B 
 
 PR 
 
 4970 
 
 M.6 05
 
 j^only; 
 
 M^-^M 
 
 
 
 
 BY 
 
 
 
 
 THE AUTHOR 
 
 
 
 
 OF 
 
 
 A 
 
 TRAP 
 
 TO 
 
 CATCH A 
 
 SUNBEAM. 
 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 AND CAMBRIDGE : 
 
 
 JAMES 
 
 MUNROE AND 
 
 COMPANY. 
 
 
 
 
 1850. 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1849, by 
 
 James Munroe and Company, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of 
 
 Massaciiusetts. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 
 THURPTON, TORRY AND COMPANY, 
 
 DEVONSHIRE STREET.
 
 ^'ONLY." 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A BRIGHT lazy summer day in June is one 
 of the most delightful things to those, who 
 can enjoy it thoroughly, beneath the shade 
 of some fine old trees, the light breeze play- 
 ing amongst the leaves and the little birds 
 singing their sweet songs gently to one 
 another, as though they would not disturb 
 the silent repose in which in these glaringly 
 hot days Nature seems wrapt; but in the 
 scorching streets who can enjoy such weath- 
 er? there is no comfort save in a room with 
 the blinds closely drawn, and the windows 
 wide open, even then unable to obtain any 
 thing like pure or refreshing air from the 
 loaded atmosphere. 
 
 In a house in one of the best streets in 
 town, the heat on a day such as this seems
 
 4 "ONLY/' 
 
 to have quite overpowered a very delicate 
 looking woman, who is extended on a couch 
 in a small but prettily furnished drawing- 
 room; the windows are open, the curtains 
 closely drawn to exclude the burning sun. 
 A rustic flower-stand in the centre window 
 is filled with plants, their perfume scenting 
 the room almost too powerfully, for there is 
 no fresh air coming from open fields or 
 breezy mountains to mingle with their over- 
 powering sweetness. The lady has a book 
 in her lap, but she is not reading; one 
 transparently white hand is resting on the 
 back of the sofa, and with the other she is 
 fanning herself with a large fan of ostrich 
 feathers. The door is suddenly thrown 
 open, and a fine boy about eight years old 
 rushes in, in a loose brown holland blouse, 
 his long dark hair pushed back from his 
 forehead, his collar thrown open, displaying 
 a very white throat, whiter still from con- 
 trast with his sunburnt but very handsome 
 face. 
 
 '•Oh ! Mamma dear," he said, as well as 
 he could speak for want of breath, ."make 
 haste and give me a shilling, please, I want
 
 "ONLY." 5 
 
 it for such a poor boy without shoes and 
 stockings, and so hot and thirsty, and his 
 feet all blistered, Mamma; he was crying 
 for some drink, and I 've given him such a 
 lot of water, and now I want to give him a 
 shilling, for he must go to Wimbledon, he 
 says, and he must walk because he's got 
 no money, and he can't walk with his poor 
 feet all blisters ; make haste, dear Ma, I 'm 
 afraid he '11 go." 
 
 '•My dear boy," answered his mother, in 
 a weak and languid voice, ''I really cannot 
 allow it, Stuart." "Oh! Ma, dear, only a 
 shilling, do." 
 
 She slowly drew a purse from her pocket, 
 saying, "I think a shilling is too much for 
 you to give him ; remember it is all you 
 have, and you may see some poor creature 
 worse off, who needs your help; I think 
 sixpence is plenty to give to a boy you 
 know nothing of" 
 
 '• Oh ! no Ma, give it me, dear, do ! " and 
 snatching it from his mother who had re- 
 luctantly taken it from the purse, he flew 
 out of the room, calling out "thank you," 
 as he slammed the door after him. The 
 1*
 
 'ONLY. 
 
 poor invalid started at the noise, and then 
 said, witli a heavy sigh, " what a danger- 
 ous disposition, to leave with a small, very- 
 small fortune, and a young sister to take 
 care of; — my poor little Edith, and I have 
 no energy nor strength to correct him," and 
 again she sighed heavily. 
 
 The door re-opened, but much more gent- 
 ly this time, and a little girl crept in, but 
 seeing her mother awake, she shut the door, 
 and rushing to her, jumped on the sofa be- 
 side her, and kissed her repeatedly; no one 
 could have doubted the relationship; be- 
 tween Edith Vernon and her mother the 
 hkeness was remarkable, save that no trace 
 of illness or suffering was on the laughing 
 face of the child, and the bright hue of 
 health and happiness sparkled in those lus- 
 trous dark eyes. " Dear Mamma, where is 
 Stuart? I have been waiting for him so 
 long," said the child. "He is gone to give 
 a beggar boy his shilling, my love." "What, 
 a whole shilling. Mamma, all his money; — 
 how good of Stuart ! " 
 
 The mother smiled, and with her thin 
 white hand stroked the child's rosy face :
 
 ''ONLY.'' 7 
 
 there was something m this simple praise, 
 that gratified her; she had felt, that it was 
 not quite good of Stuart to be heedless of 
 her advice, or quite right of her to permit 
 him to be so, but this innocent meed of 
 praise from his little affectionate sister, of- 
 fered her an excuse for her own inertness, 
 and looking at it in another light, she 
 thought it was good of Stuart to give all 
 his money to the beggar, and was glad she 
 had not prevented his so doing. Poor Mrs. 
 Vernon! the ease with which she could si- 
 lence the gentle instigation of conscience, 
 in this and in still more serious instances, 
 had been a rock on which she had wrecked 
 all her happiness : against that truthful 
 monitor she had married Stuart Yernon, 
 knowing as she did his reckless expenditure, 
 striving to drown " the still small voice " 
 which whispered such extravagance evi- 
 denced a want of principle; but Vernon 
 was handsome, mixed in the best society, 
 was clever and amusing, and even without 
 the excuse of love, for though pleased with 
 him she had not had time to love him, Ma- 
 rian Harcourt gave her hand to the fasci- 
 nating Stuart Vernon.
 
 Soon, too soon she learnt her mistake, but 
 instead of exertmg herself to correct liim, 
 using her influence (for he really loved her 
 very much) to stay this ruinous propensity, 
 she gave in to him, contented always to 
 quiet her still troublesome conscience with 
 that dangerous word "only," which her 
 husband was so fond of using. One thing 
 led to another, deep in debt, each year they 
 became more and more involved, till at 
 length agitation and annoyance complete- 
 ly undermined Marian's naturally delicate 
 health, and she became a confirmed invalid. 
 This of course added to the expenses: Ver- 
 non's gay and joyous temper became sullen 
 and morose, and in short, happiness winged 
 her flight from an al?ode where no prospect 
 of cheerfulness or content could exist; till 
 at length, Yernon, unwilling longer to wit- 
 ness the wreck he had made, left his home 
 and his unhappy wife, to seek peace and 
 forgetfulness abroad. 
 
 His plea for absence was to retrieve his 
 fortune by some employment, and poor 
 Marian credited this at first, but as months 
 and at length years went by, and still he
 
 ^'ONLY." 9 
 
 came not, and finally ceased to write, hope 
 soon followed every other happy feeling, 
 and with poor Medora, she felt, "he is gone, 
 and I am desolate." Her children failed to 
 console her, for they caused her too much 
 anxiety, especially as Stuart was becoming 
 the counterpart of his father ; — the same 
 joyous manner, the same reckless disregard 
 of consequences, and the same habit of 
 acting on the impulse of the moment. These 
 impulses, it is true, were all or mostly all 
 good, and had he possessed an energetic, 
 strong-minded mother, he would have event- 
 ually been a fine character; but alas! for 
 Stuart, such was not the case, and the faults 
 of the child were in the right way to become 
 the vices of the man. 
 
 About an hour after the scene I have re- 
 lated, a young girl was hurrying through 
 one of the narrow streets as quickly as the 
 overpowering heat would permit her: though 
 in the lower walk of life, there was a su- 
 periority about her, which made her very 
 interesting; a certain refinement of fea- 
 tures and delicacy of appearance altogether, 
 which seldom belongs to the poorer class.
 
 10 
 
 There was nothing of gaiety about her face, 
 and the objects in the street seemed to have 
 no attraction for her ; with her head down 
 and her soft brown eyes fixed on tlie ground, 
 she sped along and finally turned up a dirty 
 street in which numbers of children were 
 playing, and quarrelling, and stopped before 
 one of the numerous rag-shops, which 
 seemed to be the prevalent trade of the 
 neighborhood. On each side the door hung 
 several dresses of different materials, and 
 over the door a huge black doll, the terror 
 of all naughty children in the locality, 
 whose bursts of passion were effectually 
 silenced by a threat of being given up to 
 the rapacity of the "Black Doll!" Rows 
 of boots and shoes lined the passage. In 
 the centre pane of the window filled with 
 bottles, and various colored rags, was a 
 large piece of paper, on which was written 
 in red, yellow and blue, "the best price 
 given for linen rags." The girl entered, 
 and passing through the little close shop 
 into a small parlor,; (if it might be so dig- 
 nified.) was greeted"* by a loud cry of wel- 
 come from three or four children, who were
 
 11 
 
 in a moment clinging about her. Seated 
 by the window was a strange looking man, 
 who, though very plain, still bore some re- 
 semblance to the pretty new comer, suffi- 
 cient to warrant his salutation of "Well, 
 darter," which he uttered, with a whiff of 
 tobacco from the pipe he was smoking. 
 "Well, father, is mother out?" asked the 
 girl. "Lord be praised, she Ais," was the 
 significant reply. His daughter smiled a 
 sad smile, and stooped to kiss the little fat 
 baby who had been pulling at her dress in 
 its anxiety to be noticed. 
 
 Martin Rawdon was a character, and a 
 strange one. He had been many things by 
 turns, but nothing long; one of a large fam- 
 ily of children, he had been thrown early 
 on the world to seek his own living, but 
 Martin preferred that his living should seek 
 him, and made no effort towards indepen- 
 dence, until captivated by the soft brown 
 eyes of an opposite neighbor; he then felt 
 that the pretty baker's daughter would not 
 leave her comfortable house to share his 
 wretched garret, so he must, to secure him- 
 self such a prize, labor to procure some
 
 12 
 
 more tempting home to bring her to. For 
 a few weeks he really did work hard, and 
 in the meanwhile took every opportunity of 
 ingratiating himself with the gentle Ellen ; 
 and notwithstanding the father's remon- 
 strances and assurances that he was a good- 
 for-nothing idle fellow, Ellen '• walked out" 
 with him on the following Sunday, and in 
 a week or so after became Mrs. Martin 
 Rawdon. 
 
 For a short time all went on pretty well, 
 and Ellen seemed very happy, Martin was 
 so good humored and funny, and had such 
 a vein of comic humor, with which he en- 
 livened the evenings, and cheered the droop- 
 ing spirits of his wife, when a fit of idleness 
 had deprived them of sufficient means to 
 find even necessaries. Ellen was not strong, 
 and when two or three children came to 
 make inroads on their scanty fare, her 
 health and spirits grew weaker and weaker, 
 and though she never complained, the mute 
 eloquence of her pale thin face, as she sat 
 with her delicate baby in her arms, when 
 her husband returned to the dry bread and 
 water, which generally formed their dinner,
 
 "ONLY." 13 
 
 spoke to him more powerfully than words; 
 but still his spirits failed not, and he would 
 continue making jokes, receiving from his 
 wife a sickly smile in return, until at length 
 the struggle was too much for her; and he 
 returned home one day to find the soft eyes, 
 which had never looked otherwise than 
 kindly on him, closed forever, and her 
 frightened children screaming in vain to 
 "Mammy" to answer them. 
 
 Poor Martin, — he made no joke on this, 
 but laying his head on the bed, sobbed till 
 some pitying neighbor took him away. But 
 it was not Martin's nature to be wretched 
 long, and he thought at last, as he had 
 married once for love, he would marry now 
 for comfort. Making acquaintance with a 
 lady who kept a lucrative rag-shop in the 
 locality, he soon took her for better for worse. 
 But alas ! poor Martin soon found it was 
 all for worse, and the gay, merry, joking 
 Martin, was no longer to be known in the 
 silent hen-pecked husband. 
 
 Mrs. Rawdon had in the brief period of 
 their courtship only vouchsafed a grim smile 
 to Martin's facetious remarks, and the mo- 
 2
 
 14 '-ONLY." 
 
 ment she became his wife, even these 
 ceased, and a gruff ''oh! you fool,'' pro- 
 nounced in no gentle tones, silenced him 
 effectually: until at length Martin only 
 made jokes to himself, and would be seen 
 occasionally chokins^ hnnself to conceal the 
 laughter which one of his own puns had 
 excited. 
 
 Of his little boy and his pretty daughter, 
 Martin was very fond ; they were his poor 
 Ellen's children, and this was a constant 
 source of annoyance to his present interest- 
 ing spouse, although she really had no 
 cause for complaint, for he was equally 
 kind to her own two little brats. But it 
 really did appear that she had married him 
 for the sole purpose of possessing a legiti- 
 mate right to scold some one, as she seldom 
 did any thing else ; nothing she knew he 
 had a particular fancy for would she permit 
 him to have, but would tell him he might 
 buy it himself, knowing full well he had 
 not the wherewithal ; so to his good and 
 gentle daughter Ellen, was he indebted for 
 every comfort, especially the tobacco, the 
 fumes of which were now fillins: the room.
 
 15 
 
 On this day Mrs. Rawdon was, as Martin 
 said, out, and he was. therefore, doubly en- 
 joying his pipe. There was a few minutes' 
 pause after his laconic speech. Ellen con- 
 tinued to kiss and fondle the fat baby, and 
 Martin to smoke; but at length drawing a 
 small leather purse from her pocket, Ellen 
 took a few shillings from it and said, 
 "Father, I am sorry to say I have only 
 four shillings, not all you wanted by a shil- 
 ling, but I lent one to Master Yernon, and 
 he has not paid me : I did not like to ask 
 for it." 
 
 The father took his pipe from his mouth, 
 and sending out a long whiff of smoke, 
 scratched his head, and said, " Well, darter, 
 what you aint got I can't have, don't 'ee 
 see, so must learn to go without. I ought 
 to be well learned in that, Nell, dear, for 
 it's everlastingly being teached me." A 
 shade of disappointment passed over El- 
 len's face as she answered, " You go with- 
 out nothing as I know you want, and can 
 afford to get you, father." 
 
