, a familiar foot-step in the hall, a hand upon the lock, and Mr. Livingston stood before Sybil. THE AWAKENING. 139 ITis face was pale, and wore (he impress of desperate sorrow, yet inflexible resolution. Sybil 1) ad sprung to meet him, yet stood transfixed ly hia .ooks. "Good heavens, dearest ! what is the matter? Has any- thing happened ?" exclaimed she. "Sit down, Sybil," said he, gravely; at the same time taking a seat himself. " Yes I will but, oh ! indeed something has happened I see it by your looks. Dear love, what can it be ?" exclaimed Sybil, anxiously. " Yes, Sybil, something has happened something to change the whole current of our future lives. You are growing pale, Sybil ; summon all your Christian fortitude, or, if your strength fail, call on Him who giveth freely. I have received a letter from my London correspondent on the subject upon which I wrote to him six months ago you remember" " Yes ! yes ! well ? well ?" " Well, Sybil ! my poor Sybil, we have been labouring under a fatal mistake your husband is living !" Sybil fell back in her chair, deadly pale and faint. Mr. Livingston poured out and handed her a glass of water, which, wheu she had drank, she murmured " It is over it is over that happy dream." Deceived by her quietness, the pastor went on to say " This was the way in which the mistake originated, Mrs Middleton" " You need not tell me ! It is of no use ! We do not caro to know how the poison was distilled that has sapped our lives I We do not inquire where the dagger was wrought that is sheathed in our hearts" " Sybil ! Sybil ! Oh, Heaven support her her hands aro icy cold her breath comes thick and short. Sybil ! Oh I my poor Sybil bear up under this; be resigned to ihe will jf Heaven/' 140 SYBIL BROTHER-TON. " Comtnonpiace ! commonplace ! You'd say the same to a mother whose only child was about to be hung ! ' Be re- signed !' ' Bf.ar up!' And have I not borne up? Havel not been resigned ? /, that have suffered as no one ever suffered before me ! /, that have been tried as no one ever was tried before me ! Resignation ! fortitude ! What have they done for me, but to provoke upon my head a reiteration of trial, as if Heaven were making the experiment of how much sorrow a human being could bear, without going mad !" " Now, may Heaven forgive your wild words, Sybil ! Oh ! Sybil ! suffer me to pray with you, as in days past?" " Pray !" exclaimed she, bitterly ; " to whom, and for what ? Pray! I've prayed all my life; and here I sit, a tortured, i blighted, a miserable woman ! I would I were annihilated !" . " Oh ! Sybil, if this were the only life, still you would have no excuse for such a frantic arraignment of Providence. But, oh ! bethink you, this dark, this thorny, this sorrowful road, if we tread it firmly and patiently, will lead us to" " ' Another and a happier world,' perhaps. I know nothing of it ! I do not see it ! I do not hear it ! Away with it ! 1 will none of it ! Give me oh ! give me happiness in this A'orld, that I know." And Sybil, extending her arms plead- ingly towards her lover, burst into tears. Struggling with a powerful emotion, the pastor turned abruptly, and walked to A window, at the opposite end of the room, where he remained a long time, apparently gazing out upon the landscape. Laughing, jesting, and joyous, General Brotherton and his wife now entered the room, from their drive. Sybil slipped out, and fled to her chamber to conceal her emotion, while the pastor turned tranquilly to meet them. Very early on the next morning, Mr. Livingston descended to the parlour. He was to leave Brotherton Hall after the family breakfast to leave it with the probability of never re- turning yet he resolved, before going, to put in execution a pluu which ho had matured during the Bight lie had been^ THE AWAKENING. 141 rery much shaken by the despair of Sybil. He knew her dis- position better than she knew herself. He knew that there could be no risk in the plan he resolved to propose, in order to rouse all the energy of her soul, to throw off the weight of her sorrow. Through all this seeming stoicism, the pastor ft-er fe!t the wound that was festering in his own heart. The pastor had not been down many minutes, before Sybil entered. She was very, very pale, gentle, and subdued. Sinking, trembling, in a chair, she said, in a low, sad voice "Give me the letter now, my friend; I can read it now." The pastor placed it in her hands. She read as follows : " MY DEAR FRIEND : I have made inquiries concerning the person of whom you wrote me. The obituary notice in the London paper referred to the honourable Harold Preble Middle- ton, the grandson of the Earl of Mainwaring, a gentleman who has never left England, and who, besides, has left a widow and children in Port man Square. I have since learned that there is a relative of the family, bearing the same name, who spent three years in America. This person is represented to be a sort of genteel loafer, or aristocratic vagabond, who spends his time in ' going to and fro on the earth, and passing up and down in it;' a sort of amateur artist, and is now at Rome, studying the old masterpieces of painting. With him is an Italian woman, who passes for bis wife one Inez or Inice di Silva." The letter was long, but it here left the subject of so much interest to Sybil ; so, folding it up slowly and calmly, she returned it to Livingston. Sybil was composed, but it was the composure of despair, the quiet of weakness the feeble- ness of nature was upon her. Her heart seemed melting, dying in her bosom ; and indeed she thought, and welcomed the thought, that this weakness was unto death. The pastur s;iw this, and felt the urgent necessity of rousing her. " I am much relieved to see you have regained composure, Icai- Sybil." 142 SYBIL BROTIIERTO*. "Yes I have regained composure" said she, sighing. " But, oh I my dear friend, I have lost your good opinion 1 know it I feel it; through the ravings of my despair, 1 have lo.-t your esteem for ever." " No, dear Sybil, my esteem for you remains undiminished ; I never supposed you to be an angel, and I am not surprised to find you a woman." " But you were so firm, so self-possessed, so calm." " Yes, Sybil, after two nights of moral tempest ; and my calmness was perhaps as much the effect of exhausted nature, as of reason or religion. We have both sinned, Sybil, not hitherto in our attachment for that was involuntiry, inevi- table but in the terrible arraignment of Providence of which we have both been guilty." " Yes, yes. Oh ! I feel that," said Sybil. " It is well for us, indeed, that our Father in Heaven is so long-suffering and patient with us. Listen, my friend; when I fled to my chamber last evening, I was mad ! The very elements of my being were broken up all was storm, confusion, chaos ! and this storm raged through my soul until it exhausted my strength 1 felt as though the -very earth had rolled from beneath my feet, and I had forfeited my claim upon Heaven. Eternal night seemed to have fallen upon my soul ; I was desolate, forsaken, cursed. I was mad ! I was tempted ! The thought of self-destruction flashed into my mind, and I said, I will leave life, I will fly to death; and with the soph.'stry of pas- sion I added, I shall not be as a rebellious subject, rushing unbidden into the presence of his king no, no, but as a tem- pest-driven child, flying for refuge to the bosom of her Father. ] started up, my grasp was upon the lock of the door, when a gentle hand, a weak infant's hand, held me back. I turned, and little Hubert was standing by me, looking with wonder and grief upon me while he murmured, ' 1 love you, mamma.' Oh ! my friend, can you understand the revulsion of feeling lhat overpowered me ? I sank down where I was, and, fold- T H E A W A K E N I N 143 :ng the babe to my bosom, I wept ; and as my emotion sub- sided, I became penetrated with a sense of my ingratitude and gin, and I prayed; but oh ! my friend, before I prayed, simul- taneously with the fir^t dawning of penitence came a sense cf ftigiveness. God meets us more than halfway w-th pardon; he does not wait for the bended knee ; he does not stay for tlio forming prayer; he meets the first impulse of penitence with forgiveness. I do not pretend to account for the exist- ence of suffering, I do not clearly comprehend the use of trial, but I know that God is good; I feel that God is love; I believe that we are not tortured in vain. But I am an egotist I have talked too long ; yet you have been in some sort my father confessor, Livingston," added she, with a sorrowful attempt to smile. The short-lived animation that had boino her through this speech was fast dying away. " No, dear Sybil, you have given me comfort," replied the pastor. He still called her "dear Sybil," for he could not bring himself to address the failing, fainting woman before him. in any but the language of tenderness. She had relapsed into a fearful apathy her form was still as death her face was ashy pale even to her lips the very torpor of despair seemed to have stupefied her the very elements of existence seemed resolving into dissolution. The pastor saw this with alarm, and hastened to rouse her attention by the proposal of his plan " Listen to me, dear Sybil ; there is hope for us yet." " Hope !" echoed Sybil, unconsciously. " Yes, hope. Attend to me, dear Sybil, if you please. You remember the proposition made to you by General Uro- iherton about two years ago you remember, Sybil?" " Yes," said Sybil, absently. "\Vheu General Brotherton is informed of the contents of this ktter, that proposition will be renewed. Do you not think sc ?" 144 SYBIL BROTHERTON l< Possibly," replied Sybil, indifferently. " Probably, nay, certainly. What if you were tc accept the conditions, and free yourself?" Starting, half raising herself, bending forward, while the ligr.t brightened in her eyes and the coloui warmed in her c'lt-ek, she exclaimed ' Mr. Livingston, niy friend, do you advise me to this?" " Nay, Sybil I advise jou to nothing. This is a matter, ubove all others, upon which you must not take advice ; but I >o, Sybil ! my gentle one, this is between God and your own conscience; it would be sacrilege to interfere. You must ' tread the wine press alone,' looking to Ilirn for fortitude who entered it alone before you." T H E A W A K E N I X Q- 145 " Aha ! alas ! and I have no father or mother to advise with mo, no brother or sister to comfort me, no friend when you are gone to sympathize with me." " Dear Sybil, you are of all persons the best fitted to judge of your own case, by the light of religion; no one knows the circumstances as you know them." " I am very well aware that it is considered extremely ill- natured to intrude upon lovers ; but when they choose the family breakfast room, early in the morning, for their tete-a- tete, and less happy folks are hungry, how can it be avoided ?" exclaimed the jovial old General, as he bustled into the room. How his merriment jarred upon the excited nerves of Sybil ! " When I was wooing, we used to take woodland walks on such fine spring mornings as this. Ask madame here she comes. I'm telling these transported people, Gabrielle, when you and I were transccndentalated, we did not stay about the house putting sensible people to inconvenience by taking pos- session of their breakfast room, keeping them from their cho- colate. No; when we were etherealized, and left eating and drinking to people that were ' of the earth earthy,' we rehearsed our dreams and visions /amid the vasty solitudes of nature,' as cousin Sybil's books call mountains and forests. Come ! old lady," added he, patting his wife affectionately on the shoulder, " make them stir about stir about. As I have been shooting at water fowl and not at hearts, this morning, 1 am smitten with a rather exacting affection for coffee and toast." The General had lately affected to call his wife " old lady," a sobriquet which the pretty Frenchwoman never failed to receive with a toss of the head, at ouce haughty, petulant, and graceful, which shook down her ringlets in the most becoming fall. Breakfast was served ; and immediately after it was removed, the pastor -arose to take leave. He bhook hands with Mrs. Brothcrtoo, with tLe General, and approached Sybil with a 116 SYBIL BROTHERTON. sinking, dying heart with a reeling brain. Well lie knew that this was the last, last time he should ever beholJ her Truly he felt that he should never, never again, see her face, hear her voice, touch her hand the woman towards whom his whole being tended with a force, by an attraction, almost im- possible to be checked. His heart sank, his brain reeled, his voice quivered, yet his words were cold. " Mrs. Middlcton, farewell." " Good-bye," said Sybil, as her cold hand fell heavily from his grasp. That cold, conventional leave-taking, amid the merry group I and with their bursting hearts ! Well, perhaps it was better. " ' Mrs. Middleton !' Well, I call Venus, Cupid, and Psych e, and all the Muses and Graces, to witness that I never called the old lady by any name than ' Flower/ ' Star,' ' Pearl,' ' Angel,' ' Seraph,' or ' Gabrielle,' that meant each and all, from the moment of our engagement until some three or four weeks after marriage !" Livingston was gone. " Why, cousin Sybil, what do you intend to do with such an icicle as that ? Decidedly, that man has mistaken his voca- tion. He was intended for a monk. Sybil ! Heavens ! What is the matter ? Wife ! come here ; she's ill she's got an inflammation on the brain her hands are cold as ice, her head as hot as fire her eyes are wild. Sybil 1 speak to your old cousin ; how do you feel ?" " What is Good ? What is Evil ? Where is God ?" asked Sybil, wildly. "Oh; my good gracious; she's mad, raving mad. Old lady, I say ! All owing to that strong coffee destroyed her nervous system. All owing to coffee and novels drinking strong coffee and eating I mean reading ncvels, I know." "You know nothing about it. Leave the room, General you're liks a bear nursing a baby," said Mrs. Brotherton. coring in. T H E A W A K E N I N 0. 