«»c^

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
AT LOS ANGELES

T A L E S

WO M A N'S TRIALS,

LONDON :
COOK & CO. PRINTERS, 76, FLEET STREET.

* « » t « 4

•.(«. c«( I 4. ^

TO MRS. WILLIAM JACKSON,
OF BIRKENHEAD.

My dear Mrs. Jackson,

This Book — a new edition of one long " out of print,"
which I Iiave carefully revised, and to which I have made
several additions, principally from " Chambers' Edinburgh
Journal" — 1 dedicate to you, with feelings of warm alfection.
I ofier it in testimony of the happy knowledge that your
influence has ever been exerted for good in all the relations
of life — as daughter, wife, mother, and friend ; and I rejoici-
in this expression of an earnest friendship, the growth of many
years.

Your attached friend,

ANNA MAIJIA IIAl.!-.

The Ilosory, Old Drorapton,
Novcmbor, IMO.

ir>:aH4

CONTENTS.

I. THE OOVEllNESS

DrawTi by J. NoEL Paton
Engraver, J.G.Nicholls

Page.

II. OUACE HUNTLEY

f Drawn by E. M. Ward .
I Engraver, J. G. Nicholls

III. THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. I ^'■'''^■" ^J' J- Fiianklin . .

I Engraver, J. G. NiCHOLLb .

IV. THE FORCED IlLOOMS

( Drawn by II. {". Ski.ois .
( Engravers, W. \ (i. Mkasom

13;i

V. THE MOSS- PITS

VI IHE OLD MAID

VII. THE USES OF ADVEIISITY

VIII THE Ml.lK HANTS D.M (illl KU

IX. THE PKIV.VTK PlllSK

I Drawn by .1. (jiliikkt
\ Engraver, J. Hastin

{Drawn liy J. Nor.i. Patox

Engraver, O. I)ai.7.iel

I Drawn by F. W. Hfi.Mi: .

( ICngraver*, W. it (J. Mi-.vsdm

) Drawn by E. Counori.n .

' Engrnvir, J. Hahtin . .

I Drawn by J. Niil.t. Patii.s

I Engraver, J.O. Niciioi.ij«

1".:

193

219

2.51

273

X. THE CUILSE OV PUOPBUTY

I Drawn by J. Fkankmn
( Engraver, J. («. Nkiidm^

30.'j

VIII

CONTENTS.

XI. LOST BEAUTY

( Dra^^•n by J. Noel Paton
\ Engraver, G. Dalziel. .

Page.
327

XII. TUE WISDOM OF FORETHOUGHT

(Dra^^^lby W. Weir . .
( Engravers, W. & G. Measom .

339

XIII. TUE DAILY GOVERNESS ,

XIV. THE MOTHER

( Drawn by F. W. Huljie .
I Engravers, W. & G. Measom ,

( Drawn by F. W. ToruAM
( Engravers, W. & G. Measom .

371

379

XV. THE YOUNG PERSON

r Dra^vu by R. R. Mc. Ian ,
( Engraver, G. Dalziel . .

409

XVI. DEAR AND FORBEAR

( Drawn by F. W. IIulme .
I Engravers, W. 85 G. Measom .

415

The Initial Letters designed by T. R. Macquoid.

Til 1< GOVKRNESS.

PART THE IIUST.

ertisonn-nl tlms : — " Wan tod — a go-
V^"^ vrrncss," coiumt-ncod Mrs. (ireahnni: — wln> li.ul
called upon Imt Histor, Mrs. Hyli«r, to consult con-
c«rning the important docunu-nt : Mrs. CJrosli.im and
^\f Mrs, FIyli<r hcinp both in w.mt of resident go-
vrrncsscn to educate tluir rluMrcn. A visiter was
also present, n Mrs. Ilyal. confessedly the " ujost
clever woman" of the neinhlionrhniiil .m .isiniuMhing

WOMAN S TRIALS.

manager ; but altliough the ladies desired lier advice, they were some-
what in dread of her sarcasm.

Mrs. Gresham had repeated, "Wanted — a governess," when
an old gentleman, a Mr. Byfield, was announced. The trio of
wives and mothers looked at each other, as if to say, "What a
bore ! " — and then Mrs. Hylier rose gracefully from her chaise
lonsiie, and, smiling sweetly, extended her hand, and welcomed
Mr. Byfield with exceeding warmth of manner; while Mrs. Gresham
and Mrs. Ryal declared aloud their delight at being so fortunate as
to meet a neighbour they had so rarely the pleasure to see.