 "True, my girl, I aint ungrateful or un- 
 mindful of your kindness, but there 's a
 
 16 
 
 many things wanted yet towards the com- 
 fortable furnishing of this earthly taberna- 
 cle, which neither your small means nor 
 my very uncertain income can buy." " Nell, 
 old girl," he continued, in a much lower 
 voice, as he glanced at one of the elder 
 children, who, with a pair of very vicious 
 eyes, was regarding him, "she has some- 
 times lately put loose change in my pocket, 
 very small change though, such as four- 
 penny and threepenny bits, but as at first 
 she did so most every day, and then let 
 some weeks go by ; I think it may be called 
 an uncertain income." 
 
 A smile of old times stole over his face 
 like a gleam of fitful sunlight, but it fled 
 so quickly, that its existence at all might 
 have been doubted, as a loud and very 
 harsh voice was heard in the shop. On all 
 the inmates of that small room the voice 
 had an eflect ; the elder boy with the vicious 
 eyes, hastily hid a huge piece of bread in a 
 greasy cap; a little girl, who had been 
 standing with a cup in her hand from the 
 moment of her sister's entrance, began 
 washing it in real earnest; Ellen hurried
 
 17 
 
 the purse into her pocket and drew nearer 
 to her father, who knocked the ashes out of 
 his pipe, laid it on the hob, and pushed his 
 chair further into the corner, — with the 
 baby alone the voice seemed associated with 
 pleasure, for it immediately toddled to the 
 door, which it made vehement exertions to 
 open, crowing and stamping its little feet. 
 Poor child! it only knew that that voice 
 belonged to its mother, the being to whom 
 it was indebted for all the comforts of its 
 helpless and dependent existence; save the 
 baby's tiny sound of pleasure, there was a 
 profound silence in the little room, while 
 Mrs. Rawdon, in the shop, continued a 
 noisy colloquy with some customer. 
 
 "Why, my good creetur, it 's so washed 
 out, bless you, it aint worth sixpence, and I 
 offers you ninepence." A weak and whin- 
 ing voice answered, '-I'm sure it aint 
 washed out, it was just the color when I 
 bought it; I could get as much again lent 
 on it, but I always has a horror of them 
 shops; there's a something about them 
 which makes them as has been there once, 
 go fifty times." 
 
 2*
 
 18 "ONLY." 
 
 There was a pause while Mrs. Rawdon 
 held the gown up to the light, and the poor 
 thin figure before her gazed with earnest 
 eyes on her hard, uncompromising face. 
 *'Have you nothing else as you can put in 
 with it, — some phials, old shoes, hats, bon- 
 nets, rags," at length Mrs. Rawdon asked : 
 "Nothing, nothing," answered the woman, 
 somewhat petulantly, "give it me back, 
 and I '11 try somewheres else." " Oh ! very 
 well," replied Mrs. Rawdon, as she rolled 
 the gown up in a bundle, and jingled in her 
 hand the money she had ofiered for it ; 
 "very well, good morning, ma'am," and 
 she turned to enter the room. 
 
 The poor woman lingered at the shop 
 door a moment, and then, with a heavy 
 sigh, departed. "Oh! you're here, Miss 
 Ellen, are you," said Mrs. Rawdon, as she 
 entered and picked up the baby, whom she 
 kissed violently, admmistering at the same 
 time an equally violent thump on the head 
 to the little girl, whose washing of the tea- 
 things had not yet been completed, and 
 without waiting for a reply to the self-evi- 
 dent fact of Ellen's being there, said, " I
 
 "ONLY." 19 
 
 suppose you 've been all very busy, you, 
 Mr. Rawdon, in particular; any man of 
 spirit would have helped that child with 
 them tea-things; you won't get no dinner, 
 however, none of you till you've cleared 
 the room up." "My dear. Missis," remon- 
 strated her husband, but his remark was 
 unheeded, indeed unheard, for after a long 
 pause, the child who had received the ad- 
 monitory blow on the head, began to roar 
 so lustily that all other sounds were merged 
 in "this one long shriek." Poor Ellen, 
 stunned by the noise, and distressed as she 
 always was by the discomfort of her father's 
 home, made her escape as soon as possible, 
 and returned in time to get tea for the young 
 Yernons, towards whom she acted in the 
 capacity of nursery maid. 
 
 The children were playing in the nursery, 
 for Mrs. Yernon had a visitor with her. 
 He was an old man, had been a clergyman 
 of great celebrity in his day, had preached 
 not for emolument, not for the pleasant 
 prospect of lawn sleeves, but from a power- 
 ful conviction of the grand truths of Ciiris- 
 tianity, and an earnest hope of impressing
 
 20 '-ONLY.- 
 
 them on his hearers. He possessed a com- 
 fortable independence, and was now passing 
 his dechning years in his rectory, with a 
 son, who had followed closely in his father's 
 steps, and of whom he was jnstly proud. 
 Once or twice a year he came to pay a visit 
 to Mrs. Yernon ; he felt a deep interest in 
 her, had known her from her birth, had 
 been at her wedding, and as he blessed her, 
 had prayed she might never repent it; and 
 when she did, and sorrow and want pur- 
 sued her, he came to the neglected wife and 
 sutfering mother, and told her that she 
 would henceforth find a sum at a certain 
 banker's each quarter, if she would send for 
 it; and when with streaming eyes and 
 flushed face she protested it was impossible 
 she could accept such an offer, he gently 
 answered, " Child, I always keep a promise, 
 much more a death-bed vow. I told your 
 dying lather you should never want: you 
 never shall, while by Heaven's blessing I 
 have aught 1 can call my own ; " and so on 
 this truly Christian charity did the mother 
 and her helpless children subsist, and not 
 only were her present wants supplied, but
 
 "ONLY." 2t 
 
 anxiety for the future lulled as much as it 
 could be, by the knowledge that this gener- 
 ous kindness wduld be continued to her 
 children. Moreover, Stuart was to be edu- 
 cated at the rectory, while she superintend- 
 ed the education of her little daughter. 
 
 There was something most engaging in 
 the aspect of this good and venerable man, 
 with his fine head, his snow white hair, and 
 clear blue eyes, and something touching in 
 the rich tones of his gentle voice, which 
 gave to every thing he said a more forcible 
 meaning. The intention of his visit this 
 day, was to induce Mrs. Yernon to let him 
 take Stuart back with him, as he felt the 
 boy was being too much indulged by his 
 sickly, indolent mother, and that he was 
 too noisy and troublesome for her. There 
 was something most picturesque in their 
 attitude as they sat together, the old man 
 holding the thin white hand of the invalid 
 in his, — her pale and beautiful face, older 
 in its suffering youth than that of the rosy 
 healthy old man by her side. 
 
 "My child,'"' he said, in the low and 
 trembling tones peculiar to him, "we must
 
 22 ''ONLY." 
 
 all in this world accustom ourselves to con- 
 sider first the eventual good of an action, 
 before we think whether it be agreeable to 
 our present feelings; weigh well in your 
 mind, whether your boy will eventually be 
 the better for remaining here, which will of 
 course be gratifying to you, or by coming 
 with me, which will naturally for the time 
 distress you. I need not, I am sure, remind 
 you that your duty as a mother is to consult 
 your boy's good, not your own feelings, but 
 at the same time, I will in no wise urge you 
 to any line of conduct, — I only wish sim- 
 ply to remind you to act in accordance with 
 judgment, not feeling." "I am sure," an- 
 swered Marian, "of the benefit any one 
 must derive from you and your tuition, but 
 I, foolishly, perhaps, fancy no one can un- 
 derstand Stuart as I can: he is an odd 
 child, and never having been accustomed 
 to restraint, would, 1 fear, rebel against it, 
 while he is so young, at least." 
 
 " My dear Marian, the younger the plant, 
 the better we can bend it to our will. A 
 child's education should commence from its 
 cradle, and little can any one consider the
 
 23 
 
 warfare the Christian is called on to sustain, 
 who does not from his earliest infancy send 
 him forth like a warrior well armed for the 
 strife. Most cruel is that weak indulgence, 
 which by fostering the passions of the child, 
 render them, instead of his slaves, his mas- 
 ters, making at last of the spoiled and pet- 
 ted boy, a vicious and a hated man. You 
 cannot surely dread unkindness from me to 
 your boy, dear Marian ! believe me, my 
 law is the law of kindness, and I only at- 
 tempt to conquer by moral, not physical 
 force. The child who can only be man- 
 aged by the cane, is, in my opinion, in a 
 hopeless condition." 
 
 "Well," answered Mrs. Vernon, with a 
 sigh, " I suppose you are right ; let him stay 
 a week more at home then, only a week." 
 "Only," echoed her friend, in a low voice. 
 With a sudden start the invalid raised her- 
 self from her recumbent position, and said, 
 " at once he shall go, now, when you like ; " 
 and falling back on her pillows, the large 
 tears fell thick and fast. There was a mo- 
 ment's pause, and then the old man, rising, 
 pressed his lips on the thin fingers clasped
 
 154 "ONLY." 
 
 round his own, and said, "God bless yon, 
 dear child, and aid you in all good resolves, 
 I will call for the boy at twelve to-mor- 
 row," — and silently he left the room. 
 
 The following morning, at the appointed 
 hour, he came again for Stuart, who, fortu- 
 nately for his poor mother, made no objec- 
 tion to going: it had long been talked of, 
 and he imagined he should like it. In a 
 few days after his departure, Mrs. Yernon 
 thought as she had now but one child to 
 take care of, she could manage without a 
 nurse, and accordingly told Ellen she must 
 provide herself with another place. Poor 
 Ellen ! in a moment a thousand fairy pala- 
 ces were shattered to atoms, and only say- 
 ing, " very well, Ma'am," she hurried to 
 her own room, and cried bitterly. What 
 was to become of her 7 she must go home, — 
 to that wretched home, where it made her 
 miserable to remain half an hour even ; 
 she had never lived at home since a step- 
 mother had come to add discord to the dis- 
 comfort of poverty ; — what should she do 7 
 for some moments she indulged her grief, 
 and then rising from her seat and drying
 
 "ONLY." 2B 
 
 her eyes, she said, " Well, crying won't 
 mend it ; I must look sharp and find anoth- 
 er place, poor father must make my compa- 
 ny do instead of '"bacca," and she smiled 
 slightly through her tears, " that is, if I 
 don't get a place before I must leave here, 
 but a month 's a good while, and who 
 knows? I wish Master Stuart had paid me 
 that shilling, I don't like to ask Missis, gen- 
 tlefolks little thmk how much a shilling is 
 to such as me : poor father ! I wonder how 
 he 's managed without it, and I shan't have 
 a silver sixpence till I leave." 
 
 During this soliloquy Ellen had been 
 turning over the contents of a little red 
 leather box, which seemed to contain a va- 
 riety of treasures : there was a yard meas- 
 ure, representing a turret in a style of archi- 
 tecture unknown to any one save the maker 
 of these "trifles from Margate," and there 
 was the leather purse, and an ivory emery- 
 cushion, and four or five letters, worn with 
 reading, tied together with blue ribbon ; as 
 Ellen lifted these last from the box, a glow 
 of the brightest crimson sufl^used her face 
 and neck ; she gazed at them for a moment, 
 3
 
 26 '-ONLY.-' 
 
 and then tears again gathered in her eyes, 
 and fell quickly upon them: then replacing 
 them carefully where she had found them, 
 she locked the box, and turning away with 
 a heavy sigh, said, " Poor Joe ! well, father 
 first, and then when he 's comfortable we '11 
 begin and think about ourselves." 
 
 Good Ellen ! there is as true a heroism in 
 this act of filial duty and self-forgetful ness, 
 as in many a grand action which fame has 
 trumpeted forth, and the world applauded; 
 and such acts, honor be to human nature 
 with all its sin and frailty, are daily and 
 hourly being performed, unseen but by one 
 Being, who, " seeing in secret,"' will one day 
 "reward openly." Take courage, then, ye 
 who in a monotonous and toilsome existence 
 are repeatedly making such noble sacrifices, 
 uncheered and unencouraged by a word of 
 praise, and remember that every such act 
 plants another jewel in the diadem you will 
 merit when the secrets of all hearts shall 
 be disclosed.
 
 ONLY." 27 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 Years have gone by since the day when 
 Mr. Feversham, the kind Rector, took 
 Stuart Yernon from his home, and on as 
 sunny and warm a day, long after, we 
 must peep into the Rectory and note the 
 changes which time has made upon its 
 inmates. The house, in the old Eliza- 
 bethan architecture, stands in a large gar- 
 den, inclosed by a brick wall covered with 
 moss and lichen. On the lawn, mown so 
 beautifully that it looks like a velvet car- 
 pet, stands a gigantic walnut tree, whose 
 brawny branches like protecting arms 
 stretch far across it. A rustic bench and 
 table are beneath, and a group of people 
 are assembled there; a graceful girl, a 
 young and handsome lad, and a tall grave 
 looking man. The girl is knitting, the 
 boy stretched on the grass at her feet, the 
 man standing beside them, all are attired 
 in deep mourning. " Edith," said the last
 
 28 
 
 named personage, after a long pause, 
 during which he had been gazing ear- 
 nestly at the girl's sweet face, "I have 
 something to say to you, which I scarcely 
 know how to say; however I may word 
 it, its meannig will, I fear, bear a tinge 
 of harshness; to use the mildest term it 
 will be at least unwelcome." 
 
 She looked up inquiringly. "You are 
 nearly seventeen, Edith, and you know 
 you must feel how materially our late 
 affliction has changed your position here ; 
 in short, for it is better, I believe, at once 
 to speak openly, you cannot remain here 
 now I am alone. While you were con- 
 sidered under my father's protection, it 
 was very ditferent, but now, Edith, it 
 would not do; your brother is not of an 
 age even to alter the case; he will of 
 course remain with me as my pupil, but 
 for you, my dear Edith, we must find 
 another home." 
 
 The speaker had hoped that the young 
 girl to whom he addressed himself, would 
 relieve the awkwardness of his speech by 
 some comment, some question; but no, she
 
 ''ONLY." 29 
 
 heard him to the end, and then raising a 
 pair of Hquid, speaking eyes to his face, 
 meekly answered " Yes." 
 
 There was an awkward pause, broken 
 at length by the boy, who raised himself 
 from his position on the ground, and said, 
 "Then, I suppose poor Sis must follow 
 the fortune of all portionless maidens, and 
 become a governess or companion, or some- 
 thing, to be ill treated by a parcel of fine 
 ladies, and insulted by their servants; no, 
 thank you, Sis and I will go away together, 
 Mr. Feversham, if we're in your way, but 
 we'll not be parted. I promised, — 1 pro- 
 mised my mother," he added, in a much 
 lower tone, "to take care of her, and I 
 will; we'll go together, dear," and spring- 
 ing from tlie ground, he flung his arm 
 round his sister's neck, and drawing her 
 head towards him affectionately, stroked 
 it, while with flashing eyes he surveyed 
 their companion. 
 