147 " Yes ; but G;ibe I mean old lady" amended the General, spitefully "fhe's very ill, I tell you." " She is not. It is a rush of blood to the brain nothing more. Leave her to me." The General left the room, grumbling, " she's my cousin, G ibrielle not yours." Madame looked after him with a fond, quizzing smile. She understood the patholoyy and treatment of overwrought passion as well as a Parisian doctor. Delicately refraining from expressing any surprise, or asking any questions, she ap- plied the necessary remedies, and soon restored her patient to composure. Livingston had succeeded, by an almost superhuman exer- tion of will, in subduing all outward demonstrations of emo tion while in the presence of Sybil. Leaving Brothertor. Hall, he spurred his horse into a fungus gallop, as though he would ride away from himself, or win the race of sorrow ; and rustics, who saw him shoot past like an arrow, surmised that he carried an express. Then, again, he would permit his horse to fall into a slo-w walk, as though he were pursuing a journey without object or aim; and those who knew his person, might have conjectured that he was meditating his next Sabbath's discourse. He was tempted for he knew that it was with himself himself- that this question rested at last. He knew that the woman whose mind he had developed, whose heart was all his own, over whom he possessed un- bounded influence, who never questioned his rectitude of prin- ciple, who seldom exerted her own moral agency, if he were at hand to decide for her he felt that this woman could not fail to be won by his arguments to any course he should point out to her ; and he felt that he was responsible not only for his owii aioral welfare, but for hers also and he loved her moral tvelt'aie, above all things he loved that, and he regretted the feminine softness of character, that while it made her so gwec*Jy attractive, left her so much at his disposal; and b 148 SYBIL BROTIIERTON. wished that corrected, and he knew (hat this trial would effocl its cure, by calling out all the latent energies of her really strong soul, by arousing the sleeping strength of her pure moral sense; and he had no fears for the result; he knew the features of her mind, as a mother knows the face of her child ; he knew that she would suffer, struggle, but overcome. And he knew that her soul would come out from this struggle, pure as gold from the furnace, strong as steel from the tempering, healthful as a young giant from the wrestle. But, then, to lose her to lose her ! Oh ! those three words expressed for him the very alpha and omega, the all of mortal agony and, at the thought, he would feel exasperated to spurn away all his earthly usefulness and interests, to forego all his heavenly hopes and aspirations, to possess her and would have done so, but for the right-directed will, the calm, the inflexible, the unchanged, the immutable will the regal will that sat re- straining, directing, governing, subduing, this revolt of the passions, like an upright judge amid an excited populace. The pastor reached home, and commenced preparations to remove to the South. And thus it is whenever two people are disappointed in love, the man goes away somewhere, flies to the North or the South Pole, or makes a balloon voyage tc spend a winter in the moon, and speedily effaces old impres- sions by new ones while the woman, poor thing, is left to brood over her disappointment, amid the very ruins of her tumbled-down castle from the air, surrounded by all the asso- ciations of her past joy taking the same walks, and missing o'lie from her side sitting in the same parlour, at the same hour, logically looking for the same form, listening for the same voice, " waiting for the steps that come not back." De- cidedly, she would break her heart, but that some old aunty reminds her that men are not worth breaking hearts for; aud, besides, broken hearts have gone out of fashion, and womeu don't like to be unfashionable. THE STRUGGLE. 149 THE STRUGGLE. BUT Sybil, poor Sybil, with her strong affections, her fervent aspirations after right, her feebleness of will, her rieivous temperament, and her terrible trial ! When General Brotherton had read the letter that had been silently placed in his hands by Livingston at leaving, the old gentleman's rage exploded and scattered consternation through- out his household. You would have supposed, to have hcar-l him, that he considered the continued existence of Middleton as the very climax of his crimes. If he ever dared to set foot in America, he would bang him up with his own hands, as he would a thieving cur. He wouldn't wait for that he'd go tc Roire, old as he was, that he would, and shoot the fellow like a m:>.d dog. Acd the old gentleman drove the dogs from the room, kicked the cat, scolded the servants, and frightened the child, by way of convincing people that he meant what he said. After a few days, having reconsidered the subject of setting Providence right in this matter of life and death, General Brotherton renewed his former proposition, and pressed Sybil to its adoption using all the arguments that his clear, logical, worldly view of the affair could suggest. Sybil, whom the surges of emotion, that had swept over her, had left quiet and weak, replied, that she would think of it. " She will ' think of it.' Gabrielle ! do you hear ? She 'will think of it;' that's a great point gained. It's easy to perceive that her desire for the crown of martyrdom is con- siderably diminished. I should judge the parson had set her right upon some points of Christian doctrine." And Sybil did think of it until her brain reeled uiid her reason tottered. She did not examine the moral Mid legal authorities upon the subject, for she did not possess a logical mind, and she said, properly enough, " They will only confuse 1 50 SYBIL B R T II E R T X. my mind with their arguments and counter arguments, for half the time they are more desirous to conquer in controversy, *han to find truth j but I will go to the fount of light and truth I will go to the Bible;" and she went to the Bible, and she searched with care, with eagerness, with breathless avidity, with an earnest desire to find that which she sought Christian permission to free herself; and she found that there is but one cause for which a man may divorce his wife, and no cause, none, for which a woman may divorce her husband and marry again. There is something in Bible truth that heals while it probes, tha* strengthens while it chastises. He who laid down this seemingly partial law understood the hearts of women, and knew the comparatively spiritual nature of their affections. He who delivered this stringent command was himself steeped to the lips in suffering, was himself " tempted in all things as we are." Never before had Sybil so sympathized (thus to speak) with the Saviour's sufferings, never had she so realized the Saviour's temptations, never had she so received the great lesson of the Saviour's life and death, as now, when, " search- ing the Scriptures" in sorrow and temptation, and in the ten- derness of her melted heart, she breathed forth " Not all thy promises, oh ! Saviour, affect me so much as thy example and thy sufferings. I will bear my cross, even so, Sufferer and Saviour, for it was thy way." All emotion, even religious emotion, is short-lived, and not to be trusted. The only permanent safety is in a clear con- ception of duty, and a resolute determination to act up to it, looking to God for strength. So true is this, that through all their teaching, the Saviour and his Apostles seldom or never appeal to passion or imagination generally to reason. Sybil's religious enthusiasm subsided, and then came the temptation in its might the temptation of a lifetime, the trial of principle, the test of faith, the crisis of character, the point upon which all that could blind to right, all that could teiupt to t vil, were brought to a focus. To every one who has passed TUB STRUGGLE. 151 jnsullied through the lesser temptations of this world, toeverj one upon whom the common trials of life have bad little influ- ence, to every one who has attained a certain moral point of ebvation, there comes once in life one trial of pre-eminent strength, one temptation of almost irresistible might, one test of infallible truth a temptation, through the most powerful passion of the soul, of the weakest point in the character. This touchstone may be applied in youth, in mid-life, or in age; and the result is almost invariably final, giving the bent to character for time and for eternity. To one whose beset- ting sin is avarice, this test may come in the shape of some rare chance to secure a great pecuniary profit, at the cost of a slight departure from rectitude; and it may come in a time of great penury and severe privation, and it may offer affluence t the price of integrity. How severe his struggle then ! Will he stop to inquire, "What shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul ?" To one of a higher grade, for whom wealth has but little attraction, but to whom the applause of men is as the breath of life, it may come, this touchstone, in the form of some golden opportunity of securing popular favour by a slight deviation from the straight line of duty as when some great statesman, whose popularity is fluctuating, is tempted of his ambition to engage in some popular but unholy cause ; it may come when his favour with men is at the lowest ebb, and it may place withiu his reach the very prize of his life-long hopes, the very god of his life-long aspirations requiring of him only to overleap eiiuie obstacle of duty to reach it, to let fall some principle of justice to grasp it. Will he, the tempted, then feel that the friendship of the world is enmity with God ?" and will he re- member that, the most unpopular man on earth, during hia life, was "Jesus of Nazareth, whom they crucified?" And to those for whom neither the applause of nations nor the wealth of the Indies have attraction sufficient to draw from duty, but who are gifted with ardent affections, aud whot 9 152 SYBIL BROTHERTON. dearest and most importunate sin is to bestow love and worship, due only to the Creator, upon the creature to them comes an opportunity of satisfying to the full the strong and craving affections, at a sacrifice of principle seemingly so trifling as not to subject them to the strictures of the most moral community, or exclude them from the communion of the most puritanical Christian church, but which the microscopic eye of a faithful conscience will detect and expose. Will the tempted then re- member, that, if duty demand it, the right hand must be cut off, the right eye plucked out, Isaac offered up ? In all her former sorrows, Sybil Middleton had been simply a passive sufferer, bearing meekly the troubles which she could not avert, but exercising no moral agency, practising no self- denial, achieving no victory. True, the mild virtues of patience and resignation had been brought out, but these were natural to Sybil hitherto; she could not have been otherwise than resigned and patient under suffering. But now there came a far greater trial a duty demanding not self-immolation only oh, no ! that would have been comparatively a light grief, a slight test but the sacrifice of one dearer than self, the casting out of the object of the heart's fondest affections, the hurling down of the idol of the soul's highest worship. The struggle was long and fierce ; nights of watching, days of tears, weeks of sorrow, passed before Sybil could turn a deaf ear to the solicitations of affection and of interest, and resolve to be true to her present conceptions of duty. At last she took a pen, and wrote to Mr. Livingston as follows : " Mr. LIVINGSTON : I have decided. We must meet no more. We must write no more. Let an ocean of silence and distance freeze up between us. Let us die to each other. SYBIL." Not until this letter was sealed and sent, did Sybil realize that all indeed was over. She threw herself upon the lounge she bured her head in the pillows, as if to phut out uii THE STRUGGLE 153 eight and sound, writhing and quivering as though in the extremity of mortal anguish then starting from her couch, and tossing her wild hair from her face, she walked the floor with nervous and irregular steps, wringing and twisting her pale fingers together; and when this passion had exhausted its victim, she lay in the apathy of despair, content^ with the silence, darkness, and repose of her chamber dreading light, sound, or disturbance scarcely wishing for a change, though that change might bring happiness. Alas ! for the reward of an approving conscience; alas! for the triumph of a victory over temptation; alas! for the support of conscious rectitude. She felt none of these consolations now none. It is not in the first moments of such a victory, the soul exhausted with its struggles and prostrate with its sufferings, that such comfort can be received. It is not at the instant that the right baud is cut off, that the right eye is plucked out, and the wounds are still smarting and bleeding, that one feels it to be "better" so. It is not at the moment in which the most cherished object of the affections, which has become entwined with every fibre of the heart, is first torn away, and the severed tendons are lacerated and bleeding, that they can clasp any support, or repose on any pillow. The time of strength and joy does come and it comes in beauty, in glory, and ia permanency ; but it dawns gradually as the morning after a night of storms and darkness. Sybil gradually obtained com- posure, by degrees became interested in her daily avocations, and eventually grew happy, realizing that happiness does not consist in the accomplishment of our dearest wishes, but ia the cultivation and exercise of our virtues. 1 have dwelt too long upon the trials of Sybil, trials which were all comprised in the passage of a few years, which were acutely felt only for a few weeks. She had received the attacks of some severe troubles, and sustained the shock of one terrible disappointment; yet, now that she has survived the snows of seventy winters, now that her form is bowed, and 154 SYBIL BROTHERTON. her hair is white with age and not with grief, you might loolt upon that calm face, and believe that grief had never convulsed it; upon that clear brow, and believe that care had never clouded it; into that serene eye, and think that tears had never dimmed it. And more you may hear it often observed, that " Mrs. Middleton has a very young-looking face for her age ;" and the reply, " Yes, very j but then, she has never had any trouble to make her look old" and that is all they know about it, reader! And the pastor ! Livingston obtained a pastoral charge in the South. He became eminent as a theologian, a philanthro- pist, and a moral philosopher; yet people said that in his private life he was a cold, severe ascetic, proof against all tender impressions a very woman-hater; and that was all tlu'i/ knew about it, reader ! Verily, " The true greatness of human life w almost alto- gether out of sight " THE IRISH REFUGEE. The only son of his mother, and she was a widow. LUKE rii. 12 Long years shall see thee roaming A sad and weary way, Like traveller tired at gloaming Of a sultry summer day. But soon a home will greet thee, Though low its portals be, And ready kinsmen meet thee, And peace that will not flee. PEBCIVAL. IT was a lovely morning, that last Saturday in July, 1849. The sun had not yet risen, when our family party, consisting of Aunt and Uncle Clive. Cousin Christine and myself, took seats at an early breakfast table. A capacious carriage, well packed with presents for country cousins, stood at the door, ready to convey us to Virginia, to spend the month of Ausrust. We, a merry set of grown-up children, were too delighted with our prospective pleasure, to eat anything, and so we soon left the table, and put on our bonnets and hats, preparatorj to a start. We entered the carriage. "Now, then, are we all ready?" asked Uncle Clive. " Yes," replied aunt. " Has nothing been forgotten ?" " No. But stay ! Where is Cousin Peggy's cap, Chrissy !" " There pinned up in that paper, to the roof of the car nag" Don't hit your head against it, uncle." (155) 156 THF IRISH REFUGEE. " Clive, where did you put the basket of bread, and butter, and cold chicken ?" "There in the bottom of the carriage. Be careful now, iny dear, or you will get your feet into it." "No, I shan't. But hadn't you better put the oand-boc, with Martha's bonnet, inside here?" " Indeed, mother," interposed Miss Chrifsy, " there is no room for it ; for cousin Peggy's bundle is on one side, and the keg of crackers on the other ; my feet are resting on the caddy of tea, and the loaf of sugar and paper of coffee are in my lap !" " There ! let's get along," said Uncle Clive, impatiently. " I declare, the sun is already half an hour high, and a ride *f forty-five or fifty miles before us. We shall not reach Willow Glade before