The party thus assembled were all inhabitants of the bustling yet
courtly suburb of Kensington ; and Mr. Byfield being a rich and
influential, though a very eccentric, man, was sure of the deference
which people of small means are too prone to exhibit towards those
whose fortunes are ample.

" Do not let me interrupt you in the least, ladies," said the old
man, quietly taking his seat near the window. " Mr. Hylier promised I
should look over these pictures by daylight ; and when you have talked
your own talk, there will be time enough for mine." The ladies, one
and all, declared their conviction that his " talk " must be more
pleasant and instructive than theirs. He smiled — shook his head —
touched his hat (which he had laid at his feet), as if to say he would
either go or have his own way ; and so Mrs. Gresham recommenced
reading — " Wanted — a governess. Any lady possessing a sound English
education, a thorough knowledge of the theory and practice of instru-
mental and vocal music, and a perfect acquaint;ince with the French,
Italian, and German languages; also with the rudiments of Latin:"

"Latin!" interrupted Mrs. Ryal. "Latin! why, whut do you
want with Latin for a pack of girls ? "

" I thought," answered Mrs. Gresham, meekly, " that as there
are but three girls, Teddy might do his lessons with them for a little
while ; and that would save the expense of a tutor."

" Oh, very good — very good," replied Mrs. Ryal ; "then add also,
Greek ; if the governess is any thing of a classic, you'll get both for
the same money."

THE GOVERNESS.

" Tliank voii, dear Mrs. Kyal ; Iiow cle\cr you are! G-r-, there
are two ' ees ' in Greek ? — also the rudiments of Latin and Greek, "

" I beg your pardon once more," said the provokingly " clever
lady;" "but make it Greek and Latin; that is the correct way."

'• Greek and Latin, and the principles of drawing — if her cha-
racter will bear the strictest investigation, may hear of a highly
respectable situation by applying to Z.P. "

" Post-paid," again suggested Mrs. Ryal.

••Of course," continued Mrs. Gresham, "and as the lady will be
treated as one of the family, a high salary will not be given. "

" Well," said Mrs. Ryal, " I think that will d(i. Vou have not
specified writing and arithmetic."

" English education includes that, does it not ? "

" Why, ves ; but you have said nothing about the sciences."

"The children are so young."

" But they grow older every day."

" Indeed that is true," observed pretty Mrs. Ilyliir with a sigh,
and a glance at the pier-glass. " My Kllen, though only ten, looks
thirteen. I wish her papa would let her go to school ; but one of his
sisters imbibed some odd philosophic notions at school, so that he
wont hear of it."

" Certainly," observed Mrs. Ryal, " I will never again take a gover-
ness into my house to reside — they are all cxigcanls. One was im-
prudent enough to wish to get married, and expected to come into
the drawing-room when there was company of an evening. Another
would have a bedroom to herself; lliough, I an> sure, no one could
object to sleep in the same room with my own maid. .Another —
really the world is very depraved — occasioned a painful did'erence
between Mr. Ryal and myself; and let l/iat lie a warning to you, my
dear friends, not to admit any pretty, quiet, sentimental young ladies
int«i your domestic circles. Mr. Ryal is a very charming man, and a
good man; but men are but men. after nil. and can bi- man.iged by
any one who will flatter them a litth . Of course, he is a man of the
highest honour; but there is no necessity for having a person in tlie
house who plays and sings belter than one's-self."

WOMAN S TRIALS.

" Oh, my dear Mrs. Ryal ! " exclaimed both voices, " you need
never fear comparison with any one." The jealous lady looked
pleased, but shook her head. " Well, at last 1 resolved to be my own
governess — with the assistance a of young person, who comes daily for
three, and sometimes I get four, hours out of her ; and she is very
reasonable — two guineas a montli, and dines with the children. She
is not all I could wish. Her manners are a little defective, for she
is not exactly a lady. Her father is a very respectable man, keeps
that large butter shop at the corner — I forget — somewhere off Picca-
dilly ; but I prefer it, my dear ladies, I prefer it — she does all the
drudgery without grumbling. Your officers' and clergymen's daugh-
ters, and decayed gentlewomen, why, their high-toned manners — if
they never speak a word — prevent one's being quite at ease with them,
though they are, after all, only governesses."

"But," suggested Mrs. Gresham, mildly, "lady-like manners are
so very necessary."