 Mr. Feversham smiled gently as he 
 
 answered, "Not so fast, dear Stuart; I 
 
 admire the spirit which you display in 
 
 thus defending 3^our sister, but in this 
 
 3*
 
 30 ''ONLY." 
 
 instance there is no cause. You are aware 
 that a small income is yours, and that 
 though trifling, it is ample to preserve 
 Edith from the miseries of being a gover- 
 ness; I am only suggesting that which is 
 indispensable, a more suitable home for 
 your sister, who growing now quite a 
 young woman, requires the companionship 
 and protection of a young lady. Many 
 widow ladies would be glad of so charm- 
 ing an addition to their household, and 
 such a home we must make it our business 
 to find her. You understand, do you not, 
 my dear Edith?" continued Mr. Feversham, 
 as he sat down on the bench beside her, 
 and took her passive little hand in his. 
 She had not moved her head from her 
 brother's shoulder, and she answered in 
 very low tones, '-I understand, but it is 
 very hard to have to part from Stuart; 
 when shall I have done parting from those 
 I love 7" 
 
 Poor Edith, these were simple words, 
 but they told the whole sad tale. From 
 the moment of the first heart-breaking 
 parting with her idolized brother, Edith's
 
 ''ONLY." 31 
 
 life had been a sad one; her mother's 
 heahh declined rapidly, and soon followed 
 another parting more bitter still, her mother 
 died. The good old Rector hastened to 
 her, and received her last breath, taking 
 away with him the poor little orphan, 
 whose tender and impressionable heart 
 was long, long ere it could be reconciled 
 to its loss. At length the excellent charac- 
 ter of their invaluable friend, and his unre- 
 mittnig kindness purchased Edith's love, 
 and next to her brother now, came the 
 good Rector. She was ever by his side, 
 his gentleness suited her mild and timid 
 nature, and far rather would she sit with 
 her small hand in his, listening to some 
 tale he would read to her with his beau- 
 tiful voice, than join Stuart and his merry 
 companions on the lawn. So daily stronger 
 and stronger grew her love for the old 
 man, and at length her watchful aifection 
 marked that his voice grew weaker, and 
 his step feebler, and she knew that the 
 wings of the Angel of Death swept over 
 him, and that ere long he would waft him 
 away to that Heaven where he \voidd 
 " rest from his labors."
 
 3'2 "ONLY."' 
 
 Young as she was, she argued with her- 
 self on the selfishness of the tears' which 
 would gather in her eyes, as she marked 
 how the light in his was burning out, and 
 tried to think that rather she should rejoice 
 that he was going to meet the reward of 
 all his goodness; but all her arguing was 
 in vain, and passionate floods of tears re- 
 lieved her aching heart, when she was 
 told that the spirit of her best friend had 
 passed away forever. 
 
 His son, feeling deeply his own loss, 
 wept with her, but he from his childhood 
 had learned to control and keep in check 
 every motion, every passion, and, after the 
 first natural burst of grief, was calm and 
 uncomplaining. His life had been one of 
 seclusion and devotion, and he had learnt 
 the enviable lesson of perfect submission 
 and resignation; not with his lips only 
 did he say "Thy will be done,*' but in 
 his lite; and as the Buddhist resigns each 
 article of worldly wealth to his poorer 
 brethren who demand it, without murmur 
 or. regret, so did this faithful disciple cheer- 
 fully submit to every loss and trial, which
 
 ONLY. 
 
 3S 
 
 the Dispenser of Events saw fit to inflict 
 on him. Bat Edith, the young, sensitive 
 Edith, had not been so trained, and her 
 grief seemed the more uncontrollable as she 
 witnessed the cahnness of her passionless 
 companion. A week or two had barely 
 closed the wound, ere it was probed afresh 
 by Mr. Feversham's intimation that she 
 must leave the Rectory, causing her ex- 
 clamation of " when shall I have done 
 parting with those I love?" From her 
 tiny babyhood Stuart had been her idol, 
 she could not see a fault in this cherished 
 brother, and every good point in his charac- 
 ter was in her eyes an exalted virtue; to 
 be taken from him, now too that they 
 were so utterly alone in the world, seemed 
 indeed unbearable, and those few words 
 were all her heart could utter. 
 
 " I am in hopes," continued Mr. Fever- 
 sham, "the parting will not extend beyond 
 this village, you can then see Stuart daily. 
 I have thought, if you like her, of speaking 
 to Mrs. Carysfort, her nice daughter too, 
 will be an agreeable companion for you, — 
 what say you ?"
 
 84 
 
 " Oh ! yes, any where you hke,'' answered 
 Edith, for this cool way of making arrange- 
 ments, when her heart was bursting, always 
 annoyed her, and lifting her head from her 
 brother's shoulder, she rose, and making 
 some excuse to leave them, she walked into 
 the house. In half an hour her brother's 
 loud voice summoned her from her room, 
 where she had sought refuge, and she went 
 down to him. 
 
 "I say, Edith, my dear child," he began, 
 with the man-manner, boys of his age like 
 to assume, especially to a sister, "there's a 
 great deal of sense and truth in what IMr. 
 Feversham has been saying, and 1 hope 
 you won't be silly enough to fret about it; 
 if the Carysforts take you, you will be close 
 to us, and we shall see one another fre- 
 quently." '-See one another frequently ! " 
 Poor Edith ! this is her first lesson in the 
 difference of the love of man and woman ; 
 she, who could not sleep till she had kissed 
 him at night, nor take delight in any amuse- 
 ment which he did not share, nor note that 
 the sun shone, if his eyes were not there to 
 make the day look bright, — he, this idol, 
 would be satisfied "to see her frequently."
 
 35 
 
 This is her first plunge into the coldness 
 of the world, the next will be far less chill- 
 ing. Oh ! how merciful is the command 
 which bids us in all things " be temperate," 
 and how great the wisdom which, in its 
 knowledge of our weak nature, made idol- 
 atry a sin. Edith could not answer, she 
 only sighed. " I think you '11 be very com- 
 fortable with the Carysforts, and you know 
 you're twice as clever as Kate, and can 
 teach her some of your accomphshments; 
 and they can take you on lower terms, for 
 you know we shan't be able to aflbrd much; 
 if we were two girls our income would be 
 capital, but a boy always wants twice as 
 much money as a girl ; not dear Sis, that I 
 mean to take twice as much of our money, 
 don't be afraid." " I am not afraid of that, 
 Stuart, I am sure you would neither be un- 
 generous nor unjust." " No, that I 'm sure 
 I would not, especially to my darling Sis, — 
 but you know boys' books and clothes are 
 so expensive to what girls' are ; however, if 
 these Carysforts will take you for a small 
 sum, I think it a capital move; you would 
 not mind teaching Kate, should you ? "
 
 36 
 
 " No, I should not mind it if I am capable, 
 but I thought you objected just now to my 
 teaching."' "Ah, that's another thing; I 
 was afraid Feversham was not going to 
 give us fair play, but turn you out as gov- 
 erness or something, just to get rid of the 
 expense, and I was not going to stand that, 
 — having you knocking about the world in 
 that way : but going into a nice family like 
 the Carysforts, and making a sort of ex- 
 change of your talents for their bread and 
 butter, is quite another thing. Then, you 
 know, I shall work hard, and Feversham 
 says he knows lots of influential men in 
 town, who will get me a government situ- 
 ation, perhaps, and then won't I show my 
 8is off! " 
 
 '•Oh! while I think of it, let me tell you, 
 I spent that money 1 had of yours yester- 
 day." "Did you, dear Stuart?" "Yes, 
 you don't care, do you, it was 'only' five 
 and sixpence, I '11 pay you next quarter." 
 " No, I don't want it, dear," answered 
 Edith, but she could, — save that she never 
 lectured Stuart, — have warned him against 
 that "only," which her dear old friend had
 
 "ONLY." 37 
 
 told her had mined her poor father. It was 
 finally arranged that Edith should go to the 
 Garysforts, and exactly as Stuart wished. 
 Mrs. Carysfort had long admired the gentle 
 and intellectual Edith, and was charmed at 
 the idea of securing so eligible a companion 
 for her high-spirited and somewhat unman- 
 ageable daughter. 
 
 Kate Carysfort, a girl with bright brown 
 eyes, and hair so dark it might be called 
 black, luxuriant and glossy, and always 
 beautifully dressed, would have been an 
 undeniably handsome girl if she had been 
 taller, but as it was, handsome could not be 
 applied to the gay and piquant Kate ; but 
 there were few critics in the village, and 
 there she was the belle : and not to know 
 "little Kate Carysfort," as the saucy men 
 called her, was to argue yourself unknown. 
 
 Like a hen with a duckling, poor Mrs. 
 Carysfort was in dread, at every moment, 
 that her wild Kate would perform some ex- 
 traordinary feat, risking life and limb in the 
 attempt ; and so she was truly glad of the 
 inlluence she trusted the gentle Edith would 
 exercise over her. 
 4
 
 38 
 
 A short time served for the necessary 
 arrangements, and Edith was installed a 
 member of Mrs. Carysfort's small but ele- 
 gant establishment. Her cottage was fur- 
 nished with the most perfect taste, and stood 
 in the most picturesque part of the village. 
 A cook and housekeeper, and a very supe- 
 rior, nicely-mannered servant, who com- 
 bined the services of housemaid and lady's 
 maid, and a man who attended to the gar- 
 den, and drove their small pony phaeton, 
 formed Mrs. Carysfort's little household ; 
 and after the first strangeness wore away, 
 the elegance and quiet \yith which every 
 thing was conducted, soon made Edith very 
 comfortable in her new home, though she 
 saw but little of her brother, as her fears 
 had foretold. But Edith had a loving, sen- 
 sitive heart, and soon grew fond of her 
 winning and very attractive companion, so 
 that she bore this estrangement from her 
 brother far better than she thought possible. 
 
 It was something quite new to Edith, the 
 companionship of a young girl, and delight- 
 ful too, especially such a girl as Kate, for 
 joined to her high spirits, she was so origi-
 
 39 
 
 nal in her ideas that she was a corxtinual 
 amusement; and never had Edith laughed 
 so much as during her first week's residence 
 with her new friends. 
 
 One day, after she had been with them 
 about a month, Mrs. Carysfort told her it 
 was her intention to go to town for a short 
 time, taking Kate with her, and Edith too, 
 if she did not object. Kate sprung from her 
 seat with a scream of dehght, nearly up- 
 setting in her ecstacies the small work-table 
 at which her mother was seated ; she had 
 never been in London, and had frequently 
 teased Mrs. Carysfort to take her. '• Now, 
 gently, my dear Kate," said her mother, "I 
 was determined not to tell you till almost 
 the moment of departure, as T knew you 
 would make yourself ill with excitement, 
 and now on my word I will not take you if 
 the whole peace of my establishment is to 
 be disturbed with your racket; " she contin- 
 ued, smiling. " Miss Vernon, will you go ? " 
 '•Oh yes, certainly, if you v*^ill be plagued 
 with me." " Well then, on Monday [ 
 should like to start" "Oh! my gracious, 
 mother dear, I must have a new bonnet,"
 
 40 ''ONLY." 
 
 exclaimed Kate. "So I expected Miss 
 Kate, for though I think it unnecessary, I 
 know we seldom agree on that point; how- 
 ever, so that my plans are not disarranged 
 by having to wait for the said bonnet, you 
 may order it." "Oh thank you, my sweet 
 darling mammy ; now you, Miss Vernon, 
 must come out this afternoon and see what 
 Mrs. Jones's ingenuity can effect." 
 
 "Don't you think it better to get your 
 new bonnet in town, Kate?" asked Edith. 
 " Oh ! understand me, Miss Carysfort," said 
 her mother, "I will have no expensive bon- 
 net ordered, nothing but a clean straw to 
 take you to town; you can get a much 
 better and more fashionable one on your 
 arrival." 
 
 " Charming," replied Kate, "I shall have 
 two new ones, which is one and a half 
 more than I expected." " One and a half, 
 dear?" "Yes, for I only thought to have 
 some ribbon for my old one, don't you see ? 
 I 'm so glad when the bonnet debate is 
 settled, for there's usually a division of 
 the house, and then the 'noes' invariably
 
 "ONLY." 41 
 
 All now became busy preparation in Mrs. 
 Carysfort's quiet abode ; drawers and closets 
 were turned out, many a long lost treasure 
 coming to light, in this general expulsion of 
 all things from their hiding places, and on 
 Monday they started on their journey. 
 
 On the first evening, while they are rest- 
 ing from their fatigue, and striving to over- 
 come tlie feeling of discomfort in their new 
 and noisy abode, — we must visit a house 
 not many streets distant, and entering its 
 spacious rooms, introduce ourselves to its 
 inmates. A lady is seated in a low and 
 luxuriously cushioned chair, in a loose dress 
 of the clearest muslin, abundantly trimmed 
 with rich lace, a square of fine point is tied 
 over her head, pinned on with pins of tur- 
 quoise and diamonds, her hair, which is very 
 light, dressed in short, full curls; round her 
 neck is a broad piece of black velvet, fastened 
 by a bird with expanded wings, also of tur- 
 quoise and diamonds; a cloak of black lace 
 covers her brilliantly fair shoulders, and in 
 her lap is the tiniest spaniel, with a broad 
 rose-colored riband round his throat, the 
 color of which gives the finishing touch to
 
 1 
 
 42 ''ONLY." 
 
 the very graceful picture the lady presents. 
 She is chatting gaily to a fresh arrival, a 
 tall handsome man, who appears not only 
 to consider himself so, but to be quite aware 
 that that is the received opinion; several 
 persons are grouped about the rooms, as it 
 is one of Mrs. Murray Fisher's "evening's." 
 A gentleman is exerting himself vehemently 
 at the piano, so much so, that even his long 
 lock of hair is dancing on his forehead, and 
 the ingenuity with which between the chords 
 he dashes back the intrusive lock, is almost 
 as wonderful, as the sounds his long fingers 
 seem to emit from the keys, — the people 
 are supposed to be listening. 
 
 " And how are you, to night? " asked the 
 handsome man of the lady we have de- 
 scribed. "Oh! wretchedly ill with the 
 most horrible cold ; I positively declare no- 
 tliing but Mrs. Fisher would have brought 
 me out." "Save the desire to wear that 
 most artistic and becoming point." "How 
 like you ! no one else would have ventured 
 such an impertinence," replied the lady, 
 looking up in his face with tlie most gra- 
 cious smile. "A truth then, 1 am sure, or
 
 ONLY. 
 
 m 
 
 you would not call it an impertinence; but," 
 he continued, bending down and speaking 
 in a much lower tone, "it is equally true 
 that it is most becoming; I never saw you 
 look more enchanting." The lady made no 
 reply to this, but stroking the dog, lavished 
 on him a variety of most tender epithets, 
 while her companion continued to gaze on 
 her, but with a smile which it was well, 
 perhaps, she saw not. 
 