ten o'clock to-night." " Yes r and about nine o'clock we shall be going down Bloody Run Kill, and I never can go through the piece of woods between that and Gibbet Hill, after dark, without horror." " Ever since the pedlar was murdered." " Yes, ever since the pedlar was murdered, and before too." Uncle Clive now jumped into his seat, and taking the reins, we set off at a pretty brisk rate. " Clive, don't that horse look a little vicious ? See how he pricks up his ears !" " Pooh ! Nonsense ! He's as safe a horse as ever drew." " What o'clock is it now ?" " Humph ! half past five. I think the next time we wish io get off at sunrise, we had better arrange to start at midnight j than, perhaps, we may succeed." Turnin-g the corner of the street at this moment, the suidcn eight of the river, and the wood on the opposite bank, glim- mering and glistening in the light of the morning sun, elicited a simultaneous burst of admiration from our travellers. Then 'he prospective pleasures of the rural visit were discussed, THE IRISH REFUGEE 157 fhe family and friendly reunions, the dinner parties, the fish feasts upon the river's banks, the oyster excursions and crab expeditions; and in such pleasant anticipations, the cheerful hours of that delightful forenoon slipped away; and when, at last, the heat of the sun grew oppressive, and our sharpened appetites reminded us' of the dinner basket, we began to cast around for a cool, dry, and shady spot, on which to rest and refresh ourselves. The road, here, was wide, and passed through a thlvk forest. A few more turns of the wheela brought us to a narrow foot-path, diverging from the main road, into the forest, on the left-hand side. " Let's get out here, Clive, and follow this path ; I know it. It leads to a fine spring, with an acre or two of cleared land about it, on which there was once a dwelling." This was agreed upon ; and we all alighted, and took the path through the wood. We had not gone many yards, ere a scene of woodland beauty opened to our view. It presented an area of about four acres of open land in the midst of the forest. From the opposite side, a little rivulet took its rise, and ran tinkling and splushing, in its pebbly bed, through the centre of this open glade, until its music was lost in the dis- tance in the forest. But the most interesting object in sight, was a ruined cottage. It was very small. It could not have contained more than two rooms. In front, there had once been a door, with a window on each side ; but, now, both door and windows were gone. The solitary chimney had fallen down, and the stones, of which it had been built, lay scattered around. A peach-tree grew at the side of the cottage, and its branches, heavy with the luscious fruit, drooped upon the low roof. A grape vine grew in fiont, and its graceful tendrils twined in and out, through the sashless windows and the broken door. A bird of pr^y was perched upon the house, and, as we approached with a furful scream it took its flight. 15fc THE IRISH REFUGEE. "Be careful, Christine, where .you step; your foot is on u grave 1" With a start, and a sudden pallor, Christine looked down upon the fragment of a grave-stone. Stooping, and putting aside the long grass and weeds, she read : "The only CHILD of his mother, and she a widow." "Whose graV3 could this have beer, mother 7 The upper part of the stone, which should bear the name, is gone. O, how sad this ruined cot, and this lonely grave ! I suppose, mother, here, in the heart of the forest, in this small cottage, lived the widow and her only child. The child died, as we may see, and she Oh ! was the boon of death granted to her at the same moment ? But, who were they, mother ? As your early life was passed in this part of the country, you surely can tell us." Aunt Clive, who had been gazing sadly and silently on the scene, since giving the warning to Christine, said " Yes, I can tell you the story. But here comes your father, looking very tired and hungry; and, as it is a very sad tale, we will defer it until we have dined." We spread our repast upon the grass, and seating ourselves upon the fragments of the broken chimney, soon became en- grossed in the discussion of cold chicken, ham, and bread. As soon as we had despatched them, and repacked our basket, and while we were waiting for the horses to feed and rest, Aunt Clive told us the following tale of real life : THE IRISH EMIGRANTS. A SHORT time previous to the breaking out of the Rebellion in Ireland, a family of distinction came from that country to America, and purchased and settled upon a handsome estate near the then flourishing village of Richmond. Their family name was Delany. With them, came a Doctor Dulan, a clergyman of the established church. Through the influent"} of th 1 Delanys, Doctor Dulan was preferred to the rectorship THE IRISH REFUGEE. 15S of the newly established parisb/of All Saints, and subsequently to the President's chair of the new collegiate school of Newton Hall. This prosperity enabled him to send for his son and daughter, and settle with them in a comfortable home, near tbc scene of his labours. It was about the fifth year of bis residence in Virginia, th.it the Rebellion in Ireland broke out, and foremost among the patriots was young Robert Dulan, a brother of the Doctor. All know how that desperate and fatal effort terminated. Soon after the martyrdom of the noble Emmett, young Dulan was arrested, tried, condemned, and followed his admired leader , to the scaffold, leaving his heart-broken young wife and infant boy in extreme penury and destitution. As soon as she re- covered from the first stunning shock of her bereavement, she wrote to her brother-in-law, soliciting protection for herself and child. To this the Doctor, who, to great austerity of manners, united an excellent heart, replied by inviting his brother's widow to come to Virginia, and enclosing the amount of money required to supply the means. As soon as the old gentleman had done that, he began to prepare for her recep- tion. Knowing that two families seldom get on well beneath the same roof, and with a delicate consideration for the pecu liar nature of her trials, he wished to give her a home of her own. Selecting this spot, for the beauty and seclusion of its position, as well as for its proximity to his own residence, he built this cottage, enclosed it by a neat paling, and planted fruit trees. It was a very cheerful, pretty place, this neat, now cottage, painted white, with green window shutters; the white curtains ; the honeysuckle and white jessamine, trained to grow over and shade the windows; the white paling, tipped will green ; the clean gravel walk that led up to the door, the borders of which were skirted with white and red roses ; the clusters of tulips, lilies, and hyacinths all contributed to make fche wilderness " blossom as the rose;" and every day, the 160 THE IRISH REFUGEE. kind -hearted man sought to add some new attraction to -h scene. One evening, the Doctor had been over to the cottage, super, intending the arrangement of some furniture. On his return home, a servant brought a packet of letters and papers. Glancing over one of them, he said " Elizabeth, my daughter." A prim, young lady, in a high-necked dress, and a close- fitting black-net cap, looked up from her work, and answered in a low, formal voice " My father." " Your aunt and cousin have at length arrived at the port of Baltimore. They came over in the Walter Raleigh. I wish you to be in readiness to accompany me to-morrow, when I go to bring them down." " My father, yes," were the only words that escaped the formal and frozen girl. A week after this conversation, the still life of the beautiful cottage was enlivened. A lovely boy played before the door, while a pale mother watched him from within. That pale mother was not yet thirty years of age, yet her cheeks were sunken, her eyes dim, and her hair streaked with silver. Truly, the face was breaking fast, but the heart was breaking faster. But the boy ! Oh, he was a noble child ! Tall for his age (he was but five years old), his dark hair, parted over a high, broad forehead, fell in sable curls upon his shoulders ; his large black eyes, now keen and piercing as the young eagle's, now soft and melting as the dove's. His dark eyes wore their softest shade, as he stole to his mother's side, and twining his little arms around her neck, drew her face down to his, saying, with a kiss, " Willie is so sorry !" " For what should Willie be sorry ?" said the mother, ten- ilerly caressing him. " Because mamma is sad. Does she want Willie to do any- thing?" THE IRISH REFUGEE. 161 "No, sweet boy, she wants nothing done that Willie can ij." " If mamma's head aches, Willie will hold it." " Her head does not ache." " If mamma wants Willie to stop teasing her and go to bed, he will go." " You are not teasing me, dear Willie, and it is rather too early for you to go to bed." The widow strove to chase the gloom from her brow, that she might not darken by its shadow the bright sunshine of her child's early life, and with an effort at cheerfulness she exclaimed " Now go, Willie, and get the pretty book cousin Elizabeth gave you, and see if you can read the stories in it." Willie ran off to obey with cheerful alacrity. The Doctor was not able to do moio for his sister-in-law, than to give her the cottage, and supply her with the neces- saries of lifej and to do this, he cheerfully curtailed the ex- penses of his own household. It was delightful to see the affectionate gratitude of the widow and child towards their benefactor. And that angel child, I wish I could do justice to his filial devotion. He seemed, at that early age, to feel as though he only lived to love and bless his mother. To be con- stantly at her side, to wait upon her, even to study her wants and anticipate her wishes, seemed to be the greatest joy of the little creature. " Willie, why don't you eat your cake ?" asked his uncle one day, when Willie had been sent over to the Doctor's on an errand, and had been treated to a large slice of plutn-cake by his cousin Elizabeth. Willie silently began to nibble his cake, but with evident reluctance. " Why, you do not seem to like it ! Is it not good ?" " Yes, sir, thank you." " Why don't you eat it then ?" " My fatlnr," said Elizabeth. 162 THE IRISH REFUGEE. " Well, Miss Dulan ?" "1 think that Willie always carries every piece, of cake he gets to his mother." " But why not always prevent that, by sending her a piece yourself?" " Because, my dear father, I think it may be wrong to re- strain the amiable spirit of self-denial evinced by the cLild." " Then you are mistaken, Miss Dulan; and recollect that it is very irreverent in a young lady to express an opinion at variance with the spirit of what her father has just said." Elizabeth meekly and in silence went to the pantry and cut a piece of cake, which she carefully wrapped up and gave to Willie, for his mother. Willie received it with an humble and deprecatory look, as if he felt the whole responsibility and weight of the reproof that had fallen upon his cousin. One Christmas eve, when Willie was above seven years old, the widow and her son were sitting by the cottage hearth. The closed shutters, drawn curtains, clean hearth, and bright fire, threw an air of great comfort over the room. Mrs. Dulan sat at her little work-table, setting the finishing stitches in a fine linen shirt, the last of a dozen that she had been making for the Doctor. The snow-storm, that had been raging all day long, had sub- sided, though occasionally the light and drifted snow would be blown up from the -ground, by a gust of wind, against the windows of the house. "Poor boy," said the widow, looking at her son, "you look tired and sleepy; go to bed, Willie." " Oh ! dear mamma, I am not tired, and I could not sleep at all, while you are up alone and at work ; please let me stay up, but I will go to bed if you say so," added he submissively. " Come and kiss me, darling. Yes, Willie, you may stay up as long as you like." " I will go to bed myself," added sh. mentally, " so as not to keep the poor boy up." "Well, Willie, I will tell you a story, darling, which wiU umse you, while I sew." THE IRISH REFUGEE. 163 Just at this moment the sound of carriage wheels, followed immediately by a jump from the box, and a smart rap at the do.>r, caused the widow to start hastily from her seat. The door was opened, and Jake, the big black coachman of the old Doctor, made his appearance, a heavy cloak and a large muf- fling hood hanging over his arm. " Marm," said he, " it has clarred off beautiful, and Massa has scut the carriage arter you, and he says how he would have sent it afore, but how the roads was blocked up with snow-drifts. Me and Pontius Pilate, and Massa John, has been all the arternoon, a clarring it away, and I thinks, Marm, if you don't come to-night, how the road will be as bad as ever to-morrow morning, with this wind a-blowing about the snow. Miss Lizzy has sent this hood of hern, and Massa has sent thia big cloth cloak of hizzen, so that you need'nt ketch cold." Mrs. Dulan did not immediately reply, but looked at Willie, and seemed to reflect. Jake added : " I hopes you'll come, Marm, for Massa and Miss Lizzy and Massa John has quite set their heads on having you with them, to spend Christmas, and Massa John told me to tell you how he had bagged a fine passel of water-fowl and wild turkeys, and I myself has made a trap for Massa Willie to catch snow-birds." " Yes, we will go," said Mrs. Dulan. " Do me the favour, Jacob, to pour a pitcher of water on that fire, while I tie on Willie's cloak and mittens." In twenty minutes more, Willie was seated on his uncle's knees, by his bright fireside, and his mother sat conversing with John and Elizabeth, and a few neighbours, whcm the in- clemency of the weath?r had not deterred from dropping in to ipend Chris'uias eve. The old housekeeper stood at the beaufet, cutting up seed-cake, and pouring out elder wine, which was soon passed round to the company. That Christmas was a gorgeous morning. The sun irose 164 THE IRISH REFUGEE. and lit up into flashing splendour the icy glories of the land- scape. From every roof and eave, from every bough and bush, dropped millions of blazing jewels. Earth wore a gor- geous bridal dress, bedecked "with diamonds. Within tho Doctor's house everything was comfortable as you could wish. A rousing fire of hickory wood roared upon the hearth, an abundant breakfast of coffee, tea, buckwheat cakes, muffins, eggs, wild fowl, oysters, &c., &c., smoked upon the board. The family were all gathered in the breakfast room. The Doctor was serving out egg-nog from a capacious bowl upon the sideboard. " Cousin Elizabeth," said little Willie, taking her hand and leading her away to the sofa, "what do ladies love?" " What do ladies love ? Why, Willie, what a queer ques- tion." " Yes, but tell me what do ladies love ?" " Why, their papas, of course, and their brothers, and their relations j it would not be decorous to love any one else," said the prim maiden. " Oh, you don't know what I mean ; I mean what do ladies love to have ? You know boys like to have kites and marbles, and traps to catch snow-birds, and picture books, and half- pence, and such things. Now what do ladies love to have ?" " Oh ! now I understand you. Why, we like to have a good assortment of crewels and floss to work tapestry with, and a quantity of bright-coloured silk to embroider with, and " " Oh ! that's what you like, Cousin Elizabeth ; but mamma doesn't work samplers," said the boy, with a dash of pettish contempt in his tone. " Uncle has given me a bright new shilling, for a Christinas gift, to do what I please with, and I want to get something with it for poor dear mamma." " La ! child, you can get nothing of any account with a shilling." ' Can't I?" said he, and his little face fell for an instant, THE IRISH REFUGEE. 