 There was a pause, and then the Hon. 
 Herbert Lovell, for so was the gentleman 
 called, said, " Do you really mean to say 
 that you like coming here, Mrs. Fraser?" 
 "Of course I do; to-night is rather a dull 
 night, but usually the rooms are crammed 
 to suffocation, it's delightful." "It must 
 be," replied Lovell, with another peculiar 
 smile, which, Mrs. Fraser unheeding, con- 
 tinued, " Oh ! I would not miss one of dear 
 Mrs. Fisher's evenings for the world; she 
 gets every body, such deliciously clever peo- 
 ple, who positively make one's head ache 
 with their talent, — they talk books to such 
 an extent that one goes home feeling a per- 
 fect fool." " That must be also delightful,"
 
 44 '^ONLY." 
 
 replied her companion; '-and do you feel 
 equally charmed with the music that gen- 
 tleman has been indulging us with J " 
 "Well, to-night I have not been attending, 
 but I have heard some excellent music here 
 I assure you, the very best that is to be 
 heard; oh, you look so incredulous, you 
 quite provoke me, — I hate you in these 
 severe sarcastic moods ; go away to the fur- 
 ther end of the room, and come back when 
 you are good tempered." In the same low 
 tone in which he had before spoken, Lovell 
 replied, "That is too cruel a punishment 
 for the venial offence of finding Mrs. Fish- 
 er's party dull, but perhaps it would serve 
 me right for having selfishly usurped its 
 only attraction;" Avith a slight bow to the 
 lady, "I will go, but to return, as you have 
 given me permission." Again she bent her 
 head down to the dog, and caressed him ; 
 when she looked up, Lovell had moved 
 away to the end of the room, where her 
 bright eyes followed and rested on him. 
 
 "One word with you, dear," exclaimed a 
 voice behind Mrs. Fraser, "I have scarcely 
 spoken to you, love," and turning, she found
 
 ONLY. 
 
 a 
 
 the person addressing her was "dear Mrs. 
 Fisher" herself! "I so feared you would 
 not come, for some one told me you had 
 such a fearful cold." "It is better to-night, 
 and I could not resist coming." " Oh ! that 's 
 so nice of you now, but there 's no one here 
 to-night, that horrid Lady Mudderstone has 
 a ball, — she always manages to have one 
 on my nights, because I don't ask her and 
 her gawky daughters ; and all my best men 
 are gone there ; but come, dear, next Friday, 
 I have several good people coming, and 
 amongst them, whom do you think? Stuart 
 Vernon ! I have been dymg to tell you all 
 about it, but you know I never have a mo- 
 ment, however, he 's suddenly risen up from 
 the grave as it were, and so altered. Oh! 
 my dear, — he 's been to Egypt, and every 
 where, seen such wonders ; they tell me his 
 manners are delightful still, but I must go 
 now and get some one to sing; " and away 
 hurried the busy hostess. 
 
 " Well, you see I have returned," said 
 Lovell, as he lounged back to his place, 
 "and no better pleased with what appears 
 to give you so much satisfaction. Mrs.
 
 46 
 
 Fisher seems to have been entertaining 
 you." '' Oh ! yes, she has been teUing me 
 a long story in the most excited manner, 
 and 1 have not an idea what it is all about ; 
 I suppose I ought to know, tell me, enligfit- 
 en me, do, who is Stuart Vernon?" "Who 
 was Stuart Vernon you mean ! " " Who 
 is, I mean. Mrs. Fisher says something 
 about his coming from Egypt and every- 
 where, and being so altered ; I never heard 
 of the man, am I very ignorant?" " IS'ot 
 at all, the knowledge of his existence is not 
 necessary for the finishing of your educa- 
 tion. I thought he had been dead many 
 years. He married some pretty portionless 
 girl, and in the most uncommon manner 
 ran away from her when he grew tired of 
 his toy. She was extravagant, and got 
 tlirough the large fortune he once possessed, 
 and so he thought it better to go abroad and 
 make another, leaving her to take care of 
 her children as she best could, at least so 
 runs the story. I have no personal know- 
 ledge of him, but the young and handsome 
 Stuart Vernon, some twelve or thirteen 
 years ago, was as well known at the Club:>,
 
 ONLY. 
 
 47 
 
 as Mrs. Murray Fisher at the Opera, but," 
 he continued, " time and absence have done 
 their usual work, and blotted from the 
 minds of his once ardent admirers the gay, 
 handsome and rich Vernon, and now on his 
 return he will only be a nine days' wonder, 
 since, as your friend says, ' he is so alter- 
 ed,' — so much for the friendship of the 
 i world." 
 
 I Ere Mr. Lovell had concluded his speech, 
 a. gentleman who had been pushing his 
 way across the rooms, advanced to Mrs. 
 Fraser and spoke to her ; she turned gaily 
 ; and smilingly towards him, and began an 
 ! animated conversation, blnshing and laugh- 
 ^ing at the repeated compliments he paid 
 iher; Lovell gazed at her for some time, 
 smiled again that same strange smile, and 
 Ithen said "Good night, Mrs. Fraser." — 
 '"Are you going so soon 7" she asked. "I 
 am, I cannot expect your undivided atten- 
 tion, and as I told you, that is my only 
 attraction here, good night;" and bowing, 
 I somewhat stiffly this time, he moved away. 
 iAs he passed the folding doors he tapped a 
 young man on the shoulder, "Good night.
 
 48 
 
 ONLY. 
 
 I 'm going." " Are yon, it 's early, is it 
 not?'' ^' Yes, and dnil." "Why, you 
 seemed very happy just now.'' " Happy !" 
 he answered, contemptuously tossing his 
 head ; " what a pity that very charming 
 woman, with so many nice points in her 
 character, should be such an arrant co- 
 quette." He might have heard a melodi- 
 ous voice at the other end of the room say, 
 '' What a pity that Mr. Lovell should be 
 so censorious and sarcastic, when he has 
 so many fme points in his character." 
 
 Ay, ten thousand pities ! that good hearts 
 and good intellects should go forth into the 
 world in masquerade dresses, which send 
 home those who judge alone by the exte- 
 rior with a sigh for the heartlessness and 
 folly of that higher class, which they ought 
 to and would respect, if they saw them as 
 they really are. Could the Hon. Herbert 
 Lovell have seen the bright coquette with- 
 out that '•' becoming point " in her simple 
 morning dress, talking in the sweetest, 
 gentlest tones of reproof to one of her chil- 
 dren, hear the fine sense, the high princi- 
 ples, she was inculcating, he would have 
 
 I
 
 A9 
 
 blushed, first for her, that she could ever 
 so sully her own pure nature, and then for 
 himself, that he had harbored a thought 
 unworthy of her; and the beautiful Mrs. 
 Fraser, could she have seen the censorious, 
 sarcastic man, talking kindly, cheerfully 
 and condescendingly, to the poor laborers 
 on his estate, not one of whom did not bless 
 him as he passed, would say more warm- 
 ly, more heartily, " what a pity his words 
 should thus belie his heart." But he has 
 left the party and so must we, and take 
 our way to a very different street, and a 
 very different house to the brilliantly light- 
 ed one we are leaving.
 
 50 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 In a worse locality even than the one in 
 which we first found them, and in a closer, 
 dirtier, poorer room, are assembled our old 
 acquaintances, the Rawdons. On a three- 
 legged stool in one corner of the room, sits 
 Martin, pale and thin, his clothes ragged 
 and dirty, coughing occasionally with a 
 hard hollow cough, which makes Ellen, 
 who is seated beside him working by the 
 dim light of a miserable candle, look up 
 anxiously at him and sigh. 
 
 A boy about fourteen is asleep on the 
 floor, covered with a piece of carpet, and 
 in the opposite corner to her husband sits 
 Mrs. Rawdon, her arms folded together, her 
 lips tightly compressed, with a dogged, al- 
 most savage expression on her face ; save 
 the three seats they are using, and the small 
 table at which Ellen is working, no furni- 
 ture is in the room. Their bed is a mat-
 
 m 
 
 trass made up on a trunk with a few thin 
 torn clothes, — a woman up stairs shares 
 her bed with Ellen. There was a stillness 
 in the room, only broken by Martin's 
 cough, and the click of Ellen's needle. A 
 church-clock chimed the quarter to twelve ; 
 Ellen rose and began to put away her work. 
 " Now, Mr. Rawdon," asked his wife, in the 
 harsh tone which time had had no power to 
 soften, "have you yet made /mp your mind 
 about the 'house,' — I can't starve, and I 
 sees no prospect of any thing else." "What 
 say, Nell lass," said Martin, looking up in 
 his daughter's face, with an expression of 
 almost childlike confidence." " There 
 seems to be nothing else for us, father," 
 was the meek reply; "Mrs. Morgan pays 
 me very well for my work, but it can't 
 keep us all." 
 
 "No ' sinivationSj' Miss Ellen, if you 
 please, you've no cause to accuse me of 
 idleness, I've a'most walked my legs off to- 
 day, a trying to find something." "I never 
 so much as thought of such a thing, mo- 
 ther; I know you've tried, we've all tried, 
 but there seems no help for us but in the
 
 52 
 
 Almighty, He alone can help us." " That's 
 the way you and your precious father have 
 preached ever since the trouble fell on us, 
 but the help 's a good Avhile a coming." 
 
 In his weak and hollow voice, so weak 
 and hollow that it sounded like a voice 
 from another world, Martin said, " The 
 help did come, when Heaven took away 
 the little children, when we'd no longer 
 food to give 'em, and left us only those as 
 are big enough to work for themselves and 
 us." Mrs. Rawdon started to her feet as 
 she exclaimed, " Man, do you call that 
 help, which took from me all as was left to 
 comfort me?" and laying her head against 
 the wall, she sobbed, as one would scarcely 
 credit such a being could. Neither Martin 
 nor Ellen spoke again, the latter crept quiet- 
 ly away to bed, poor Martin lay down on 
 the wretched mattrass, and when his wife 
 had sobbed until she was exhausted, she 
 too lay down beside him, and with some- 
 thing more of gentleness than was her 
 wont, said, " Good night, Martin, our bed 
 won't be no harder than this in the Work- 
 'ouse.
 
 si 
 
 And whence had all this misfortune come 
 upon the Rawdons? those will ask who take 
 an interest in our tale. Seldom does mise- 
 ry such as this, fall on those who have not 
 pulled the ruin on themselves, " Idleness, 
 the root of all evil," began the mischief. 
 Martin, while he found that his wife's busi- 
 ness kept the wolf from the door, and his 
 daughter's industry found him in the small 
 comforts which he needed, took no further 
 trouble ; from his boyhood Martin had never 
 liked work, and the disinclination grew of 
 course stronger with age. But when Ellen 
 left her situation and came home, thus not 
 only depriving him of those comforts she 
 had accustomed him to, but adding of course 
 to the expense, Martin began to repent his 
 idle courses, and to wish he could get some- 
 thing to do ; but no further than wishing 
 did Martin go, and dearly as Ellen loved 
 him, she could scarcely wonder at the re- 
 peated angry words levelled at him by his 
 energetic wife. 
 
 Yes, there was no lack' of energy or 
 industry about Mrs. Rawdon, but to be 
 smiled on by what some men call Fate, 
 5*
 
 54 
 
 and others Providence, needs something 
 more than either ; joined to these two great 
 aids to independence there must be, some of 
 those gentler, hoher virtues, without which 
 we are " nothing worth; " meanness, hard 
 deahngs with our fellow-men, harsh words, 
 forgetfulness of our own weakness and 
 wickedness, and of the goodness and power 
 of God, render indeed of " none effect" the 
 good seeds of industry and energy ; and 
 such was the case with Mrs. Rawdon. Her 
 meanness, her hard dealings, her harshness 
 to the poor creatures who came often mad- 
 dened by despair, and the last faint ray of 
 hope extinguished by her sharp denial to 
 give them the paltry sums they demanded, 
 in time had their etfect, — none would come 
 to her, her savageness became a bye-word 
 in the place, and soon total loss of custom 
 obliged her to resign the business. 
 
 Martin had, as we have said, relied on 
 Ellen for money whenever he needed it, and 
 for the tirst time she disappointed him, 
 when little Stuart Vernon omitted to pay 
 her the shilling. "Only'' a shilhng ! El- 
 len thought it was "only" a shilling, and
 
 '' ONLY." 55 
 
 would not ask Master Stuart for it, and that 
 "only" a shilling, could not be of much 
 importance to her father, but he had 
 thought " only " a shilling could not be of 
 much importance to the tobacconist, and 
 owing him one shilling, he had soon owed 
 him two and three and even more, until at 
 length the man grew impatient, and finally 
 angry, when Martin brought him four shil- 
 lings instead of five promised on that day : 
 and a furious outbreak fronj Mrs. Rawdon 
 on the man's repeated applications for his 
 money, put the finishing touch to the busi- 
 ness, and he rested not until he had induced 
 every person in the neighborhood to refuse 
 them credit; — and with a grin of triumph, 
 stood at his shop-door, as the wretched fam- 
 ily passed it on their way to the one room 
 they were now forced to inhabit. 
 
 As misfortunes seldom come single, poor 
 Ellen could obtain no permanent situation, 
 and at length determined to remain at home 
 and endeavor to support the family with 
 her needle. Sickness followed, and laid in 
 the grave the two young children, and this 
 crushed the mother's spirit, and she seemed
 
 56 <'ONLY." 
 
 to sit down doggedly determined to starve. 
 But when starving in truth appeared on the 
 threshold, the gaunt spectre terrified her, 
 and she endeavored to obtain a hving by 
 charing ; but Mrs. Rawdon had been terri- 
 fied, not cured, and still the bad spirit drag- 
 ged her down, and brought them all, to 
 what we have described ; none would sub- 
 mit to her temper, and she was compelled 
 to resign even this feeble etTort towards sub- 
 sistence. 
 
 The wretched family awoke early, as is 
 ever the case when some change awaits us, 
 even for weal or woe, and again when they 
 were all assembled came the oft recurring 
 question, what they were to do. "Well, I 
 propose this," said Ellen; "I've been think- 
 ing how best to manage, and I believe the 
 best to be, that you and father should go in 
 the house, and let me keep on this room a 
 bit, and with what I can get by needlework 
 and Tom can earn, we may soon be able to 
 save a little, and then we can get you out 
 again, and be happy once more ; indeed 
 if I could get a few decent clothes together, 
 I might be able to get a good situation."
 
 "ONLY." 57 
 
 Ere Ellen could receive a reply, a low tap 
 at the door disturbed them ; which on open- 
 ing admitted a very neatly dressed woman, 
 who smiled with an air of recognition on 
 the assembled group. 
 
 "You don't know me, I dare say, but 
 I do you," said the new comer in a very 
 cheerful voice, which sounded somewhat 
 strangely in that room, gloomy with the 
 hopelessness and despair of its inmates; " I 
 look different now, to what I did when I 
 came to you some years ago. I say Mrs. 
 Rawdon, this ain't washed out, is it?" she 
 continued smiling and holding up the bright 
 blue gown she wore, " ah ! well it's no time 
 for joking, nor calling up bygones now, 
 except so far as to make me known to you, 
 — my name is Griffiths, and you and I 
 once disagreed about a little matter of busi- 
 ness, Mrs. Rawdon." There was no need 
 of this additional information, her first ques- 
 tion and the action of holding up the dress, 
 had recalled to Mrs. Rawdon's recollection 
 a fact which had scarcely ever been lulled 
 into forgetfulness. From the moment of 
 her hard and cruel refusal to buy the gown
 
 58 
 
 of a poor creature evidently in the last 
 stage of misery and despair, her sad face, 
 and the heavy sigh she had uttered, had 
 haunted Mrs. Rawdon night and day, and 
 as the woman spoke, a flush of shame cov- 
 ered her pale face, and she could only 
 answer, "I remember." '-Well then," con- 
 tinued Mrs. Griffiths, in the same bright 
 cheerful tone so unlike the feeble one in 
 which she had once addressed her, " I 've a 
 long story to tell." 
 
 Ellen pointed to a seat, and all eagerly 
 listened to her recital. '• After that misera- 
 ble morning when I was so unlucky about 
 my poor gown, I went home to my bit of 
 a place, as miserable a one as this, and 
 sat down on a chair, broken-hearted, to 
 wait patiently for something; Id tried as 
 much as 1 could myself, and it seemed no 
 use trying ; one blessing, I was a widow 
 and childless, I thought it hard when I lost 
 them, for I was very young, but I thought 
 it a mercy then. I'd been often told that 
 God cared for all, but as I sat there starv- 
 ing, I thouglit it must be a mistake, or 
 else that amongst so very many, it was
 
 «•' ONLY." 59 
 
 no wonder I should be forgotten, for 
 what indeed had I done to be remembered? 
 I sat in a sort of stupor there, till I was 
 roused by the woman of the house, who 
 came and asked me if I 'd mind going to 
 nurse a lady who was very ill ; they'd sent 
 for her and she could n't go." 
 
 " Well, I need not tell you how glad I 
 was, nor how I went and got well paid, 
 and was recommended elsewhere, and got 
 on famously ; I often passed your shop, 
 and at last I heard of all your trouble, and 
 made acquaintance with a friend of yours at 
 last," and she glanced at Ellen: "he told 
 me of your daughter's goodness, and of how 
 often she had failed in keeping a situation. 
 I don't know how it was, but I seemed 
 always to be so sorry for you, so sorry you 
 should be brought down to what I was 
 once, and every one said your daughter 
 was so good, and so I determined if I could, 
 I'd get her a situation, and I have, and as 
 soon as she likes she 's to go, and it 's twelve 
 guineas a year, there now ! and I was to 
 give you this letter;" and placing one in 
 Ellen's hand, at which she blushed deeply.
 
 00 "ONLY." 
 
 Mrs. GrifRths drew a long breath, very 
 needful, after the vokible manner in which 
 she had dehvered herself of this oration. 
 
 Ellen uttered a deep and heartfelt " thank 
 you,'" it was all she could say. Martin 
 said "Well, I never," it was all he could 
 say, and that was followed by a violent fit : 
 of coughing; but Mrs. Rawdon said, "I've 
 heard many strange things, but 1 never 
 heard any thing so strange as this, I'm very 
 much obliged to you, and I'm very glad 
 for Ellen's sake, but for us it's no use, 
 we must go where we was going, in the 
 house." '-Xo, no, mother, — father, here, 
 listen, look, read, it 's too much ! " and giv- 
 ing the letter to her father, Ellen, throwing 
 her apron over her face, burst into an hys- 
 terical fit of weeping, while Mrs. Griffiths 
 gazed from one to the other, with a bright 
 look of happiness in her honest face, and a 
 feeling in her heart so glad, that it was 
 cheaply purchased, even by the magnanim- 
 ity with which she had thus returned 
 "good for evil;*' — she knew the contents 
 of that letter which had so excited Ellen, 
 and our readers must not be more ignorant 
 — it ran as follows : ■
 
 @^ 
 
 *'A long time has gone by, Ellen dear, 
 since you said it was better, you thought, 
 to drop all writings, all intimacy. I knew 
 what you meant, and how good your mo- 
 tive was. I 've done all I could to keep out 
 of your way, but yet I've never lost sight 
 of you, and all your patience. My good 
 friend Mrs. Griffiths has fonnd you a situ- 
 ation, and I, dear Ellen, have been so lucky 
 as to find one for your father and mother, 
 if they '11 take it : it 's a gentleman of large 
 property wants a country house taken care 
 of, and kept clean, and will give them some 
 little matter a year, which, with being rent 
 free, will, I hope, be a living. Send me a 
 message by Mrs. Griffiths, and if 'yes,' 
 your father and mother can go directly, 
 for the gentleman will take whoever I re- 
 commend. Your's till death, Joe." 
 
 It is needless to express the happiness, 
 the more than happiness which the Raw- 
 dons felt on their singular and wonderful 
 deliverance. How Martin in the pauses 
 of his cough positively galloped about the 
 room, hugging every body, even Mrs. Grif- 
 
 6
 
 62 ^'ONLY." 
 
 fiths, even (!) his wife, and how Ellen sent 
 such a message to Joe, which is of course 
 no business of ours ; suflice it both situations 
 were accepted, and some poor creatures 
 needing it more, found the refuge in the 
 "house " in place of the Rawdons.
 
 ONLY.' 
 
 63 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " Well, dear Edith," said Mrs. Carys- 
 fort, entering the httle boudoir some days 
 after their arrival, "now to give an ac- 
 count of my party last evening to you. 
 Kate has already heard all the particulars, 
 and by so doing made me thus shame- 
 fully late, refusing to vacate my apartment 
 and permit me to dress till I had related the 
 minutiae of the whole evening." Edith look- 
 ed up from the letter she was perusing, and 
 with a somewhat sad smile, said, "I trust 
 you had a pleasant party." "Very, but I 
 fear I am interrupting you; I should first 
 have demanded if my entrance was an in- 
 trusion on graver matters." "Not at all, 
 dear Mrs. Carysfort, I am glad to have my 
 thoughts diverted," and sighing gently, 
 Edith placed the letter on the table, and 
 rose to give Mrs. Carysfort a chair. — 
 "Thank you, love; well then, to begin at
 
 64 ''ONLY." 
 
 the beginning: "I am in love, with the 
 most charming man^ and do not indulge 
 now for a moment in the romantic idea of 
 eclipsing me, for he is much too old for you. 
 He, too, has taken a fancy to me, I think, 
 for he talked to me all the evening, and 
 such talking, no commonplaces, nothing 
 about the weather, and the opera, but evi- 
 dencing good sound high sense, and the 
 expansive mind of a travelled man, — he 
 seems to have been to Egypt and every- 
 where, but the most provoking part of it is 
 that I could not catch his name ; though 
 every one was begging to be introduced to 
 him, I missed the name each time ; I can 
 assure you the ladies looked quite envious 
 of his long conversation with me. Mrs. 
 Fisher has one more evening, and I must 
 go, if it be only to see my new charming 
 friend." 
 
 Again Edith smiled, and was about to 
 make some reply, when the door opened 
 and admitted Kate. " Have you heard of 
 mamma's conquest, Edith? fancy mamma 
 going out and making conquests, instead 
 of taking me out, to make them ; I never
 
 "ONLY.'' %S 
 
 heard of such a thing, but now you must 
 indulge yourself no longer in conversing 
 about this divinity, for here are butchers, 
 bakers, and candlestick-makers awaiting 
 your ladyship's orders, and ere you go," 
 continued Kate, in a melo-dramatic whisper, 
 "remember this, neither I nor Edith Yer- 
 non like lamb, — so now my sweet precious 
 darling mother, vanish," and gaily push- 
 ing Mrs. Carysfort out of the room, she 
 turned to Edith and said, "you have had 
 a letter from your brother, have you not? 
 tell me all about him, I think he's very 
 handsome, and very nice, for a man at 
 least." "Yes, I have had a letter dear, 
 he's quite well, " continued Edith; "if you 
 will go down and prepare the Italian, I am 
 coming to read vv^ith you in a moment, but 
 I must answer his letter by this post." 
 "That means to say you don't want me, 
 so good bye, Miss." " Forgive me, dear 
 Kate, if I seem blunt, T am so worried," 
 and poor Edith's eyes filled with tears ; in 
 a moment Kate's arms were round her 
 neck, and her warm kisses showered on 
 her face. " Forgive me, you mean, darling 
 " 6*
 
 66 '• ONLY." 
 
 Edith, it's just like my want of tact not to 
 see you did not wish me to stay, instead of 
 making you say so; now I "11 go, and don't 
 think about me or the stupid Italian, we'll 
 have a holiday, won't we, my own sweet 
 precious angel :" and kissing her vehement- 
 ly again, she left the room and poor Edith, 
 to peruse the letter once more, and once 
 more to consider how she was to reply to 
 it. It was as follows : — 
 
 ^' My dear Sister, 
 
 "I dare say you are full of wonder at my 
 long silence, and I must own your daily 
 letter somewhat reproaches me, but there 
 really is nothing I hate so much as writing, 
 when I have nothing to say, — which has 
 positively been the case lately ; you girls 
 can always find something to say, but what 
 can I tell you that can possibly interest 
 you. and now that I have something to tell 
 you, 1 positively don't know how to begin; 
 however, it is not my fault, and so it can't 
 be helped, but the fact is I am going to ask 
 you if you can do without your quarter's
 
 67 
 
 money, for if you can't I really do not 
 know what I'm to do. Somehow or other 
 I 've got into debt about the neighborhood, 
 and yesterday one fellow said he should ap- 
 ply to Mr. Feversham if I didn't pay him; 
 now I am sure neither you nor I could think 
 of asking him for a penny, after his father's 
 generosity, besides I should not exactly wish 
 him to know any thing about it. I had prom- 
 ised to pay this chap last quarter, but I found 
 somehow I 'd only enough left to pay my 
 subscription to the Cricket Club, and that 
 of course I can't give up, as with all the 
 close study I have, exercise is positively 
 necessary. 1 foolishly worried myself about 
 all this, till the good thought occurred to 
 me of drawing all the money for myself 
 this quarter, if you could possibly do wi.th- 
 out it, and then I shall be very nearly clear; 
 and you know, dear, it can't inconvenience 
 you much, for you can draw it all next 
 quarter, it will come exactly to the same 
 thing. Surely if you want a few shillings, 
 the Carysforts might lend them you, — a 
 shilling or two to them can be nothing. 
 Remember me to them, particularly to pret-
 
 68 
 
 ty little Kate. Enjoy yourself very much, 
 and believe me your affectionate brother. 
 
 S. V. 
 " Pray write by return to say, yes. " 
 
 The dark " coming events " had too 
 truly '-cast their shadows before"' Mrs. 
 Vernon, when she had mourned the '-dan- 
 gerous disposition of the boy she must leave 
 with a very small fortune, and a young 
 sister to take care of." 
 
 "Oh ! Stuart, Stuart," said Edith, throw- 
 ing the letter down ! " how could you be so 
 thoughtless," and again the painful contrast 
 between her love and his was forced upon 
 her. " Could I thus coolly have asked 
 Inm for his little pittance? — but it is only 
 thoughtlessness, he does love me, and if he 
 thought or believed I should go without 
 even a pair of gloves, he would not ask it ; 
 I know, of course, he must have the money, 
 but how shall I be fulfilling dear Mr. Fever- 
 sham's commands, what shall I do 7 " and 
 she drew from her desk a paper worn with 
 reading, and half aloud repeated its con- 
 tents; "I would have you always mindful
 
 69 
 
 of the many opportunities, even the hum- 
 blest amongst us may find of doing good to 
 one another; your income is small, and the 
 use you make of it must of course be pro- 
 portionate. 
 
 " That word 'only,' against which I have 
 so often warned you, is dangerous when 
 abused, but when rightfully applied you 
 will find It very useful. Remember, for 
 instance, how the small sum of a shilling, 
 given to some poor worthy being, will bene- 
 fit him, how much he can buy, how many 
 of his humble wants he can satisfy with 
 'only' a shilling, and when tempted with 
 some frivolity to expend this small sum, 
 remember if you can spare it at all, it is better 
 it should buy you a poor man's blessing." 
 " Dear old man, and how am I to act as 
 these his last wishes dictate, if I yield every 
 farthing to my brother ? and yet that is my 
 duty too, very nearly clear, though even 
 when I have made this sacrifice, what 
 shall I do with no one to advise me? for I 
 caimot tell a story so much against my 
 brother, puzzled as I am, unadvised, alone; 
 I have but one course to pursue, he must 
 have what he asks."
 
 70 "OxNLY." 
 
 Her letter was soon written, her heart 
 was too full for more than the simple words, 
 " all that I have to give is yours, I wusi 
 learn to do without." And she did try to 
 learn, but it was a hard lesson, young as 
 she was, to exercise such incessant self-con- 
 trol and self-denial; and moreover to incur 
 the suspicion of an extravagance, which 
 had left her without sixpence, was very 
 hard ; hard to be left at home, when her 
 friends went to some place of amusement, 
 rather than incur the painful acknowledg- 
 ment that she had.no money; but harder 
 still to one brought up as she had been, to 
 be compelled to deny to the sick and suffer- 
 ing, the trifling aid she had hitherto afforded 
 them. And Stuart, how did he appreci- 
 ate his sister's sacrifice? He would have 
 laughed at the person calling it by so grand 
 a name. 
 