165 but soon lighting up, he exclaimed, " Oh, ho ! Cousin Elizabeth, I am brighter than you are, this time. A silver thimble is a very little thing, and can be bought with a shilling, I am sure; so I will buy one for mamma. Poor mamma has an old brass on} now, which cankers her finger." " Here, Willie," said Elizabeth, "I have not paid you my Christmas gift, and you caught me, you know, take this shilling, and now run and ask your uncle to take you to the village with him, when he goes, and then you can buy your thimble. You have enough to get one now." Willie thanked his cousin with a hearty embrace, and ran off to do as she advised him. The family now sat down to breakfast, after which they all went to church, where the Doc- tor performed Divine service. A large party of friends and neighbours returned with them to dinner, and the remainder of the day was spent in hilarity and innocent enjoyment. The next day the thimble was purchased, as agreed upon, and little Willie kept it a profound secret from his mother, until the first evening on which they found themselves at home, in their little parlour, when the candle was lit, and the little stand drawn to the fire, the work-box opened, and the old brass thimble put on. Then little Willie, glowing with blissful excitement, put his hand in his pocket to find his present. It was not there. He searched the other pocket, then his cap, then shook his cloak and looked about the carpet. Alarmed now, he opened the door and was going out, when his mother called to him. "What is the matter, Willie? Where are you going? What have you lost ?" "Nothing much, mother; I am only going out a minute," and he closed the door, and began an almost hopeless search by the moonlight, for his lost treasure. Up and down the walk he searched without finding it. He opened the gate, and Deeping and peering about, wandered up the road, until his little teet and limbs got wet in the soft snow, and his hands 166 THE IRISH REFUGEE. became benumbed ; when, feeling convinced that it was lost, he sat down and burst into a passionate fit of weeping. Let no oi.e feel surprise or contempt at this. In this little affair of the thimble, there had been disinterested love, self-sacrifice, anticipated joy, disappointment and despair, though all ex- pended on a cheap thimble. Yet, Willie was but seven years old, and " thought as a child, felt as a child, understood as a child." I am a grown up child now, and have had many troubles, but the most acute sorrow I ever felt, was the death of my pet pigeon, when I was seven years old. It was long before the storm in his little bosom subsided, but when at last it did, he turned to go home ; he would not go before, lest he might grieve his mother with the sight of his tears. At last, weary and half frozen, he opened the cot- tage gate, and met his mother coming to look for him, and she who always spoke most gently to him, and for whose dear sake she was suffering, now by a sad chance, and out of her fright and vexation, sharply rebuked him and hurried him oil to bed. " If dear mamma had known, she would not have scolded me so, though," was his last thought as he sank into a feverish sleep. The next morning when Mrs. Dulan arose, the heavy breathing, and bright flush upon the cheek of her boy, caught her attention, and roused her fears for his health. As she gazed, a sharp expression of pain contracted his features, and he awoke. Feebly stretching out his arms, to embrace her, he said : " Oh, mamma, Willie is so sick, and his breast hurts so bad." The child had caught the pleurisy. It was late at night before medical assistance could be pro- cured from a distant village. In the mean time the child's illness had fearfully progressed ; and when at last the physi- cian arrived, and examined him, he could give no hopes of his recovery. Language cannot depict the anguish of the mother, as she bent, over the couch rf her suffering boy, and, if a grain THE IRISH REFUGEE. 167 could have increased the burden of her grief, it would have been felt in the memory of the few words of harsh rebuke when he had retiyned half frozen, and heavy-hearted, from his fruitless search after the thimble, for the kind Elizabeth bad arrived and explained the incident of the night. It was midnight of the ninth day. Willie had lain in a itupor, for a whole day and night previous. His mother stool by his bed ; she neither spoke nor wept, but her face wore the expression of acute suffering. Her eyes were strained with an earnest, anxious, agonized gazo upon the deathly counte- nance of the boy. Old Doctor Dulan entered the room at this moment, and looking down at the child, and taking l.is thin cold hand in his own, felt his pulse, and turning to Ihe wretched mother, who bad fixed her anxious eyes imploringly upon him, he said " Hannah, my dear sister but, 0, God ! I cannot deceive you," and abruptly left the room. " Elizabeth," said he to his daughter, who was sitting by the parlour fire, " go into the next room, and remain with your aunt, and if anything occurs, summon me at once; and, John, saddle my horse quickly, and ride over to Mrs. Caply, and tell her to come over here." Mrs. Caply was the layer-out of the dead for the neighbour- hood. How tediously wore that dreary night away in Ibi sick- room, where the insensible child was watched by his mother and her friend ! The flickering taper, which both forgot to snuff, would fitfully flare up, and reveal the watchers, the bed, and the prostrate form of the pale, stiff, motionless boy, with his eyes flured back with a fixed and horrid st*re. In the par- lour, a party equally silent and gloomy, kept their vigils. Doctor Dulan, his son, and the old woman, whose fearful errand made her very presence a horror, formed the group. The old woman at last, weary at holding her tongue so long. 10 20f THE IRISH REFUGEE brose silence by saying, "I always thought that child would never be raised, sir he was so smart and clever, and so duti- ful to his ma. He was too good for this world, sir. How long has he been sick, sir ?" "Little more than a week; but I beg you will be fcilcutj lest you disturb them in the next room." " Yes, sir, certainly. Sick people ought to be kept qulut, though perhaps that don't much matter when they are dying. Well, poor little fellow, he was a pretty child, and will look lovely in his shroud and cap, and " " Hush !" exclaimed John Dulan, in a tone so stern that the woman was constrained to be silent. Daylight was now peeping in at the windows. The Doctor arose, put out the lamps, opened the shutters, stirred the fire, and went into the next room. The widow was sitting in the same place, holding one of the boy's hands between her own, her head bowed down upon it. The Doctor looked at the child; his eyes were now closed, as if in sleep; he laid his hand upon his brow, and bending down, intently gazed upon him. The child opened his eyes slowly. Passing quickly round tha bed, the Doctor laid his hand upon the recumbent head and said : " Look up, Hannah, your child is restored." With an ecstatic expression of gratitude and joy, the mother started to her feet, and gazed upon her boy. " Kiss me, mamma," said Willie, opening his gentle eyes, in which beamed a quiet look of recognition and love. The mother kissed her child repeatedly and fervently, while exclamations of profound gratitude to Heaven escaped her. The Doctor went to the window, and threw open the shutters. The rising Bun poured his light into the room, and lit it up with splen- dour. I must transport you now, in imagination, over a few years of time and a few miles of country, and take you into a splendid drawing-room, in the handsome country-house of the Dolany's, which, you remember, I described in the first part of this THE IUIS1I REFUGEE. lG9 story, situated near the town of Richmond. On a luxurious sofa, in this superb room, reclined a most beautiful woman Her gulden hair divided above a high and classic brow, fell, flashing and glittering upon her white bosom, like sunbeams on the snow. Her eyes but who can describe those glorinis eyes of living sapphire ? Sapphire! Compare her eloquent eyes to soulless gems ? Her eyes ! Why, when their serious light was turned upon you, you would feel spell-bound, en- tranced, as by a strain of rich and solemn music, and whoc their merry glance caught yours, you'd think there could not be a grief or a sin on earth ! But the greatest charm in that fascinating countenance, was the lips, small, full, red, their habitual expression being that of heavenly serenity and good- ness. Bending over the arm of the sofa, his head resting upon his hand, was a young man ; his eyes earnestly, anxiously, plead- ingly fixed upon the face of his companion, in whose ear, iu a full, rich, and passionate tone, he was pouring a tale of love, hopeless almost to despair. The girl listened with a saddened countenance, and turning her large eyes, humid with tears, upon his face, she spoke " Richard, I am grieved beyond measure. Oh, cousin, I do not merit your deep and earnest love. I ani an ingrate ! I do not return it." " Do you dislike me ?" " Oh, no, no, no, indeed I do not I esteem and respect you ; nay, more, I love you as a brother." " Then, dear, dearest Alice, since I am honoured with your esteem, if not blessed with your love, give me your hand bo my wife and ultimately perhaps " " Horrible !" exclaimed the young girl, leaving the room abruptly. " What the d 1 does that fool mean?" exclaimed Richard Delany, as an angry flush passed over his face. " One would think I had insulted her. Colonel Delany's penniless depend 170 THE IRISH REFUGEE. nut should receive with more humility, if not with more grati- tude, an offer of marriage from his heir. But I see how it is : She loves that beggarly Dulan that wretched usher. But, death death to the poverty-stricken wretch, if he presume to cross my path I" and the clenched fists, livid complexion, and grinding teeth gave fearful testimony to the deadly hatred that had sprung up in his bosom. At this moment, Colonel Delany entered the room, and taking a seat, said " Richard, I have somewhat to say to you, and I wish you seriously to attend. You know that I am your best, your most disinterested friend, and that your welfare lies nearer to my heart than aught else earthly. Well, I have observed, with much regret, the increased interest you seem to take in your cousin your passion for her in fact. These things are easily arrested in the commencement, and they must be arrest- ed. You can do it, and you must do it ! I have other views for you. Promise me, my son, that you will give up all thoughts of Alice." Richard, who had remained in deep thought, during hia father's address, now looked up and replied : " But, my father, Alice is a very beautiful, very amiable, very intellectual " " Beggar !" " Father ! !" " Unbend that brow, sir ! nor dare to address your parent in that insolent tone ! And now, sir, once for all, let us come to- the point, and understand each other, perfectly. Should you persist in your addresses to Alice, should you finally marry her, not a shilling, not a penny of your father's wealth shall fall on an ungrateful son." Richard reflected profoundly a moment, and then replied : " Fear of the loss of wealth would not deter me from any *tep. But the loss of my father would be an evil, I could uever rik to encounter. I will obey you, sir." THE IRISH REFUGEE. 171 " I am not satisfied," thought the old gentleman, as he le"t his son, after a few more moments of conversation. " I am n )t satisfied. I will watch them closely, and in the course of the day speak to Alice." An opportunity soon offered. He found himself alone with Alice, after tea. "Alice," he commenced, "I wish to make a confidant of you;" and he proceeded to unfold to her, at some length, hij ambitious projects for his son, and concluded by giving her to understand, pretty distinctly, that he wished his son to select a wealthy bride, and that any other one would never be re- ceived by him as his daughter. " I think I understand, although I cannot entirely sympathize with you, my de?r uncle," said Alice, in a low trembling tone. 'All this has been siid for my edification. That your mind may be perfectly at reiit on this subject, I must say what may be deemed presumptuous : I would not, could not marry youi son, either with or without your consent, or under any circum- stances whatever." " Alice ! my dear Alice. How could you suppose I made any allusion to you 1 Oh ! Alice, Alice !" And the old man talked himself into a fit of remorse, sure enough. He believed Alice, although he could not believe hia son. The old gentleman's uneasiness was not entirely dis- pelled ; for although Alice might not now love Richard, yet time could make a great change in her sentiments. Alice Raymond, the orphan niece of Colonel Delany, WM the daughter of an officer in the British army. Mr. Raymond was the yourigest son of an old, wealthy, and haughty family, in Dorsetshire, England. At a very early age, he married tbo youngest sister of Colonel Delany. Having nothing but his pay, all the miseries of an improvident marriage fell upon the young couple. The same hour that gave existence to Alice, ieprived her of her mother. The facilities to amb'tion nffVrcd by America, and the hope of distracting his grief, induced !7'J THE IRISH REFUGEE. Mr. Raymond to dispose of his commission, and embark for the Western World. Another object which, though the last named, was the first in deciding him to cross the Atlantic. This object was to place his little Alice in the arms of her maternal grandmother, the elder. Mrs. Delany, then a widow, and a resident under the roof of her son, Colonel Delany. A few weeks after the sailing of the ship in which, with his in- fant daughter, Mr. Raymond took passage, the small-pox broke out on board, and he was -ne of its earliest victims. With his dying breath, he consigned Alice to the care of the captain of the ship, a kind-hearted man, who undertook to convey the poor babe to her grandmother. On the arrival of the infant at the mansion of Colonel Delany, a new bereave- ment awaited her. Mrs. Delany, whose health had been declining ever since her settlement in her new home, was fast sinking to the grave. Colonel Delany, however, received the orphan infant with the greatest tenderness. Sixteen years of affectionate care had given him a father's place in the heart of Alice, and a father's influence over her. Within the last year, the sunshine of Alice's life bad been clouded. Richard Delany, the only son and heir of Colonel Delany, had been sent to England at the age of fifteen, to receive a college education. After remaining eight years abroad, the last year of his absence being spent in making the graml tour, he returned to his adopted country, and his father's house He was soon attracted by the beauty and grace of Alice. I say by her beauty and grace, because the moral and intellectual worth of the young girl he had not the taste to admire; even had he had, at this early period of his acquaintance with her, aa opportunity to judge. The attentions of Richard Delany to his cousin were not only extremely distressing to her, but highly displeasing to his father, who had formed, as we have seen, the most ambitious projects fur his son. Richard Delany was not far wrong in his conjecture concerning the young usher, vho was o other than our old friend William Dulan, little THE IRISH REFUGEE. 