 Edith did him justice so far, when she 
 said he never dreamt that she would have 
 a pair of gloves the less; he never tliought 
 about it at all, he only knew he wanted 
 money, and that she alone could and would 
 supply it. He was seated at the study
 
 " ONLY." 71 
 
 table, deep in his Virgil apparently, but his 
 thoughts were not so classically employed; 
 instead of gentle shepherds, and gods and 
 goddesses, tailors and bootmakers with aw- 
 ful bills, filled his imagination ; when his 
 sister's brief epistle was placed in his hands. 
 *'0h! come, that's capital" he said, stuf- 
 fing the letter in his pocket, "to-morrow 
 I'll draw it, and then I can pay nearly 
 every body ; now I shall enjoy my trip with 
 Mr. Feversham. Oh ! here you are. Sir," 
 he said, as Mr. Feversham entered the 
 room, "I am quite ready to go with you, 
 whenever you like. I 'm not at all in a 
 studying humor, and with your permission 
 I'll write my exercises in the evening." 
 "Very well, yes, if you prefer it, then we 
 will go at once, for it 's a long way ; will 
 you like to ride or drive ? " 
 
 " Oh ! ride, Sir, if you please. May I 
 take Lara?" "Yes, if he's not too much 
 for you ; remember it is a long way." 
 " Oh ! I 'm not afraid of that. Sir." " Ring 
 then, my boy, and we '11 order the horses 
 round. " 
 
 The bell was rung, the horses ordered,
 
 72 "only."' 
 
 and they started on their journey, — its pur- 
 port to look over a house for a friend of Mr. 
 Feversham's, at the httle village of Carys- 
 foot, some nine miles distant. It was a 
 glorious day for a ride, rain had fallen in 
 the night sutticient to lay tlie dust, and 
 make the roads brown, and the leaves and 
 grass a fresher, brighter green. A few light 
 feathery clouds were scudding over the blue 
 sky, as though they were bound on some 
 scheme of pleasure themselves, a light 
 breeze stirred the trees softly, and swept 
 over the cornfields, bending the heavy ears 
 of wheat, and gently shaking the graceful 
 barley. Part of their way lie through a 
 wood, and over the moss-grown path they 
 gently led their horses, enjoying its refresh- 
 ing coolness, after the hot road. The still- 
 ness round was pleasingly disturbed by the 
 chorus of birds: myriads of tiny blue but- 
 terflies flitted about, and here and there on 
 some shrub, with its exquisitely painted 
 wings expanded, lay one of a larger kind, 
 like some rich blossom clustered amongst 
 the leaves. From amidst the fern and 
 brushwood a hare would now and then
 
 " ONLY." 73 
 
 dart forth, and disappear, and a squirrel 
 fly up a tree for refuge, startled by the 
 movements of the party. Hidden by the 
 thick treees, but betrayed by their glad 
 voices, children were seeking wild straw- 
 berries, and some old wood-cutter, seated 
 on the tree he had felled, is eating his din- 
 ner from the blue cotton handkerchief in 
 which it had been carried, with a tin mug 
 of beer beside him ; these were all the traces 
 of human beings they met with in the still 
 wood, to tell them, they alone were not the 
 tenants of the bright and beautiful world. 
 
 They had ridden on in gay and cheerful 
 conversation, scarcely noticing the time, and 
 arrived at length at the house. An avenue 
 I of fine chestnuts formed the approach, enter- 
 ed by old-fashioned iron gates, the coronet 
 ' and initials of the first owner surmounting 
 ! them. One wing of the house could be 
 , partially seen through the trees, and be- 
 yond, a sloping lawn, gay with parterres of 
 i flowers, terminated by an invisible fence, 
 jand two large cedar trees forming a frame 
 'to the view of a champagne coimtry in the 
 distance ; a large board inside the gates an- 
 nounces " To let, this fine freehold property, 
 7
 
 74 ''only.' 
 
 with several acres of land, conservatories, 
 hot-houses, grapery, excellent twelve-stall 
 stable, coach-house, etc. For further partic- 
 ulars, inqmre of Messrs. J. 6c H. Robertson, 
 House Agents, High Street, Caryslbut."' 
 
 They rang the bell at the pretty pictur- 
 esque lodge, beneath the porch of which sat 
 an old dame, while a thrush in its wicker 
 cage seemed singing her to sleep, and the 
 summons was answered by a younger wo- 
 man, and two or three dogs, who ran out 
 barking violently at the strangers. " To see 
 the house, — oh ! yes, Sir, certainly, down 
 Nettle, be quiet Cora, the dogs is quite good 
 tempered, but they do make a rare noise at 
 strangers. Sir. Step in if you please, he 
 down Frisk, where "s the whip; gentlemen 
 to see the house, mother,"' she continued in 
 a much louder key to the old woman ; 
 " will you go up with them J '' '• Aye, aye, 
 I suppose 1 must,'' she answered in a some- 
 what querulous tone, and taking up a stick 
 which stood in the corner, she led the way 
 through the avenue, followed by Stuart 
 and Mr. Feversham ; arrived at the house 
 she pulled the bell at the front door, and 
 muttering " there's people inside as will
 
 40 
 
 show you over it," turned round and walk- 
 ed away, " What a glorious place, Sir, is 
 it not ? " asked Stuart, as they stood wait- 
 ing to be admitted. The door was plate 
 glass, and through it could be seen a hall of 
 tesselated pavement, and a marble staircase 
 with gilt balustrades. " Yes, too fine a 
 place for my friend, I think; the rent must 
 be enormous.'*' A tall woman, with a some- 
 what crabbed expression of countenance, 
 but looking extremely neat and clean, now 
 opened the door, and they entered. "Can 
 we see the house '? " asked Mr. Feversham. 
 " Yes, Sir, there's some gentry looking over 
 it now, but I suppose that 's no odds to 
 you?" the woman said. "Oh! no," he 
 answered. " This way then, Sir," and fol- 
 lowing their guide they went through the 
 suites of rooms, and finally into the grounds. 
 A man looking thin and ill, and with a vio- 
 lent cough, was making somewhat feeble 
 efforts towards clearing one of the paths 
 from weeds and dead leaves. "Move your 
 barrow out of the way, Martin," called the 
 woman in no gentle tones. The man, with- 
 out looking up, did as he was ordered, say- 
 ing, " I say though that'aint quite the right
 
 sort of voice according to the 'greement.'' — 
 '•Gentlemea to see the house, Martin,'' 
 idle rephed, with emphasis. The man did 
 look up this time, and touching his cap, 
 moved out of the way, " 1 beg pardon, gen- 
 tlemen, — thought you was alone, my dear." 
 '•You don't seem weU, my good man,"' said 
 Mr. Feversham kindly. •' Well Sir, I'm as 
 well as I shall ever be, I expect, and that's 
 better than 1 have been ; we 'aint been here 
 long, but already I feel fresh air suits my 
 complaint better than London smoke." 
 
 "No doubt you will grow stronger each 
 day, I hope, — your wife, I presume." '■ Yes, 
 Sir, she has that honor," answered the man, 
 with a comic smile, which lighted up his 
 sickly face for a moment. '-I spoke to her 
 just now, thinking she was alone, about 
 a "greement we "ve made."'" '•indeed.*'" an- 
 swered Mr. Feversham. "It must be a 
 very agreeable duty, the care of this place, 
 so very beautiful as it is ; you will be sorry 
 when it's let, I should think."' "Why, 
 yes. Sir, we shall, we find ourselves very 
 comtbrtable now, — which is a change to 
 what we was. Ours is a strange history. 
 Sir, if you knowd it all you'd say so, and
 
 ^'ONLY." 7T 
 
 we 're a finishirig it up in a strange way. 
 We begun life together under a mistake, 
 both of us with a bad habit; mine was a 
 way I 'd got of doing nothing, which don't 
 improve a man's condition, and hers a 
 sharpish way of speaking, which don't im- 
 prove a man's temper; and we rubbed on 
 very rusty hke, but just as things got very 
 bad indeed, a wonderful piece of good for- 
 tune came to us. and so we settled between 
 us to prove our thankfulness by trying to 
 break ourselves of these habits; and we 
 made this 'greement together, that I was to 
 begin to work, and she to leave oif being 
 cross, and if I grew lazy she was to grow 
 cross and wise werse, and you'd be surpris- 
 ed what a good effect it has; we've been 
 here this week, and I don't think my old 
 woman's been cross more than once or 
 twice; have you, Doll?" 
 
 "Hush! how you go on, Martin," an- 
 swered Mrs. Rawdon, whom my readers 
 must by this time have recognized; "talk- 
 ing so to gentlefolks." " Don't reprove him, 
 I am accustomed to talk to persons in your 
 condition ; I am a clergyman." Martin 
 raised his carp; "I am somewhat of a doc-
 
 78 
 
 tor, too," continued Mr. Feversham, '-and 
 I will send you something to cure your 
 troublesome cough ; I approve highly of 
 your contract, and wish you resolution to 
 keep it. Why, what has become of my 
 young friend?*' he said, turning and find- 
 ing Stuart was not beside him. '• He stroll- 
 ed on. Sir, whilst you was speaking; I dare 
 say he 's gone to the grapery." " Then we 
 will follow him ; good morning, my friend, 
 I will not forget the remedy." Martin 
 bowed and thanked him, and Mr. Fever- 
 sham pursued his way to the grapery, but 
 still he did not meet with Stuart. A^oices 
 and laughing were heard at some distance. 
 " Can Stuart have found an acquaintance 7 " 
 lie half exclaimed. •' That 's the other peo- 
 ple looking over the house," said Mrs. Raw- 
 don, answering, " they 're just a-going down 
 by the lake to see the swans ; there 's very 
 good fishing there, they say." 
 
 "Hark! what was that, a scream .^ " 
 "jXo, Sir, nothing, only the ladies laugh- 
 ing." "That was no laugh. Hark! anoth- 
 er; something must be the matter, some 
 accident, — the water, — run." Shriek suc- 
 ceeded shriek, and men's voices called for 
 
 1
 
 help; there was a noise of people running, 
 and then, — no sound. Breathlessly Mr. 
 Feversham and Mrs. Rawdon neared the 
 spot. Two fashionably dressed women 
 were standing holding one another's hands, 
 one looking deadly pale, the other weeping 
 with terror. A gentleman was lifting from 
 the arms of a much older man the lifeless 
 form of a young lad; both were dripping 
 wet. As he drew nearer, Mr. Feversham 
 with horror recognized in the senseless form 
 before him, his young charge. His agitated 
 queries, how the accident happened, as is 
 usual, no one could satisfy ; they only knew 
 they were all laughing and talking, and 
 throwing bread to the swans, when one of 
 the gentlemen suddenly exclaimed, " there 's 
 a boy in the water," and plunged in to his 
 assistance. 
 
 He was conveyed to the house by some 
 gardeners who had come at the cry for help, 
 and placed on the Rawdons' bed, while med- 
 ical aid was sought for; and in the deepest 
 anxiety Mr. Feversham watched beside him, 
 exerting every ingenuity to restore anima- 
 tion. By the time the doctor arrived, he 
 opened his eyes, but he seemed still uncon-
 
 so ''ONLY." 
 
 scions of all around him, and it was deemed 
 of conrse impossible to move him. While 
 the medical man remained with him, Mr. 
 Feversham went to find his kind preserver, 
 bnt the party were gone, thinking it advisa- 
 ble that their friend shonld be put immedi- 
 ately into a warm bed in the nin ; he had 
 left word, "that he should come and see 
 the boy in the morning.*' Mr. Feversham, 
 therefore, wrote a note to express his warm 
 acknowledgments for the service he had 
 rendered to his pupil, Mr. Yernon. hoping 
 to thank him in person on the following 
 day, and dispatched a man on his own 
 horse, home, to announce the accident, and 
 the necessity for his absence, and then re- 
 turned to the bedside of the poor boy. 
 
 A wretched night followed, fever set in, 
 as the doctor apprehended ; and Mr. Fever- 
 sham could not account for the extraordina- 
 ry manner in which during his delirium 
 Stuart raved about money and bills; in the 
 morning he fell asleep, and quite early came 
 the gentleman who had saved his life, anx- 
 iously demanding to see the boy. Mr. Fe- 
 versham came out to speak to him ; he was 
 a tall thin man, with a sallow complexion,
 
 ONLY. 
 
 81 
 
 and a somewhat foreign appearance; there 
 was evidence that in his yonth he had been 
 handsome, but there was now a strange 
 expression in his face, which marred the 
 beauty of his features. A long conversa- 
 tion ensued, and in an hour Mr. Feversham, 
 mounted on Lara, was on his way home, 
 and die stranger was seated beside the in- 
 vahd, with his eyes riveted on his pale and 
 haggard face. 
 
 The bright glowing sun of a warm August 
 day is gladdening, with the glorious beauty 
 of its parting glances, the dim sight of the 
 convalescent, who is seated on a beautiful 
 lawn, in an arm-chair, propped up by pil- 
 lows, his feet supported by an ottoman, and 
 covered with a shawl; on one side of him 
 is a young and interesting woman, and on 
 the other, the preserver of his life, the pa- 
 tient watcher by his sick bed. 
 
 "Ellen,'' he said, "I think you may go 
 now ; we will call you when he wishes to 
 return to the house. I thmk he quite en- 
 joys the air, do you not, Vernon?'"' "Yes, 
 Sir, very much,"' answered Stuart, as he 
 languidly turned his head to watch Ellen's 
 retreating footsteps. " How strange I should
 
 82 
 
 fall ill here, where I can have my nurse, 
 poor Ellen Rawdon, to take care of me 
 again.'' 
 
 '•Yes, very strange, but truth is ever 
 stranger than fiction ; and to amuse you 
 while we are here enjoying this delicious 
 evening, I will tell you a true tale, which 
 is stranger perhaps than aught you ever 
 dreamt of in your philosophy, shall 17" 
 
 " Yes, Sir, if you please, I am still enough 
 of a baby to enjoy a story much." " Well, 
 then," began his new friend, "there was 
 once a young, ardent, enthusiastic boy, like 
 you, who was the only child of his mother, 
 and she was a widow ; idolized and spoilt 
 the boy was. as only children always are; 
 his mother was rich, and no whim of h.er 
 darling child remained ungratified. He 
 grew to be a man, his mother died, and he 
 was left rich, and the world said handsome, 
 to be fawned on, and tlattered, and spoilt 
 by that world m his riper years, as his mo- 
 ther had spoilt him in his youth." 
 
 He paused for an instant, and then, in 
 slower and somewhat tremulous accents, 
 continued: "He had always liked gaiety 
 and dissipation, and now, unchecked, he
 
 pursued his course; at length he loved, 
 loved with that mad impetuosity which 
 marked his every act : the girl was beauti- 
 ful, very beautiful, and he loved her, he did 
 love her, Stuart, remember I say he did, 
 and let no one persuade you he did not." 
 Stuart looked up amazed : the look recalled 
 the speaker to himself, and he said, smiling, 
 "forgive me, how foolish I am; this story 
 always excites me, I have had angry argu- 
 ments about it ; suffice it, they married." 
 "And they were happy, Sir?" asked Stu- 
 art. "The world thought them so, how 
 could they think them otherwise ; the man 
 was wealthy and handsome, all that the 
 world values was his ; how could they 
 dream that she was wretched ] how know 
 the hourly vexations to which he exposed 
 her] She was gentle, too gentle, and never 
 attempted to thwart his idle follies, or check 
 his mad imprudence. Oh ! had she done 
 so, he would have yielded, for he did love 
 her, — he did love her ; he was weak, not 
 wicked, his money was not spent in large 
 sums, but wasted in trifles; that wretched 
 word ' only ' was his ruin : years passed 
 on, tedious years to her, two helpless chil-
 
 84 ''only." 
 
 dren claimed her care, and still he went on 
 with his reckless folly, squandering wanton- 
 ly the money Heaven had endowed him 
 with for higher purposes; at length the 
 gentle, uncomplaining wife grew sick and 
 ill, and there were no means to meet the in- 
 creasing expenses. 
 