173 Willie, who had now grown to man's estate, the circumstance* of whose introduction to the Delany family, I must now pro- ceed to explain. To pass briefly over the events of William Dulan's child- hood and youth. At the age of ten years he entered, as a pupil, the collegiate school over which Dr. Dulan presided, where he remained until his nineteenth year. It had been the wish of William Dulan and his mother, that he should take holy orders, and he was about to enter a course of theological study, under the direction of his uncle, when an event oc- curred which totally altered the plan of his life. This event was the death of Dr. Dulan, his kind uncle and benefactor. All thoughts of the church had now to be relinquished, and present employment, by which to support his mother, to be sought. * * It was twelve o'clock at night, about three months after the death of Dr Dulan. The mother of William, by her hearth, still plied her needle, now the only means of heir support. Her son sat by her side, as of old. He had Deen engaged some hours in reading to her. At length, throw- ing down the book, he exclaimed " Dearest, dearest mother, lay by that work. It shames my manhood, it breaks my heart, to see you thus coining your very health and life into pence for our support ; while I ! oh, mother, I feel like a human vampire, preying upon your slen- der strength !" The widow looked into the face of her son, saw the distress, the almost agony of bis countenance, and quickly folding up her work, said gently : " I am not sewing so much from necessity, now, dear William, as because I was not sleepy, being so much inte- rested in your book." The morning succeeding this little scene, William, as wan his wont, arose early, and going into the parlour, made up tha fire, hung the kettle on, and was engaged in setting the room 1/4 THE IRISH REFUGEE. in order, when his mother entered, who, observing his occupa- tion, said : " Ever since your return from school, William, you hava anticipated me in this morning labour. You must now give it up, my son I do not like to see you perform these menial offices." "No service performed for my mother can be menial," said Willie, giving her a fond smile. " My darling son !" After breakfast William took up his hat and went out. It was three hours befoie he returned. His face was beaming with happiness, as he held an open letter in his hand. " See, mother, dear, kind Providence has opened a way for us at last." " What is it, my son ?" said the widow anxiously. "Mr. Keene, you know, who left this neighbourhood about three years ago, went to county and established a school, which has succeeded admirably. He is in want of an assistant, and has written to me, offering four hundred dollars a year for my services in his institution." " And you will have to leave me, William !" These words escaped the widow, with a deep sigh, and with- out reflection. She added in an instant, with assumed cheer- fulness : " Yes, of course so I would have you do." A month from this conversation, William Dulan was estab- lished in his new home, in the family of Mr. Keene, the Principal of Bay Grove Academy, near Richmond. The first meeting of William Dulan and Alice Raymond, took place under the following circumstances. On the arrival of Richard Delany at home, his father, who kept up the good old customs of his English ancestors, gave a dinner and ball in honour of his son's coming of age. All the get try of hi? own and the adjoining counties accepted invitations to attend Among *,he guests was William Dulan He was presented to THE IRISH REFUGEE. 175 Miss Raymond, the young hostess of the evening, by Mr Keene. Young Dulan was at first dazzled by the transcendent beauty of her face, and the airy elegance of her form ; then won by the gentleness of her manners, the elevation of her mind, and the purity of her heart. One ball in a country neighbourhood, generally puts people in the humour of the thing, and is frequently followed by many others. It was so in this instance, and William Dulan and Alice Raymond met frequently in scenes of gayety, where neither took an active part in the festivities. A more intimate acquaintance pro- duced a mutual and just estimation of each other's character, and preference soon warmed into love. From the moment in which the jealous fears of Richard Delany were aroused, he resolved to throw so much coldness and hauteur in hi? manner, toward that young gentleman, as should banish him from the house. This, however, did not effect the purpose for which it was designed, and he finally determined to broach the subject to his father. Old Colonel Delany, whose " optics" were so very " keen" to spy out the danger of his son's forming a misalliance, was stone blind when such a misfortune threatened Alice, liked the young man very much, and could see nothing out of the way in his attentions to his niece, and finally refused to close his doors against him, at his son's instance. While this conversation was going on, the summer vacation approached, and William made arrange- ments to spend them with his mother. One morning, William Dulan sat at his desk. His facq. was pale, his spirits depressed. He loved Alice, Oh ! how madly. He could not forego the pleasure of her society jet how was all this to end 1 Long years must elapse before, if ever, he could be in a situation to ask the hand of Alu;e. With his head bowed upon his hand, he remained lost in thought. " Mr. Dulan, may our class come up 1 We know our le? sons," said a youthful voice at his elbow. 176 THE I RISK E EF UOEB. ' Go to jour seats, boys," said a rich, melodious, Kind voice j " I wish to have a few moments' conversation with Mr. Dulan j" Mid Dr. Keene, the Principal, stood by his side. ' My dear Dulan," said he, "you are depressed, but I bring you that which will cheer your spirits. I have decided to give up my school here, into your sole charge, if you will accept it. I have received, through the influence of some of my political friends, a lucrative and permanent appointment under the government, the nature of which I will explain to you, by and by. I think of closing my connexion with this school about the end of the next term. What say you ? Will you be my successor ?" Dulan started to his feet, seized both the hands of his friend, pressed them fervently, and would have thanked him, but utterance failed. Dr. Keene insisted on his resuming his seat, and then added : " The income of the school amounts to twelve hundred Hollars a year. The school-house, dwelling-house, with its out- buildings, and numerous improvements upon the premises, go into the bargain. Yes, Dulan, I have known your secret long,'' said hj, smiling good-humouredly, "and sincerely though silently commiserated the difficulties of your position; and I assure you, Dulan, that the greatest pleasure I felt in receiving in} appointment, was in the opportunity it gave me, of making you and Alice happy. Stop, stop, Dulan, let me talk," laughed Kecne, as William opened a battery of gratitude upon him. " It is now near the end of July. I should like to se^ vou installed here on the first of September. The August vacation will give you an opportunity of making all your arrangements. I must now leave you to your labours." Every boy that asked to go out, went out that day. E\ ery buy that said his tusk got praised, and every boy that missed liis lesson, got blamed. The day was awfully tedious for all Mial, but evening came at last, and the school was dismissed William, after sp;udiug an uausuolly long time in tj THE IRISH REFUGEE 177 rard alorning," hastened with a joy beaming countenance to she home of his Alice. In the full flow of his joy, he was met by :i sudden disappointment. The servant who met him at the door, informed him that Col. Delany, Miss Raymond, >nd Mr Delany had set off for Richmond, with the intention of staying a couple of weeks. Crest-fallen William turned from the door. This was only a momentary disappointment, however, and soon his spirits rose, and he joyfully anticipated the time of the Delanys' return. They were to be back in time for the approaching examination and exhibition at Bay Grove Academy ; and in preparing his pupils for this event, William Dulan found ample employment for his time and thoughts. I will not weary you with a description of the ex- hibition. It passed off" in that school, pretty much as it does in others. The Delanys however had not returned in time to be present, nay, the very last day of William's stay had dawned, yet they had not arrived. William had written to liis mother that he would be home on a stated day, and not tven for the delight of meeting the mistress of his heart, the period of whose return was now uncertain, would he disappoint her. William was engaged in packing his trunk, when Dr. Keene, again the harbinger of good tidings, entered his room. '' My dear Dulan." said he, " I have come to tell you that the Delanys have arrived. You will have an opportunity of spending your last evening with Alice." William shuffled his things into his trunk, pressed down the lid, locked it, and hastily bidding his friend good evening, took bis hat and hurried from the house. Being arrived at Colo- nel Delany's, he was shown into the drawing-room, and was delighted to find Alice its? sole occupant. The undisguised joy with which she received him, left scarcely a doubt upon his mind, as to the reception of his intended proposals. After a few mutual inquiries respecting health, friends, and so forth, William took her white hand in his, and said, or attempted to a I know notwi-it it stuck in his throat and he re 178 THE IRISH REFUGEE. mained merely silent, holding the hand of Alice. There is something so extremely difficult about making a premeditated declaration of love. It is much easier when it can be sur- prised from a man. William knew the moments were very precious. He knew that Colonel Delany or his son might be expected to enter at any moment, and there would be an end of opportunity for a month, or six weeks to come; yet there he sat, holding her hand, the difficulty becoming greater every minute, while the crimson cheek of Alice burned with a deeper blush. At length footsteps approached. William heard them, and becoming alarmed, hastily, hurriedly, but fervently, and passionately, exclaimed : "Alice, I love you with my whole heart, mind, and strength. I love you as we are commanded only to love God. Dearest Alice, will you become my wife ?" " Miss Raymond," said Richard Delany, entering at this moment;, "my father desires your presence instantly, in his Btudy, on business of the utmost moment to yourself. Mr. Dulan I hope will excuse me, as we have but just arrived, and many matters crave my attention. Good evening, sir ;" and, bowing haughtily, he attended his cousin from the room. William Dulan arose, and took his hat, to go. "Farewell, Mr. Dulan/' said Alice kindly, "if we should not meet again, before your departure." " Farewell, sweet Alice," murmured William Dulan, as he left the house. It was a glorious Sabbath morning early in August. The widow's cottage gleamed in the dark bosom of the wood, like a gem in the tresses of beauty. Everything wore its brightest aspect. The windows of the little parlour were open, and the songs of birds and the perfume of flowers were wafted through them. But the little breakfast table with its snowy cloth, and its one plate, cup, and saucer, looked almost piteous from its Bolitud Upon the clean white coverlet of the bed sat the THE IRISH REFUGEE. 179 widow's little black bonnet and shawl, prayer-book, and clean pocket-handkerchief, folded with its spiig of lavender. It wag Communion Sunday, and the widow would not miss going to church on any account. She despatched her breakfast quick- ly poor thing, she had not much appetite. She had sat up half the night previous, awaiting the arrival of William, but Le had not come; and a man from the village, that had called at her cottage early on this morning, had informed her that the luail-stage had arrived on the night previous, without any passengers. As the stage would not pass again for a week, the widow could not expect to see or hear from her son for that length of time. After putting away her breakfast things, she donned her bonnet and shawl, and taking her prayer-book, opened the door, to go out. What a pleasant sight met her eyes. A. neat one horse carriage, or rather cart, stood at the door her son was just alighting from it. In another instant he had clasped his mother in his arms. " Oh ! my William, my William, I am so glad to see you," exclaimed the delighted mother, bursting into tears. " Oh ! but this is so joyful, so unexpected, dear William ! I looked for you, indeed, last night ; but, as you did not come, I gave you up, unwillingly enough, for a week. But come in, darling, you've not breakfasted, I know." " No, dear mother, because I wished to breakfast with you ; but let me give something to the horse, first, and you sit in the door, dear mother I do not want to lose sight of you a moment, while waiting on Rosinante." "Never mind, William, old Jake can do that. Here, Jake," said she, as the old servant approached, " take charge of Mas- ter William's horse." Then turning to William, she said " John sends old Jake over every morning to help me." " Ah ! How are Cousins John and Elizabeth ?" " Oh, very hearty we shall see them this morning at church." "1 did not come in the stage, yesterday, mother/' said 1 or > T n i: IRISH R F. F u o r. E. William, as they took their seats at the breakfast table, " because I had purchased this light wagon and horse for you to ride to church in, and t came down in it. I reached tho river last night, but could not get across. The old ferryman had gone to bod, and would not rise. Well ! after breakfast, dear mother, I shall have the pleasure of driving you to church in your own carriage !" added William, smiling. " Ah ! William, what a blessing you are to me, my dear son ; but it must have taken the whole of your quarter's sa- lary, to buy this for me ?" And she glanced, with pain, at his rusty and thread-bare suit of black, and at his napless hat. " Ah ! mother, I was selfish after all, and deserve no credit, for I laid the money out in the way which would give myself the most pleasure. But, see, here is old Jake to tell us the carriage is ready. Come, mother, I will hand you in, and as .we go along, I will unfold to you some excellent news, which I am dying to deliver." So saying, he placed his mother carefully in the little carriage, and seating himself beside her, drove off, leaving old Jake in charge of the house. " There is plenty of time, dear mother ; so we will drive slowly, that we may talk with more comfort." William then proceeded to relate, at large, all that had taken place during his residence at Bay Grove not omitting his love for Alice, of whom he gave a glowing description ; nor the bright prospects, which the kindness of Dr. Keene opened before him. Then he described the beautiful dwelling, which would become vacant on the removal of Dr. Keene's family, which was expected to take place some time during the coming autumn. To this dwelling, he intended to remove his mother, and hoped to bear his bride. To all this the mother listened with grateful joy. At the church, William Dulan met again his cousins, John and Eliza heth, who expressed their delight at the meeting, and insisted that William and his mother should return with them to din- THE IRISH R E F 'J E K. 1 I ocr. This however, both mother anJ son declined, as they wished to spend the day at home together. William Dulan spent a month with his mother, ana when the moment arrived that was to terminate his visit, he said to ucr " Now, dear mother, cheer up ! This parting is so much hetter than our last parting. Now I am going to prepare a beautiful home for you, and when I come at Christmas, it will be for the purpose of carrying you back with me." The widow gave her son a beaming look of love. With a " Heaven be with you, my dearest -mother,'' ariJ " God bless you, my best son," they parted. They parted to meet no more on earth. Let us now return to the mansion of Colonel Delany, and learn the nature of that "matter of the utmost moment to herself," that had summoned Alice so inopportunely from the side of her lover. On reaching the study of her uncle, Miss Raymond found him in deep consultation with an elderly gentleman in black. Various packets of papers were before him, an open letter was held in his hand. He arose to meet Alice, as she ad- vanced into the room, and taking her hand with grave respect, said "Lady Hilden, permit me to congratulate you on your ac cession to your title and estates." "Sir! uncle!" exclaimed Alice, gazing at him with the ut- most astonishment, scarcely conscious whether she was waking or dreaming. " Yes, my dear, it is true. Your grandfather old Lord Hilden departed this life, on the 6th of last March. His only living son survived him but a few weeks, and died with- out issue, and the title and estates, with a rent-roll of jESOOU 182 THE IRISH REFUGEE. per annum, has descended, in right of your father, to your- self !* " I shall have so much to give to William !" involuntarily exclaimed Alice. " Madam !" exclaimed Colonel Delany in surprise. Alice blushed violently, at having thought aloud. " Dear tir," said she, " I did not know what I was saying." " Ah, well, I suppose you are a little startled with this sud- Icn news," said the Colonel, smiling; "but now it is neces- sary for you to examine, with us, some of these papers. " Ah I crave your pardon, Mr. Reynard Lady Hilden, this is Mr. .Reynard, late solicitor to your deceased grandfather, the Baron" Great was the excitement in the neighbourhood, when it was noised abroad that Alice Raymond had become a baroness, in her own right, and the possessor of a large estate in Eng- land. And when, for the first time since her accession to her new dignities, she appeared at church, in deep mourning, every eye was turned upon her, and she almost sunk beneath the gaze of so many people. In the height of the " nine day's wonder," William Dulan returned, and was greeted by the news, from every quarter. " Oh ! Alice lost ! lost ! lost to me for ever I" exclaimed he, in agony, as he paced, with hurried strides, up and down the floor of his little room. " Oh, my mother, if it were not lor thee, I should pray that this wretched heart of mine would soon be stilled in death." If any human being will look candidly upon the events of his own life, and the history of his own heart, with a view to examine the causes of suffering, he will be constrained to admit, that by far the greater portion of his miseries have originated in misapprehension, and might have been easily prevented or cured by a little calm investigation. It was so with William Dulan, who was at this moment suffering the most acute agony of mind he evr felt in his life, from a mis- THE IBISH REFUGEE. 183 conception, a doubt, which a ten minutes' walk to the house of Colonel Delany, and a ten minutes' talk with Alice, would have dissipated for ever. If Richard Delany was anxious before, to wed his cousin foi love, he was now half crazy to take that step by which both love and ambition would be gratified to the utmost. He actually loved her ten times as much as formerly. The " beggar" was beautiful, but the baroness was bewitching ! Spurred on, then, he determined to move heaven, earth, and the other place, if necessary, to accomplish his object. He beset Lady Hilden with the most earnest prayers, and protesta- tions, and entreaties, reminding her that he loved and wooed her before the dawn of her prosperity, and appealed to her for the disinterestedness of his passion. But all in vain. He even besought his father to use his influence with Alice, in his favour. Colonel Delany, his objections being all now removed, urged his niece, by her affection, by her compassion, and, finally, after some delicate hesitation, by her gratitude, to ac- cept the proffered hand of his son. But Alice was steadfast in her rejection. "A change had come o'er the spirit of her dream!" Alas, alas ! that a change of fortune should work such a change of spirit ! Alice Raymond was now Lady Hilden. Her once holy, loving, meek blue eyes, were now splendid with light and joy. Upon cheek and lip, once so delicately blooming, now glanced and glowed a rich, bright crimson. Her once softly falling step, had become firm, elastic, and stately. " A peeress in my own right," was the thought that sent a spasmodic joy to the heart of Alice. I am sorry she was not more philosophical, more exalted, but I cannot help it. so it was; and if Alice ".put on airs," it must not be charged upon her biographer. Time sped on. A rumour of an approaching marriage be- tween Mr. Richard Dclany and Lady Hilden was industriously circulated, and became the general topic of conversation in tha 11 184 THE I R I 8 II . R. E F C G E E. neighbourhood. To avoid hearing it talked of, William Dnlan sedulously kept ont of company. He had never seen Alice since she became Lady Hilden. Dr. Keene had removed with his family from Bay Grove, and the principal govern- ment and emolument of the school had devolved upon young Dulan. The Christmas holidays were at hand, and he resolved to take advantage of the opportunity offered by them, to re- move his mother to Bay Grove. On the last evening of his stay, something in the circumstance brought back forcibly to his mind his last conversation with Alice that conversation had also taken place on the eve of a journey ; and the associa- tion of ideas awakened, together with the belief that he would never again have an opportunity of beholding her, irresistibly impelled him to seek an interview with Alice. Twilight was fast fading into night. Lady Hilden stood alone, gazing out from the window of her uncle's drawing- room. She had changed again, since we saw her last. There was something of sorrow, or bitterness, in the compressed or quivering lip. Her eye was bright as ever, but it was the brightness of the icicle glancing in the winter sun it was soon quenched in tears, and, as she gazed out upon the gloomy -mountain, naked forest, and frozen lake, she murmured, " I used to love summer and day so much ; now " [A servant entered with lights. " Take them away," said Alice. She was obeyed.] " the dark soul in the dark scene : there is almost repose in that harmony." <' Mr. Dulan :" said the servant, reappearing at the door, and William Dulan followed the announcement. " You may bring in the light, now" said Alice. "Will Lady Hilden accept congratulations, offered at so. late a period ?" said William Dulan, with a respectful bow. Alice, who had been startled out of her self-possession, replied only by a bow. " I was about to leave this neighbourhood for a ^hort tluicj bu\ could not do so without calling to bid you farewell, feariuy THfJ IRISH REFUGEE. 185 you might be gone to England before I return " William Dunlan's voice was beginning to quiver ! " I have no present intention of going to England." " Not? Such a report is rife in the neighbourhood." " One is not chargeable with the reports of the neighbour- hood." Alice said this in a peculiar tone, as she glanced at the sor row-stricken visage of the young man. A desultory conversation ensued, after which William Du- lan arose to take his leave, which he did in a choking, inau- dible voice. As he turned to leave the room, his ghastly face and unsteady step attested, in language not to be misunder- stood, the acuteness and intensity of his suffering. Alice did not misunderstand it. She uttered one word, in a low and trembling tone : " William I" He was at her side in an instant. A warm blush glowing over bosom, cheek, and brow, her eyes were full of tears, as she raised them to his face, eloquent with all a maiden may not speak. " Angel ! I love ! I adore thee !" exclaimed the youth, sinking at her feet. " Love me, William, only love me, and let us both adore the Being who hath given us to each other." It was a cold night on the shores of the ice-bound Rappa- hannock. A storm of wind and snow that had been fiercely raging all day long, at length subsided. At a low cabin, which served the three-fold purposes of post-office, ferry-house, and tavern, an old gray-headed man was nodding over a smoul- dering fire. His slumbers were disturbed by the blast of the stage horn and wheels of the coach, which soon stopped before the door. '"Vo travellers alighted and entered the cabin. The old ferryman arose to receive them. 186 TH& IEISH REFUGEE. " Any chance of crossing, to-night, Uncle Ben?" inquired the younger traveller. " He-he ! hardly, Mr William ; the river has been closed for a week," chuckling at the thought that he should be saved the trouble of taking the coach across. " Oh ! of course, I did not expect to go on the boat, 1 waa thinking of crossing on the ice." " I think that would scarcely be safe, Mr. William; the weather has moderated a great deal since nightfall, and I rather think the ice may be weak." " Pooh ! nonsense ! fiddle-de-dee !" exclaimed the other traveller, testily ; " do you think, old driveller, that a few hours of moderate weather could weaken, effectually, the ice of a river that has been hard frozen for a week ? Why, at this moment a coach might be driven across with perfect safety !" " I shouldn't like to try it, though, sir," said the driver, who entered at this moment. " The gentleman can try it, if he likes," continued the old wan, with a grin, " but I do hopes Mr. Dulan won't." " Why, the ice will certainly bear a foot-passenger safely across," smiled William Dulan. "I dare say it may; but, at any rate, I wouldn't try it. Master William 'specially as it's a long, dark, slushy road between here and the widow's." " Why, Uncle Ben, do you think I am a young chicken, to be killed by wetting my feet?" asked William, laughing ' Besides, at this very moment, my good mother is waiting for me, and has a blazing fire, a pot of strong coffee, and a bowl of oysters, in readiness. I would not disappoint her, or Uiyself, for a good deal." " If i were not for this confounded lameness in my feet, I would not stop at this vile hole, to-night," said the elder, traveller, who was no other than Richard Delany, whom im- perative business had called to this part of the country, and THE IBiSU RE*t>UEE. 1ST who had thus become, very reluctantly, the travelling com panion of William Dulan. " Nobody asked you, sir," exclaimed the old man, who did not seek popularity. William Dulan, who, by this time, had resumed his cloak, and received a lighted lantern from the old ferryman, took his way to the river, accompanied by the latter. Arrived at its edge, he turned, shook hands with the old man, and stopped upon the ice. Old Ben remained, with his eyes anxiously strained after the light of the lantern, as it was borne across the river. It was already half-way across suddenly a bieak ing sound, a fearful shriek, a quenched light, and all was dark and still upon the surface of the ice ; but beneath, a young strong life was battling fiercely with death. Ah ! who can tell the horrors of that frightful struggle in the dark, cold, ice- bound prison of the waters ? The old man turned away, aghast with horror, and his eyea fell upon the countenance of Richard Delany, which was now lit up with demoniac joy, as he muttered between his teeth : " Good, good, good I Alice shall be mine now !" It was night in the peaceful cottage of the widow. All the little agremens her son had pictured, were there. A little round table, covered with a snowy cloth, stood in readiness. An easy chair was turned with its back to the fire, and on it a dressing-gown, and before it lay a pair of soft, warm slippers. The restless, joyous, anxious mother was reading over, for the twentieth time, her son's last letter, in which he promised to D home, punctually, on that very evening. Hours flew on, but he did not come. At length, one o'clock struck, and startled the widow from her meditative posture. " I must go to bed I must not look pale with watching, to-morrow, and alarm my good son. It is just as it was before he cannot gH across the river, to-night. I shall see him early to-inor- 188 ff H E IRISH REFUGEE. row." Removing the things from about the fire, and setting the room in the nicest order, the widow retired to bed. She rose early in the morning, to prepare a good breakfast for her son. " He shall have buckwheat cakes, this moruing be is so fond of them/' said she, as she busied herself iu preparation. Everything was in readiness, yet William came not. The morning passed on. The mother grew impatient. " It is, certainly, high time he was here now," said she j " I will go through the woods, towards the high-road, and see if he is coming," and putting on her bonnet and shawl, she set out. She had just entered the wood, when two advancing figures caught her attention. The path was so narrow that they were walking one behind the other. " Ah ! there he is and John Dulan is with him," exclaimed the mother as they drew near. The foremost man was, indeed, John Dulan, who held out his hand, as they met. " Ah ! how do you do, John ? How do y\m do ? This is to kind of you ! But, stand aside excuse me I want to see that youth behind you !" and the widow brushed passed him, and caught to her bosom old Ben, the ferryman. " My gracious ! I thought you were my son ! Dear me, how absurd !" exclaimed the widow, releasing him. " Let us go on to the cottage, aunt," said John Dulan, sadly. " Yes, do. I am looking every minute for William. Oh, you can tell me, Uncle Ben did he reach the ferry last night ?" " Yes, madam," groaned the old man. " Why, you alarm me 1 Why didn't he come home, ther ?" " He did try he did try ! I begged him not to but he would ! Oh ! dear, oh ! dear !" " Why, what in Heaven's name; is the matter? What has happened ? Is my son ill ?" THE IRISH REFUGEE. 