 "What think you this man did] — this 
 man. who would have shot another who 
 had called him coward, feared to meet the 
 world poor and bankrupt, feared to see the 
 wreck that he himself had made, left his 
 wife and children helpless and penniless, to 
 that cold world 's mercy, and fled to hide 
 his shame, and seek his fortune in another 
 land. Oh ! there was deeper shame in 
 that."' "Well, I don't think so, Sir. poor 
 man, if he 'd unfortunately spent his money, 
 he could not do better than go and make 
 some more.'' "Do not tell me that you 
 really think so," said his friend, sternly, 
 that you, a warm-hearted, innocent boy, 
 can justify the cold, selfish policy of that 
 man, who Mi his wife and children to 
 starve, when his own wicked extravagance 
 had brought them to such a pass ; do not 
 tell me so, you do not know what you say :
 
 85'. 
 
 but the end, the end is the strange part of 
 which I spoke. This man," — 
 
 "Sir, 1 beg your pardon," said Ellen, as 
 she hurried across the lawn to them, "but 
 if you are equal to it, Mr. Vernon, your sis- 
 ter is here and would like to see youl" 
 His companion started to his feet, and grasp- 
 ing the back of his chair, grew deadly pale ; 
 but Stuart heeded him not, he was too 
 much excited at the thought of seeing his 
 sister, to note any thing else, and bade Ellen 
 bring her directly, and in another moment, 
 Edith was kneeling by his side, with his 
 hands fast clasped in hers, and with swim- 
 ming eyes gazing in his face. How glad 
 she was to see him, and yet so pained to 
 see him ill ; how she kissed the hands she 
 held so closely, lavishing on him words of 
 atfection, and sometimes gentle reproaches, 
 that she had not been sent for before; then 
 stopping his mouth with kisses, that he 
 might not talk and fatigue himself, and 
 then, during a long pause, gazing earnestly 
 and sadly m his pale face; — and he was 
 glad to see her too, though with his glad- 
 ness there was mingled a little shame; he 
 could not forget his last request to her, — 
 8
 
 80 
 
 illness had brought with it its attendant 
 good,' reflection, — but she remembered no- 
 thing but that his life was spared, and she 
 again beside him. 
 
 For a few moments they forgot they were 
 not alone, — they knew not how keenly they 
 were watched. With his hands grasping 
 the chair, stood that tall, pale man, paler 
 much than usual, his eyes riveted on the 
 kneeling figure before him, his chest heav- 
 ing, and his lip trembling with some hidden 
 emotion. 
 
 Suddenly Stuart said, '•' Edith, how re- 
 miss I am, I ought to bid you thank this 
 gentleman for pulling me out of the water, 
 and nursing me wuh the greatest kind- 
 ness ever since ; thank him, dear." Edith 
 sprung from the ground, and raising her 
 beautiful eyes to the pale face before her, 
 said, •' I cannot, I have no words! but he 
 ^vill not doubt my gratitude, my eternal 
 gratitude, — will you?" and she held out 
 her little hand to him. He took it eagerly, 
 and pressed it so fervently to his lips, that 
 she blushingly withdrew it, and turned 
 again to her brother. " Ah ! Edith, indeed 
 1 know not how we are to thank Mr. Mor-
 
 '•ONLY." &f 
 
 ley enough ; I 'm sure you M have had no 
 brother but for him: I've no more idea of 
 swimming than a stone, I must have gone 
 to the bottom." But how came you to fall 
 in, dear ? " " Why, like a goose, I tried to 
 pull a little boat into shore, it escaped my 
 grasp, my foot slipped at the same time, and 
 in I rolled ; but he really has been so kind, 
 though, — he's gone," he continued, as 
 Edith'looked round; "don't you see him 
 ■walking away there; he's such an odd fel- 
 low, so moody and absent at times, but so 
 kind to ^me, quite affectionate ; then he 's 
 very clever and amusing, he 's travelled a 
 great deal, and he's quite a book: but I 
 say, my dear girl, now we're alone, about 
 my abominable bills, what on earth am I to 
 do] 1 suppose your half the money has 
 been sent, as my ducking prevented me 
 writing about the other arrangement." — 
 " Yes, dear, but I have not spent a farthing 
 of it." "Oh, you little angel, — have you 
 got any with you now?" "Yes, a little." 
 " Well, I suppose Mr. Feversham will bring 
 mine next time he comes, but in the mean 
 while I don't know what I 'm to do. I shall 
 have to give these people money for their
 
 88 
 
 trouble, but I won't have yours, not a far- 
 thing. I think my accident was providen- 
 tial, it prevented my taking that money, 
 I 've learnt since my illness to see how sel- 
 fish it was, and I won't do it." "Oh! 
 Stuart, don't say so, dear, how are your 
 debts to be paid 7 " " Well, I don't know, 
 I'm sure, never mind, it makes my head 
 ache to think of them, let's talk of some- 
 thing else; they won't hurt if I never pay 
 them, and I'm sure it's better than taking 
 your money. Why, after all, the heaviest 
 debt I have is ' only ' ten pounds, and 
 what's ten pounds to old Milman? why 
 he 's driving an immense business, and 
 would not miss three times as much; then 
 there's Debbett, well, I owe him five or six, 
 and he won't hurt; Johnson worries me 
 most, because he's a poor devil, and I do 
 believe wants every farthing; but if the 
 others don't send and plague me I shall be 
 able to strike him off." 
 
 " But how have you managed to get in 
 such debt, my dear Stuart, what have you 
 bought J " '• Well, that "s the worst of it, I 
 don't know; the fact is, it's that abominable 
 liabit the trades-people have of giving cred-
 
 ''ONLY." gf 
 
 it; many a time I should have gone without 
 things if I had had to pay for them ready 
 money; and then having a bill, one is sure 
 to buy the dearest thing, as 'only' a shil- 
 ling more seems nothing when one does not 
 see the change : but pray do not let us talk 
 any more about it, for it's made me feel 
 quite faint, I declare. Call Ellen, dear, I 
 think I must go in and lie down." Gently, 
 Ellen, and Edith helped him towards the 
 house. They were met by Mr. Morley, who, 
 looking anxiously at Stuart's pale face, mo- 
 tioned Ellen away, and gave his stronger 
 support to the now almost fainting boy; 
 and when they reached the house he took 
 him tenderly in his arms, and carried him 
 to his couch, nor left him till the returning 
 tinge of color assured him he was recovered. 
 He then walked out thoughtfully on the 
 lawn, and drawing some papers from his 
 pocket, he selected from them a crumpled 
 letter, and opening it, looked at it long and 
 carefully ; its words were very few, simply : 
 " All I have to give is yours, I must learn to 
 do without. Your atlectionate sister, Edith 
 Vernon." " A good lesson to learn, my 
 gentle child," he said, " but by the help ot 
 8*
 
 90 '^ONLY." 
 
 Heaven, you shall never have to practise it. 
 'All 1 have is yours, I must learn to do 
 without.' Marian, oh ! Marian ! this is too 
 much like you, this yielding, loving, gentle 
 nature, which has no strength, no courage 
 to rebuke the beings that it loves, or refuse 
 aught they ask, though the demand be 
 fraught with evil to themselves and others. 
 This must be cured, — and with him, too, 
 there is much to eradicate, that dreadful 
 recklessness, that want of thought for others 
 which bears a semblance of selfishness. 
 Oh ! Stuart, you are too much your father's 
 mirror ; in another week I should think 
 he might be moved home to Mr. Fever- 
 sham's ; then must the trial commence." 
 
 During this time Stuart had fallen into a 
 light sleep, and as Ellen and Edith sat be- 
 side him, they conversed softly together, for 
 Edith rejoiced in the opportunity of talking 
 with one, who knew and loved that dear 
 mother, still so fondly remembered ; and 
 many an anecdote of her childhood had El- 
 len to tell her, and of her mother's gentle 
 affection. '• And now, Ellen, tell me about 
 yourself, — I have a grateful recollection of 
 your kindness to me as a child, and always
 
 w 
 
 shall be interested in you. I have also a 
 dreamy idea that we used to meet some one 
 in our walks, whom you used to be very 
 pleased to see, but whom I disliked much, 
 because when you met him, all my ques- 
 tions were unheeded and unanswered." 
 
 Ellen blushed deeply, and said: -'Joe, 
 Miss, I dare say, we're going to be married 
 in a week." " Indeed ! to that very person; 
 you have been very constant to one an- 
 other." Joe is very good. Miss. He was 
 very bad off when I lived with you, and 
 I was trying to save money against we 
 should ever come together; but leaving so 
 sudden, and father's getting into trouble 
 being such a pull-back, and afterwards 
 being so unfortunate in getting a place, 
 I told Joe not to think about me any more; 
 and we did not see nothing of one another 
 for years, and when the trouble grew so 
 heavy, that there seemed nothing for us 
 but the workhouse, Joe wrote and said 
 he 'd got a place for father and mother, and 
 one for me, at least a friend of his had ; 
 and when we all came down here, (which 
 was the situation he 'd got for father and 
 mother,) to look after this place, — when
 
 92 "ONLY." 
 
 we came down, we found Joe here to meet 
 us, and we got talking, and he said he was 
 just the same mind as ever, if I was ; and 
 so 1 'm going to be married instead of going 
 to service, Miss." " A very pleasant ex- 
 change, Ellen, 1 think ; I hope you will be 
 happy, for 1 am sure you deserve to be, but 
 do you know 1 really must go, for Miss 
 Carysfort is alone at home, and her mamma 
 will not like that ? Tell dear Stuart, when he 
 wakes, 1 was obliged to go, and that 1 shall 
 drive over again to-morrow: " and pressing 
 a gentle kiss on the brow of her sleeping 
 brother, she slipped some money into El- 
 len's hand, and ere she had time to refuse 
 it, or to thank her, hurried away to the lit- 
 tle pony phaeton waiting to receive her, and 
 found herself at home before she deemed it 
 possible, so had her thoughts been occupied. 
 Kate flew out to meet her. " How is he 7 
 how is your poor brother?" "Oh! he's 
 much better, thank you, dear, I stole away 
 while he slept, knowing you were alone; so 
 as I have had so short a time with him to- 
 day, I shall trespass on the pony phaeton 
 and the good oflices of Stamford to-morrow." 
 "Certainly, dear, and now tell me, are you 
 
 \
 
 "ONLY." 93 
 
 in love with his preserver? Of course you 
 are, I shall hate you if you're not, — be- 
 cause you '11 spoil the sweetest romance." 
 " No, dear, I am not." " But he 's in love 
 with you, that will do as well." "Neither 
 one nor the other ; he 's a charming person, 
 though, and I have a great deal to tell you 
 of all sorts ; so come with me into my room, 
 wiiile I take off my things, and I will aston- 
 ish you with an unparalleled tale of man's 
 faith and woman's constancy." 
 
 "Delightful, — the latter I shall most 
 readily believe. I have had a long letter 
 from mamma," she continued, as throwing 
 her arm round her friend's waist, they pro- 
 ceeded up stairs; "and she says she shall 
 be home on Monday ; she is dying to know 
 how we got down, but says she feels tolera- 
 bly sure of our safety, under the protection 
 of dear old hideous Briggs ; for she is quite 
 certain the sight of her was enough to scare 
 any intruders." 
 
 They now entered Edith's little sanctu- 
 ary, and we will leave them there, nor ven- 
 ture to intrude; but taking the liberty of 
 hurrying old Time's steady paces, pass over 
 a week, and the dawn of another will find
 
 94 ''ONLY." 
 
 Stuart back in the Rectory, Mrs. Carysfort 
 returned, and Ellen Rawdon, the happy 
 bride of her long loved " Joe." 
 
 With returning health the buoyant spirits 
 of youth have returned to Stuart too, and he 
 is laughing gaily with Kate Carysfort, who, 
 with his sister, are in the pretty library at 
 the Rectory. Mr. Feversham is writing, or 
 trying to do so, repeatedly raising his eyes 
 to the really pretty group before him, though 
 they are most frequently fixed on one of the 
 group, the graceful, affectionate sister, who, 
 seated at her brother's feet, her favorite 
 position, looks anxiously in his still pale 
 but excited face, and continually checks the 
 somewhat boisterous mirth of her joyous 
 companion. Kate is pretending to arrange 
 some flowers in a vase, from a large basket 
 she holds on her arm, but many more serve 
 to pelt Stuart than to adorn the vase ; of 
 course he throws them back again, and the 
 war continues. At length a moss rose is 
 thrown at him, and holding it up, he says, 
 " Do you know what this means, Miss 
 Kate? 1 shall keep this." "No, I don't 
 iniderstand such folly, a rose means a rose, 
 I suppose ; you are quite welcome to keep
 
 95 
 
 it, and put it in your waistcoat pocket when 
 it 's dead, and let it go to a number of wash- 
 ings, as all you foohsh boys do, making the 
 poor girls imagine you value and preserve 
 the rubbish they give you, — I know you 
 all better.'' 
 
 The sound of voices approaching the 
 house stopped the games for a moment, and 
 the door opening, admitted Mrs. Carysfort 
 and Mr. Morley. 
 
 After the usual salutations, Mrs. Carysfort 
 said, " Mr. Morley and I are old acquaint- 
 ances, — the gentleman whom I told you I 
 met at Mrs. Murray Fisher's." "Indeed! 
 mamma, " answered Kate, with some em- 
 phasis, and whispering to Edith, she said, 
 " he's decidedly too old for romance." Be- 
 fore Edith could reply, Mr. Feversham beg- 
 ged the ladies would accompany him to the 
 drawing-room, as Mr. Morley had come on 
 business to Stuart. 
 
 Poor Stuart changed color; business to 
 him had an awful sound; and when he 
 found himself alone with Mr. Morley, he 
 could not meet the eyes he felt were fixed 
 upon him. 
 