189 " Tell her, Mr. Dulan tell her I I could not, to savo 37 life !" The widow turned very pale. " Where is William ? Where is my son ? Is he HI ? Ft he ill P " My dearest aunt do try to compose yourself!" said J./kn Dulan, in a trembling voice. " Where is my son ? Where is he f " " You cannot see him to-day " " Yet he was at the ferry-house, last night ! Great God ! it cannot be !" cried th, of course, that I am going td speak. Presuming that e ^rtle- men will take my warning at the head of this sketch, , rid not . read it, I will speak plainly. It is true that some iuip t ' >vement has been effected in dress. Corsets and stays are ao longer in vogue ; the lungs, at least the upper portions u them, have something like fair play; but below the lungs &i-j rital organs, that you may not compress with impunity ; ,nd these long- waisted, tight, very tight, whaleboned corsages are quite as destructive to health, beauty, and life, through the injury they inflict upon these organs, as ever old-fashioned stays were, through fatal mischief done to the lungs. To tell you that by persisting in this ultra-fashionable style of dress, these hurrid, long, tight waists, and heavy skirts, you will destroy your health and risk your life, would be no argument at all to ycu. You are willing to lose health and risk life for the sake of a fine figure. But suppose I tell you that you will lose uot only health, but what you value infinitely more, bcavfy, and ulti- mately the rotundity and graceful contour of that same " fine figure" for which you are willing to risk so much health and life ? Wby is it that your mothers and aunts, who at thirty - seven and forty ouyht to be as much handsomer than you girls 198 EVELINE MURRAY; OR, of eighteen and twenty, as noon is brighter than morning, as summer is more glorious than spring (for there is an analogy running through all nature), because they are in the glorious noon of their day, the summer of their year now, why is it n>)t so? Why are they " Old in youth, and withered in their prime ?" I will tell you There arc many reasons such as neglect ot regular excise, bathing, fresh air, &c. ; the use of drying and astringent drinks, such as strong tea and coffee, and stim- ulating meats, &c. But more ruinous than any other of these sins of omission or commission is the barbarous style of dresa now in vogue. I do not wonder that so many of us go off annually in consumption ; but I do wonder how it is that we, with the same suicidal habits, escape death. You do not wish to grow old and ugly, do you, girls ? You who are past twenty dread your thirtieth birthday worse than " plague, pestilence, or famine," don't you, girls ? There is no need for this. Abandon or considerably modify your present style of dress ; that, and not years, destroys your youth, and health, and beauty. It is that abuse of yourselves that will make your cheeks grow pale, your muscles fall, your features become angular. On the other hand, if you will only use yourselves well, your freshness of complexion and elasticity of muscle will last half a century. The freshness of complexion cannot be present without a free circulation of blood ; the blood can- not circulate freely through a compressed waist, compressed feet, or compressed arms hence pale and sallow complexions. The roundness, the elasticity, the spring of your muscles, de- pend upon the free, regular, and healthful action of the heart, lungs, liver. &o. These vital organs cannot act healthfully while habitually compressed together hence fulling muscles, hollow cheeks, emaciated limbs, &c. j hence disease, loss of beauty, premature old age, or death. Girls, do not wear these long, tight waists, and heavy skirts; they are destructive, fatal THE PINE FIG 'RE. 199 This is not the place for physiological detail, eise I might tell you precisely how it acts; but "for your own good," as my grandmother used to say when she read me a lecturt for your o\v gjod, I will refer you to my source of information. Read Dr. Fitch's " Lectures on the Heart and Lungs," or even "Calvin Cutter's First Book of Physiology for Common Schools" read both, and mind the rules laid out there for the preservation of health, and I will guaranty that your fortieth birthday finds you in high beauty. Fifty is called the " grand climacteric" of life; and so it really should be. A century, a hundred years, is a round sum ; I always fancied that ten or twenty years lopped off at the last end of it was an unneces- sary loss of so much life. Let any young person of good constitution (yes, or of bad constitution ; I will not modify it, for a bad constitution can be made a good one by proper means in youth) let any young person set out with the deter- mination that, with God's blessing, they will " live out their century" in full health, and preserve their beauty unimpaired up to the grand climacteric, and I believe they will be most likely to do it. The object is a much better one than the attainment of wealth or fame, which so many resolve and so many achieve ; and the means are much more within your reach ; and these means will not, as in the two other objects of wealth or fame, destroy, but increase your present comfort and cheerfulness. To return from this long digression : Mrs. Murray had just finished Eveline's toilet, when a servant entering the room handed a card to her. " Lieut. Clement Dorsey, U. S. A." read the lady. " There, now, Eveline, darling ! has he forgotten you ? Come, Eveline, let us go down ;" and, taking her daughter's hand, she lovingly conducted her from the room. They entered the parlour. A young man in the full uniform of a lieutenant in the United States Army arose from the sofa arid advanced to meet them. 12 200 BVILI *E MURRAY; OH, " All ! Low do you do, Mr. Dorsey ?" said the lady, smiling!} offering her hand ; " this is Eveline " " Ah ! rny old schoolmate, Eveline !" exclaimed the youth, gayly shaking hands with her. After a little preliminary conversation, he blushingly ten- dered his services to escort Eveline to the ball ; and the mo- ther, who expected no less, smilingly consented. When Eveline entered the ball-room on the arm of I ho bandsome young officer, a buzz of admiration ran through the crowd. " Who is she ?" " Who is she ?" was whispered by some. " Miss Murray." " Miss Eveline Murray," was the reply of those who knew her by sight. " What a magnificent girl !" " Splendid girl !" " What a form !" " What a fine figure !" " Yes ! what a fine figure I" were the comments of several, murmuied in a low voice, as she passed; and, though her sides were aching, and her stomach sick, from compression, and though her head was dizzy and her eyes dim, Eveline bore up, and stepped more stately as she heard " fine figure," " fine figure," whispered, echoed, and re-echoed, through the room. So Eveline was led to her seat, and soon led thence to the head of the quadrille that was forming, by the young officer. Of course the fine figure had to be displayed in motion. She expected to hear her dancing admired for at school she was Monsieur Pace-a-way's most graceful pupil but in this she was disappointed ; no one remarked her dancing. Indeed, there were several girls in the room who had not fine figures, yet whose dancing was much more graceful than her own, and much more generally admired. In fact, she felt that the tightness of her corsage, armholes, shoes, &c., constrained the full freedom of her motions to a degree that precluded the possibility of dancing well. What she thus gained in the re- putation of possessing a fine, or rather a fashionable figure, she lost iu estimation as a graceful dancer. She felt this. But there was another drawback upon her claim to general admira- tion tint she did not feel it was this : notice it, young ladies, THE PINE FIGURE. 201 for 1 have observed it frequently among girls. The tightness of her dress, slightly affecting the stomach and head, spread a pallor and a languor over her features that detracted very much from the beauty of her countenance ; while, as the even- ing progressed, her increasing sense of discomfort manifested itself in a fretfulness of expression upon her face that rendered it \ .nost repulsive. The evening was at last over, and Mr. Dorsey prepared to conduct her home. When they were iu the carriage " You looked very weary, Eveline ; I am afraid that you stayed too long?" "No;" said the fair girl, "I was not tired." " You looked so." " I am not much accustomed to these things," said Eveline ; for of course she was not going to tell him that her dress was too tight. " Ah !" exclaimed Mr. Dorsey, and the subject was dropped. The carriage stopped before Mrs. Murray's door. It was nearly twelve o'clock at night. Mr. Dorsey handed Eveliuo in, and took his leave. " And how did my darling like her first ball ?" inquired the loving mother, as she set a glass of hot negus before Eveliiie, " to keep her from catching cold." " Oh ! mother, it was delightful !" " And Mr. Murray ?" Eveline blushed and became silent. " Well ! Never mind, darling; but the ball ?" " Oh ! it was splendid, mother !" exclaimed Eveline, who, having loosened her dress, and breathing freely, forgot her miseries. " It was very splendid ; and, mother, everybody ad- wired my figure so much !" " I said so, my dear ! I knew every one must." ' Oh ! yes, mother, you should have heard them ; it would have done your heart good; they all said every one said that I had the finest figure in the room." 202 EVELINE MURRAY; OR, " And you did not find your dress too tight?" " Oh ! yes, mother, it felt tight, but I supposed that that wouid wear off; and mother, don't you think that you could take in this dress a little more under the arms, and make it ttitl smaller f I think I could bear it still tighter !" " Ah I" smiled the deluded mother, " I thought you would be willing to bear a little inconvenience for the sake of having tie finest figure in the room !" " And will you do it, mother ?" " Yes, love." "And will you take in aU my dresses, so that they may all fit like this only smMerf" " Yes, my dear I" "This gives such a beautiful and graceful inward sweep, from the armpits to the hips." " Yes, love ; and you must wear heavy skirts, for they will help to pull your waist down." flow much mischief that first ball-dress had done was still to do ! Eveline naturally exclaimed against it, when first encased in it, but she had been persuaded ; had been screwed tightly up into it ; had worn it to the ball ; had heard her figure praised as the finest in the room, by the perverted taste of the crowd j had had her vanity stimulated by the flattery : and henceforth the fine figure, or rather the fashionable figure, was to be kept peerless in its proportions, at any cost of comfort, beauty, or health ; and Eveline's doom was sealed. "I do not know what can be the matter with Eveline, Dr. Drugem. She has no appetite no spirits ; she is pale, weak, and losing flesh every day," said Mrs. Murray to the family physician, whom she had called in to prescribe for her daughter. The doctor felt her pulse, looked at her tongue, inquired more particularly into her symptoms, and announcing that her liver was affected (no wonder, when it had been compressed so muc'j), prescribed a compound pill of blue mass, quinine, THE FINE FIO U RE. 203 &c It is strange that doctors never prescribe loose dres^ea in such cases. As might have been expected, blue mass, &c.. only produced a temporary relief. The disease could not be cured until the cause was removed ; and, as long as Eveline screwed her waiaf up to a span's circumference, so long continued the sick head- aches, nervousness, and languor. Perhaps the health and dtrength of a girl of stronger organization might have held out longer, but Eveline was naturally frail. Soon the figure, the very " fine figure," began to lose its beautiful lines of beauty, its contour became thin and angular, and its want of round- ness had to be supplied by padding. This was worse. The weight of thickly padded corsages on the chest impeded her breathing, as the tightly screwed waist impeded the circula- tion ; and everything in health depends upon free breathing and free circulation. A year passed. Eveline was no longer beautiful in form or feature. She was thin and sallow; and both these defi- ciencies were very badly remedied by art. The medicines she took only did harm, for the reason, as I said, that the cause of her illness was not removed. At last Eveline was unable to go out of an evening. Then in a few months she was con- fined to her room during the greater part of the time. Still, with the fatuity of vanity and ignorance, she continued, when- ever well enough to go into the parlour, to screw herself up in her whaleboned dresses. It was strange that no one seemed to suspect the cause of Eveline's ill health no, not even the doctor or, if he did, he certainly never mentioned it to hei, or to her mother just as now, there are hundreds of young ladies in ill health, who are physicked to death nearly, and whose parents and physicians never think of removing the cause of the illness their tight dressing. Kveline was confined to her bed, and every one said that she must die. She was emaciated until she looked like a skeleton, and had scarcely strength to raise her poor bird-ciaw 204 EVELINE MURRAY; OR, looking fingers to her head. Her mother was in deep distress. She was about to lose her only child. Clem Dorsey also, who l>ved Eveline tenderly, and was hoping after a few years to make her his wife Clem Dorsey grieved sincerely. He came every day, and spent many hours by the side of Eveline's couch. He seemed to love to sit in her gloomy sick-room better than to go to all the parties and balls. What were balls and parties to him, while his dearly-loved Eveline was sick ? Every day he brought her flowers, or fruit, or, when she was able to be amused, a pleasant book. And he would sit by her so patiently, so lovingly, all day long and some- times catch himself looking so earnestly, so sadly, in her poor thin face her face no longer pretty to any one but him. He Jiought it beautiful because he loved it. And how Eveline foved him ! Surely, there never was a heart won under such tircumstances. "I shall pass away soon, dear Clem," she said one day, " but I shall never leave you quite. Oh ! often when you are alone in the deep midnight watch, I will be with you; and I tell you beforehand, dear, good Clem, because I want you to have faith; and when you feel my presence, do not say to yourself that it is fancy, for it will be Evy. And when you are summoned hence, Clem, / will be the first to welcome you to the spirit world. Do not feel afraid to die, Clem ; for the eyes that close on the sick-room will instantly open on the better world on me." And at such times Clem Dorsey wou.d walk away to the window to conceal his agitation. " Love my mother, Clem," she would say; " love iny poor childless mother." One day, Clem Dorsey came to her with a book in his kind, looking cheerful. She raised her eyes, inquiringly '' What is the matter, Clem ?" "I have found what I think will restore you to hnlth, if you will follow the directions." THE FINE FIGURE. 