 At length Mr. Morley said, "You must
 
 96 
 
 excuse all, which to you may seem imper- 
 tinent in what I am going to say. I have a 
 purpose, an important purpose in view, 
 and I must forget all else. You have a 
 small income I believe from the late Mr. 
 Feversham ? " "Yes, Sir, a very small 
 income,'' answered Stuart. "Your sis- 
 ter has the same exactly?" "Exactly, 
 Sir." "' You are enabled to save some- 
 thing each year out of it?" "I have not 
 as yet, Sir." "You tind it impossible?" 
 " Yes, Sir." " Your sister has less occasion 
 to spend than you ; she might, perhaps, do 
 with a smaller sum, girls are not so expen- 
 sive as boys: I think the income should not 
 have been equally divided, do you I " " No, 
 Sir, I don't think that at all; I think, on the 
 contrary, Edith should have more, much 
 more than I, she makes a better use of it." 
 There was a slight movement on the part 
 of his interrogator, and a pause; h6 then 
 continued, " I won"t deceive you, I know 
 your position well, you are in debt, very 
 much in debt, and your creditors are becom- 
 ing impatient; these debts must be paid. 
 
 " What think you of asking your sister 
 to give up her income for this year to you,
 
 97 
 
 and going into a situation as governess, to 
 earn a little money for herself? you know 
 some sacrifice must be made." Stuart's 
 face grew scarlet. "Some sacrifice, yes, 
 Sir, but my sister shall not be the victim 
 my good, affectionate, unselfish sister : how 
 can you suggest any thing so cruel, so un- 
 manly, to me?" " It is a painful position, 
 I know, but, young man, as your heedless- 
 ness has placed you in it, you must at some 
 expense to your own feelings escape from 
 it." " True, Sir, any expense to my own, 
 I am willing to bear, for 1 know quite well 
 I do deserve it; but not to my sisters." 
 " What, then, is to be done, — in my pocket 
 I have a letter, which will, I think, some- 
 what shake your resolution." "I am afraid 
 of no threats, Sir, I deserve to suffer, and I 
 must." "They are not threats, it is a sup- 
 plicating prayer from a heart-broken, ruined 
 man for money, for his starving children 
 and his dying wife." "Oh! Sir, the few 
 pounds I owe could ruin no one." " Your 
 debt is the drop which has made the cup 
 o'erflow: the letter is to you, opened by me 
 at the urgent request of the bearer, when 
 you were too ill to attend to it : two or three
 
 OS 
 
 other strong applications came also, and I 
 paid them all. It is awkward to urge my 
 claim ; bin if you object to the plan 1 named, 
 may 1 apply to Mr. Feversham?" "Oh! 
 no, no, r beseech you not, — by his father's 
 generosity we are preserved from positive 
 beggary; I cannot ask him. Orphans as 
 we were, without friends, without a home, 
 he found us home and means ; what would 
 liave become of us, of my young sister, but 
 for him V 
 
 Mr. iMorley sprung from his seat. 
 " Enough, enough, your father should have 
 provided for you. 1 know it was hard, and, 
 — do not remind me of it ; I, — I knew your 
 father.'"' 
 
 '•You knew my father, oh! then have 
 pity on his son, indeed, indeed, I will repay 
 you ; but do not apply to Mr. Feversham, I 
 implore:" and in his excitement the poor 
 boy rose from his couch, and seizing Mr. 
 Morley's hand, gazed with painful anxiety 
 in his face. Hope revived in his heart from 
 that earnest gaze, for there was deep emo- 
 tion in every feature, and tears in the eyes 
 which met his. '• Boy, " at length he said, 
 "fear nothing from me: a life, a long life
 
 99 
 
 of error has been mine ; how can I be hard 
 upon another, that other, too, a youth of 
 sixteen, when I, a man three times his age, 
 only now see and correct the fatal folhes to 
 which I have given way? No, no, my boy, 
 yon are now free of the world, your debts 
 are paid, your quarter's income untouched; 
 begin again, remembering that it is a cruel 
 wrong, not only to the poor creatures, whose 
 goodS; and labor, and time, you take, with- 
 out repaying them, but to your gentle, lov- 
 ing, unprotected sister. Your reputation 
 must be kept intact for her sake in the first 
 place ; and secondly, if you exceed your 
 small income, you must, to- preserve that 
 reputation, encroach on hers, and leave her 
 without comfort and even necessaries. 
 
 " Take this lesson home to your heart, 
 and, my boy," while a sweet smile stole 
 over his sallow face as he spoke, " love the 
 physician who has put you to some pain to 
 cure a very fatal disease. Now a word to 
 your sister, and I have done ; I leave for 
 London on important business this after- 
 noon, and it will be some days ere we meet 
 again ; let me hope to see you better in 
 health and calmer in mind. God bless you,
 
 100 
 
 my boy ! " and Mr. Morley had left the 
 room, ere Stuart could recover his agitation, 
 or command his voice to thank him. 
 
 Edith was fortunately alone in the draw- 
 ing-room when Mr. Morley entered. " Well, 
 Mr. Morley, how do you think my brother 
 is looking?" she said. ''Oh! better, much 
 better, he is a little tired now ; we have been 
 having a long conversation, and I must con- 
 clude it with you. He has been kind 
 enough not to think me impertinent, and I 
 trust you will be equally lenient ; sit down, 
 my story is a long one. You were very 
 young when, — when you were left an or- 
 phan." "Very young," answered Edith. 
 "You remember your mother?" "Oh! 
 yes, indeed I do." "And your father?" 
 "No, I have some impression of seeing him 
 when I was quite a baby child. — but it is 
 more like a dream than any thing else." 
 "He died?" "Yes, I think so, at least 
 now you ask me, I remember my dear 
 mother never mentioned his death, indeed, 
 never spoke of him at all ; and an old ser- 
 vant we once had, told me not to ask any 
 questions about him, for it made mamma
 
 101 
 
 "No wonder, my dear, no wonder, your 
 father left your mother, and you too, her 
 helpless children, to seek his fortune, — the 
 fortune he had recklessly squandered, — in 
 another land, — left you friendless and pen- 
 niless, to the mercy of the cold world ; but 
 the mighty Ruler of that world, the Friend 
 of earth's forsaken, of the poor and wretch- 
 ed, raised you up a protector in Mr. Fe- 
 versham, and you were cared for, and 
 comforted by him : but your father did not 
 know this, and when the ocean divided him 
 from his poor wife, when the first excite- 
 ment passed away, and calm reflection 
 came, there came with it all the agony of 
 remorse ; he tried to smother it, tried to 
 think that he was doing right; what could 
 he do at home ? that he was better where 
 he was; but still conscience permitted him 
 no rest; in his waking moments, in his 
 dreams, horrid pictures of his dying wife, 
 dying without perhaps the necessaries of 
 life, haunted and agonized him; and ere the 
 voyage was over, he had made a vow to 
 Heaven, that work, hard work, should, if 
 possible, redeem the money he had wasted, 
 and prayed that Heaven to grant he might 
 9*
 
 102 
 
 be enabled to reward his wife for all she 
 had suffered for his sake. 
 
 '• But the sin was not so easily to be 
 wiped away ; the torture of mind he had 
 endured was not punishment enough; hard- 
 er still was the hopeless agony of finding 
 himself thwarted in every employment he 
 attempted. It is useless to dilate on all he 
 suffered, sickness, shipwreck, perils of all 
 kinds, ever aggravated by the vision of his 
 wife, which never, for a moment, in those 
 long years left him ! Useless and painful 
 to you I say, would it be, to dilate on all 
 this, — suffice it, that though in a hard and 
 bitter school, he learnt a valuable lesson, he 
 learnt the immeasurable good, he might 
 have done with the property he had once 
 possessed, and he learnt by his own experi- 
 ence the misery he had often inflicted on 
 others, by the non-payment of their just 
 demands. In the grand forests where he 
 often wandered alone, he had time for deep 
 reflection, and he found in those silent med- 
 itations, how, in pursuing the shadow, he 
 had lost the substance. At length, he de- 
 termined to return once more to England, 
 and see if his wife still lived, and press her
 
 ONLY. " 
 
 10^ 
 
 and his children once more to his heart; and 
 after a prosperous voyage, stood again on 
 his native shore ; but who, in the sickly, 
 impoverished man, could ever have recog- 
 nized the once gay and handsome Vernon? 
 Broken in health and spirit, he had no 
 strength to get further than the sea-port 
 
 where he landed, and now " 
 
 ''Now he is poor, sick, and alone in some 
 wretched lodging," said the poor girl, who, 
 with a face of deadly paleness, had drank 
 in every word ; " oh ! for pity's sake tell me 
 where, and let his child go to him,'' " Gen- 
 tly, gently, dear Miss Vernon, be calm and I 
 will go on ; you have a small allowance, I 
 believe, of your own, you have just drawn 
 the quarter, have you not?" "Yes, yes, 
 all shall be his, only lose no time, I beseech 
 you." " Good and generous child, he will 
 bless you for this love ; but have you no 
 calls on you for this money?" " What so 
 imperative as a father's need?" answered 
 Edith, but as she spoke, she stopped sud- 
 denly, and a flush of crimson covered her 
 face — her brother ! The change of coun- 
 tenance was not unmarked by him, who 
 was watching her so narrowly. " Yes,
 
 104 -'ONLY." 
 
 think again," he said: "a young lady's 
 visit to London must have made some in- 
 roads on her purse." "Oh! no, no, I 
 assure you, I have not spent a farthing of 
 this quarter's money, save a small sum I 
 gave to Ellen Rawdon for her care of Stu- 
 art; not sixpence on myself, I assure you." 
 ''Indeed! — then you must have had some 
 purpose in saving it so carefully. Pardon 
 me, but I cannot let you be unjust to your- 
 self: your father would never ibrgive me : 
 some charitable purpose is your aim, per- 
 haps ? " " Yes, — No, — " said Edith, 
 hesitatingly, and then looking up in his face 
 suddenly, she took his hand: '-you are 
 kind, benevolent, I feel you are, I may trust 
 you : Stuart, my brother, is, — is very 
 young, has no father, no mother, to protect, 
 to guide him." "1 know, I know," an- 
 swered Morley earnestly : " but he is a good 
 boy, a fine hearted boy." "Yes, yes, in- 
 deed, he is — but he is generous, and his in- 
 come has not suliiced him." " 1 see, he is 
 in debt, and your money has been saved for 
 him. Debt at his age! this is very shame- 
 ful, very dishonest ! " " Oli ! do not say 
 that, he is so young — he is 'only' six-
 
 " ONLY." 105 
 
 Only sixteen, so young ! is he not 
 old enough to die 7 then he is old enough to 
 live an honest life, that he may not fear to 
 die." 
 
 Edith was silent for a moment, and Mr. 
 Morley continued, " Then, as you have 
 promised this money, of course it must be 
 given; your poor father can only have him- 
 self to blame, when he hears his son's debts 
 keep from him the little pittance so gener- 
 ously offered by his daughter." '• Oh ! no, 
 don't tell him that, I know not what to do," 
 and poor Edith burst into tears. " My dear 
 girl, had you exerted a little more resolution 
 you would not have been placed in this try- 
 ing position : your brother loves you dearly, 
 and it only needed that you should first 
 have used your influence to preserve him 
 from this sad recklessness, and if that had 
 failed, have had the proper courage to re- 
 fuse, in justice to yourself, to resign all your 
 little money for his need : once lose your 
 own dignity, or give up your sense of right 
 and justice, and you lose the respect of 
 those you would serve, the capability of 
 serving them, and finally their love." For 
 a second or two uninterruptedly she wept
 
 106 "ONLY." 
 
 on, — and then she felt her head gently 
 pressed to a throbbing heart, and heard a 
 voice, so altered by emotion that she scarce- 
 ly recognized it as Mr. Morley's, say, — 
 '•Hush! hush! my darling child! I can- 
 not bear to see you cry ; you have nothing 
 to weep for now, your brother's debts are 
 all paid."' •' Paid ! "' exclaimed Edith, with 
 a bright smile gleaming like sunshine 
 through her tears. " Oh ! to whom are we 
 so indebted ? '' '• To your father, my child, 
 — the right person to come to the aid of his 
 deserted children, and who is only too much 
 blessed in being permitted to do so, and has 
 but one hope, that his angel wife knows he 
 is striving to redeem the injury he wrought 
 her." 
 
 Edith raised her head, and catching the 
 arm that supported her, gave one long, long 
 look in the face which was gazing into 
 her"s, and sobbed, '-Speak — again. — do 
 not deceive me — you, — you are my fa- 
 ther ! " There was no need of reply, the 
 earnest pressure to that beating heart was 
 answer enough, — and all consciousness left 
 her, till the murmur of voices and low sobs 
 aroused her ; and she found herself support-
 
 ()M,Y.' 
 
 107 
 
 ed by Mrs. Carysfort and Kate, and Stnart 
 locked in his fatiier's arms. 
 
 Years, years have rolled away, — sum- 
 mer and winter, day and night, have kept 
 their unwearied, unchanging course, but 
 many a change have they brought on the 
 personages in this httle history ; Martin 
 Rawdon and his wife he beneath the green 
 sod of the peaceful village church of Carys- 
 foot, and Joe and Ellen, with a large family 
 of little children, are living in the heart of 
 London ; Joe working hard, with the pros- 
 pect of retirement in the country in his and 
 Ellen's declining days. 
 
 Stuart Vernon, the Stuart Vernon, hating 
 the world as much as he had ever loved it, 
 leads an anchorite life near the Rectory, 
 with his fine devoted manly son for a com- 
 panion ; — Edith having been induced once 
 more to cheer the Rectory, with her sweet 
 beaming face, as the happy wife of Mr. Fe- 
 versham, and Kate Carysfort, the proud 
 belle of the little village, the man-hater, is 
 living a life of single blessedness, for love of 
 the fine face and finer heart of Stuart, the 
 good afiectionate son ; but we may comfort
 
 !()S ••ONLY." 
 
 all sympathizing readers, by assuring them 
 that we, who are behind the scenes, know 
 that when Stnart was once assured of 
 this fact, as say a wedding took place in 
 that little village as ever before^or after has 
 disturbed its quiet routine. 
 
 The elder Vernon's life had been a lesson 
 to all who knew him, and never did they 
 who surrounded him forget it ; they never 
 ceased to remember that "Only" had been 
 the rock on which his richly freighted bark 
 of happiness was wrecked, and carefully 
 avoided it : and he never lost an opportuni- 
 ty of impressing on them that trifles sum- 
 med up, make at last a heavy total; that 
 the best ambition was, not to be envied by 
 their fellow-creatures for their wealth and 
 influence, but respected by them for having 
 thoroughly practised the high precept to 
 "Owe no man anything," — ever bearing 
 in mind that a day will come when all will 
 be expected to " give an account of their 
 stewardship."
 
 10 
 
 06- 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Santa Barbara 
 
 HIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW. 
 
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