205 "Oh ! some quack medicine !" said Eveline, with a faint, incredulous smile. " Nothing of the kind, dear Evy, but an honest, good book, written, I think, by one who had the interest of bis icllow creatures at heart. It is ' Dr. Fitch's Lectures on the Heart and Lungs.' Here are cases described, in which persons have been ill for years as you are reduced to the point of death some with one-half their lungs gone, who have been restored to health by reforming their habits and following the direc- tions contained in this book. Here are authentic letters to prove it." " Oh ! that is like all quacks; they all work miracles raise the dead, you know." " Yes ; but, my dearest Evy, this is to recommend no pills, potion, or lotion only a manner of life, that will do the author of the book no kind of good if you follow it, and no fcurm if you don't, that I know of. The means are all in four own power, in your own room, one might say." Then Clem turned to some of the lectures, and read them, with all their directions. These threw a flood of light into Eveline's mind, and revealed to her the whole cause and history of her complaint, as she had never understood it before and hope sprung up in her heart. Clem Dorsey then, with his beautifully simple candour, said, "Now, Evy, there are other chapters you must read alone" and he left the book with her. From that day, Eveline made up her mind, with God's help, to get well. She cultivated free circulation of the blood, not having a single tight string or belt anywhere about her; and fhe cultivated free breathing every day drawing as much (iure air into her lungs and inflating every part of them as much as possible She grew to understand that the restora- tion of her health depended upon the expansion of that very chest and waist that had been compressed so long; and just in proportion as her chest and waist expanded, her health 206 EVELINE MURRAY. eturncd slowly, because a disease long coming on, is apt to be long going off. Eveline had been a year getting ill, and it took her a year to get entirely well. And, oh ! it was de- lightful to observe the continued joy of her mother and of Clem Dorsey, in watching her recovery. Eveline is now in high health. She was married last month to Lieutenant Clement Dorsey, U. S. A. The Rev. J. C. S. performed the ceremony, and Dr. B. gave away the bride. Eveline looked beautifully in her white satin and pearls. To be sure, she could not have spanned her waist with her ten fingers, now; but then her blooming complexion, bright eyes, and the animation of her spirits, were bewitching. Clem Dorsey looked very handsome in his blue suit, with white satin vest and stock, and white kid gloves. They live with Mrs. Murray yet, because Clem Dorsey expects soon to be ordered to go on distant service, and Evy is to remain with her mother until his return. They are very happy, and they have reason to be. Theirs was a true-hearted affection, nurtured in sick- ness and sorrow, and is likely to last to the end of time perhaps to the end of eternity. Now, if there be one girl in ill health who reads this, 1 would entreat her to restore her strength by a reform in dress, diet, and habits. Instead of putting on strengthening plasters, put off tight-waisted dresses and tight shoes. Instead of tak- ing medicine, take exercise; and above all, instead of com- pressing the waist, expand it, by drawing in deep inspira- tions giving the lungs free play, and plenty of good fresh air. The lungs require pure cool air, as the stomach requires pure cool water ; and if you wish for full and particular direc- tions for restoring and preserving health and beauty, get and study Dr. Fitch's Lectures on the Htart and Lungs. THE THREE SISTERS; OB, NEW YEAR IN THE LITTLE BOUGH-CAST HOUSE, Who hath woe T Who hath sorrow? Who hath contentions? Who hath babblings? Who hath wounds without cause ? Who hath redness of eyes? They that tarry long at the wine: they that go to seek mixed wine. Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth hia colour in the cup, when it moveth itself aright. At the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder. PBOTKBBS xxiii. 29-32. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTION. BEAR with me, dear reader, for saying one serious word in the gay holidays. Bear with me, that I pause a moment to listen, amid the grand diapason of joy, for the under tone, the low, unheard murmur, the half-suppressed wail of suffering, of poverty, sickness, and sorrow. It is that you may, amid your rejoicing, remember to relieve this. Christmas, while .'t comes to bring joy to all the earth, and really does augment the happiness of the prosperous Christmas, the religious, tl & jcyous festival, absolutely increases the sufferings of the poor. It comes at the season when want is most severely felt by them ; it brings out into the foreground the strongest points of con- trast between "heir condition and yours. This contrast is felt (207) 208 THE TREE SISTERS. in proportion to the ratio of descent in circumstances, frond your state to that of the poorest street mendicant. We all know the force of contrast. That between the prosperous and the suffering is brought out in greatest strength just at this time. It augments the trials of the latter they cannot escape it the rich and the poor are too closely jumbled to- gether in locality. Have you ever seen a poor woman walk- ing through the crowded, lighted, and merry market-house on Christmas or New Year's Eve ? Drawn by a singular fasci- nation to torture herself by the sight of luxuries that taunt her penury, of merriment that mocks her sorrows ay, even of necessaries, of common good bread and butter that assails her sense of smell, stimulating and tantalizing the appetite she cannot satisfy have you seen her haggard cheeks, her hungry eye ? If you have not, you have gone through the market with eyes so dazzled by the light, ears so deafened by the merry noises, mind so intent upon the purchase of your turkey, that you have brushed and hustled past her at every turn, treading on her toes, and crowding her into corners uncon- sciously. If you had seen her, you would have put a " loaf of bread and pound of butter" in her empty hands she had no basket there, and for that matter, no business there. The con- trast was brought out into strong relief. How do you think it felt to her ? You did not feel it ; if you had, you would have given her a chicken for her New Year's dinner, or lost your appetite for your own. Have you ever seen, on Christ- mas or New Year's Eve, a poor little child looking wistfully, wishfully into the windows of a toy or pastry cook shop, knowing that none of all these fine things are for him ? You will say, nonchalantly, that "toys and confectioneries are not the necessaries of life children can do very well without them," and so they can, if they never saw them, if they never saw other children have them ; as it is, it is a privation not t'ie less keenly felt, because it is a mental and not a physical priva'ion. It is the reality of the suffering by contrast that I THE THREE COTTAGES. 209 wish to show. I do not wish to make you gloomy, but, to be the means of making others 'glad. I do not wish to cast a cloud over your sunshine, but to send a ray of your sunshino to gild another's cloud. I want you to " remember the poor," emphatically in New Year's times, to " remember the poor you have always with you." I want you, just for the season, to furget the mooted question as to whether almsgiving is expe- dient. " Assuredly" it is expedient at New Year's times. It looks like a great expense to make all the poor neighbourhood comfortable, as a whole but divided, it is a mere trifle for listen ! Every man and woman in good circumstances has his own or her own particular acquaintances among the very poor they may not be daily companions, or very intimate friends but you know them. A very small donation, incon- siderable when counted with the expenses of your year, would make the two or three needy acquaintances of each comfort- able for the time, and equalize the enjoyments of New Year, and soften the harshness, abate the friction of the temporarily exaggerated contrast. Now that you have swallowed the pill, you shall have the lump of sugar ; now that you have dined on solid beef, you shall have the whipped-syllabub; now that you have listened to the little sermon, you shall have the little story, and if any child should ask me with childish naivett " Is it true ?" I can answer, every word is true. CHAPTER II. THE THREE COTTAGES. IT 13 a feature in our great sprawling village of Washington City, that the ebb and flow of the tide of business is very great The city, dur'Qjj the session of Congress, being busy as tbi 210 THE THREE SISTERS. busiest thoroughfares of New York or London, and in the re- cess of Congress looking as desolate as Goldsmith's Deserted Village. This influence is felt from the wholesale merchant down to the plain needle-woman. All classes, from the pro- prietors of hotels down to the oyster horn-blowing boys, and from the printer down to the President, are overworked during the sessions of Congress, and have very little to do in the in- terval. But our business is just now with the most unobtru- sive of business people a plain seamstress. It was in the winter of 184-, that Mrs. S , the wife of Judge S , Senator from Mississippi, had, like all Southern and Western ladies, come to Washington with a plenty of gold and nothing else with the benevolent inten- tion of patronizing our city by buying everything from our merchants, jewellers, &c.. and having everything made up by our milliners, mantua-makers, and seamstresses and per- haps, as there is a leaven of unrighteousness in all things perhaps to get the latest fashions, which our dress-makers, &c., had got from the Eastern cities, in expectation of their custom. Well ! Mrs. S had come ; had accomplished an inconceivable amount of shopping, and was now at her wits' ends to find a mantua-maker at leisure to make up her splendid satins and velvets for the season. Mrs. Folk's reception was to come on and come off on Friday evening to be followed on Saturday evening by a ball at Madame B o's. This week and next week were to witness a succession of brilliant parties, to be given by the ladies of the foreign embassies, and by the ladies of members of the Cabinet. The Mississippi belle was hurried, worried, and listressed. It was absolutely necessary to have a different dress for each one of these different entertainments, and not a mantua-maker could she find at leisure, after having driven over two-thirds of Washington City. It happened to be during her tour *mong the mantua-makers that I left my card at her door. She called to see me the next day, and the cause of her dis- THE THREE COTTAGES. 211 tress broke through all the rather stately ceremony of a Mis- sissippi morning visitor. I chanced to be able to do her and another a service. There are suburbs in Washington City that strangers seldom that Senators' ladies never visit. On each a suburb I remembered to have seen a dress-maker's sign hung out at the neatest little two-story framed house, with the prettiest garden and yard that ever was seen. I knew from her remoteness from business localities, that the woman could have only a moderate supply of work. I volunteered to at- tend the lady to her house. We set off there was no time to be lost. We arrived at the cottages. I must describe that locality, for it was a " right pretty" place. It is the eastern slope of the Capitol Hill, as it gradually declines to the Anacostia River, reaching it at a couple of miles distance. In summer it is very beautiful ; covered with thick, soft, green grass, and dappled over with the shade of a few scattered and hoary forest trees, and with clumps of a newer and spontaneous growth of brush-wood, and sprinkled here and there with very small white framed houses, with very large gardens. These are generally the property of day labourers in the Navy-Y ird, and other poor but industrious and temperate men, who are enabled to build them by reason of the low price of lots in that section. (I have known lots sell there, at private sale, too, at a cent and a half a foot.) We, Mrs. S and self, had traversed nearly half the dis- tance between the summit of the Capitol Hill and the river, going straight east, when we came to a street, or rather a lane, for in summer the middle of it was green and untrodden as the margin of a brook. We turned up this lane, and in all its distance there were but three houses. I called them the three cottages. They were all in a row, but not very close together there was abundance of space all around each. The group stood alone, but not solitary ; there were sprinklings of whito houses scattered all around. These three cottages were all mall, two stories high, painted white, with green blinds, and 212 THE THREE SISTERS. each stood in the midst of a little garden of its own. THe house to which we were going was the first one in the row. I had never been there before. I had only discovered it in passing by. Now I noticed that though all the cottages were tieat, this was the neatest by far of the three. The paint of the house and of the fence was white as snow, and the brick walk that led from the gate up to the door was coloured of a lively vermillion red. Three or four planks were laid across the street, and a mat actually laid outside the front gate, to prevent visiters from bringing the least soil upon the clean varnished bricks of the walk. We went in and rapped at the door. It was opened by a small, slender woman, whose fair skin, flaxen hair, and blue eyes, were thrown into strong relief by her widow's dress of black bombazine. The inside of tha house was a miracle of brightness and cleanliness, bright brasses, bright glasses, and bright colours in the carpet gleam- ing through the shade. We passed into a back room, where the nice home-made carpet, and neat paper blinds, spoke volumes in praise of the little widow's industry and economy Mrs. S soon opened her business, and found a very willing agent in the little widow, whose name we ascertained to be Fairfield. We soon concluded our visit, and returned to "the city," as the neighbourhood of Pennsylvania Avenue is called par excellence. I went away, but did not soon forget the Three Cottages they attracted, interested me with their neatness, beauty, and isolation. I had observed that the cen- tral one was a little shop, with jars of candy, tumblers of slate- pencils, stacks of clay pipes, tallpw candles, apples, &c., ar- ranged in the windows, but it appeared as yet too humble to boast a sign-board with the name of the proprietor. I saw no more of the cottages, however, until the spring, when being hurried with work, I went to seek the little widow seamstress. I found the cottages snow-white in their green and blooming gardens, and the little widow, neat, busy, and cheerful as ever Very tired with the long walk, I sat an hour or two, and sho THE THREE SISTERS. 21-^ being very talkative, gave me the history of the cottages and their inmates. The history and its denouement was rather remarkable I will give it to you in my own words, for th" Bake ot condensation. CHAPTER III. THE THREE SISTERS. MRS. ANDERSON had been left a widow with three daugh- ters, Mary, aged twelve, Ellen, aged ten, and Lydia, aged two years. She supported this little family by carpet-weaving, a trade in which there was so little competition as to afford her an abundance of work and good prices. Mrs. Anderson had sent her children to a public school, where they had re- ceived a good common education. More than this, she had saved enough money to purchase three lots upon that eastern suburb, where land was then cheap, though expected to rise in value. These lots she designed as dowers to her daughters. The eldest daughter, Mary, was married at seventeen, to a young carpenter by the name of Fairfield. He built the first cottage in the row upon the lot assigned to the bride. He furnished it nicely, and the young couple went to housekeep- ing. It was during the third year of their marriage, and when they were the parents of two children, that the second sister, Ellen, was wedded to a young man in the cabinet-making busi- ness This marriage was not approved by the widowed mother. She opposed it long and determinately, and only yielded at last to the tears and lamentations of her second daughter. There was something in Mr. Bohrer's face, expression, and manners, that she did not like. It impressed all observers un- favourably, at least all observers except his maiden-love, Ellen. Yet he was a handsome, black-eyed, laughing fellow enough, 21* THE THREE hISTERS. and perfectly unimpeachable in conduct. It was, perhaps, th