" Yes," answered Mrs. Ryal, " so they are ; for you and I "

" And children so easily imbibe vulgar habits, that it is really
necessary to have a lady with them."

" Well," said Mrs. Ryal, with a sneer, " ladies are plenty enough.
I dare-say you will have fifty answers. What salary do you mean
to give ? "

Mrs. Gresham was a timid but kind-hearted woman ; one who
desired to do right, but had hardly courage to combat wronfj-. She
was incapable of treating any thing unkindly, tut she would be guilty
of injustice if justice gave her much trouble; she hesitated, because
she required a great deal, and intended to give very little.

" / cannot give more tlian five-and-twenty pounds a year to any
one," said Mrs. Hylier, in a decided tone. "My husband says we
cannot afford to keep two men-servants and a governess. He wanted
me to give tlie governess seventy, and discharge Thomas ; but that
was quite impossible ; so I have made up my mind. 1'here are only
two girls ; no boys, like my sister Gresham's little ' Teddy;' she can
spend every evening in the drawing-room when we are by ourselves —
have the keys of the piano and library — amuse herself with my

THE GOVERNESS.

embroidery — go to church in the carriage on Sunday — and drive at
least once a-week with the children in the Park. There! " added
Mrs. Hvlier ; " I am sure there are hundreds of accomplished women
who would jump at such a situation, if they knew of it."

" Washing included ? " inquired Mrs. Ryal.

" No. I think she must pay for her own washing, unless there
was some great inducement."

" You allow no followers ?"

" Oh, certainly not. What can a governess want of friends ?
Her pupils ought to have all her time."

" God help iier ! " murmured the old gentleman. The murmur
was so indistinct that the ladies only looked at each other ; and then
Mrs. Ilylier said, "Did you speak, sir?" There was no answer;
the conversation was resinned with half a whisper from one lady to
another, that perhaps Mr. liyfield was not deaf at all times.

•' And what do yoa intend giving, Mrs. Gresham I " questioned
Mrs. Ryal.

"I have three girls and a boy," she replied; "audi thoiight of
forty."

"It ^^ill be impossible to prevent your governess from talking
to mine, and then mine will get discontented ; that is not fair, Fanny,"
obscn'cd her sister; "say fivc-and-thirty, allowing for the ilifVerence
of number."

" And plenty, I call it," said .Mrs. Ryal. " What do they want
but clothes ? Tliey never lay by for a rainy day. There are hun-
dreds — yes, of well-born and well-l)red ladies — who would be glad of
Bucli situations."

" I an> sorry for it," said the old gentleman, rising and advancing
to where the three Kensington wives were seated ; " I am very sorry
or It.

" Indeed, Mr. Ilyfidd! why. we shall have the better choice."

*• Forgive me, ladies, for saying so — but still more am I grieved
at that. I'ermit n\v to read your ntlvertisement."

Mrs. (Jresham coloured; Mi^. n\Ii(r had sulVirient ronimand
over herself not to n|ipear aiuioyed ; but Mrs. Ryal, ilu- oracle ol

WOMAN S TRIALS.

a clique, the " clever woman," who had, by dint of self-esteem and
effrontiTV, established a reputation for intellectual superiority over
those wlio were either too indolent or too ignorant to question her
authority, evinced her displeasure by throwing herself back in her
chair, loosening the tie of her bonnet, and dressing her lips in one
of those supercilious smiles that would mar the beauty of an angel.

" Wanted, a governess, " read the old gentleman, who frequently
interrupted himself to make such observations as the following : —
"Any lady possessing a sound English education — that in itself is
no easy thing to attain — a thorough knowledge of the theory and
practice of vocal and instrumental music — a thorough knowledge of
the theory and practice of either the one or the other requires the
labour of a viaiis life, my good ladies — and a perfect acquaintance
with the French, Italian, and German languages — how very useless
and absurd to found professorships of modern languages in our new
colleges, when, in addition to the musical knowledge that would
create a composer, a single person, a young female, can be found
possessed of a jwrfect acquaintance with French, Italian, and Ger-
man! Oh, wonderful age! — also, the rudiments of Greek and Latin
— may hear of a highly respectable situation by applying to Z. P.
post paid, Post-Office, Kensington. Much as you expect in the way
of acquirements and accomplishments, ladies," continued the ritic,
still retaining fast hold of poor Mrs. Gresham's document, ' you
have not demanded a great deal on the score of religion or morality
— neither are mentioned in your list of requisites."

"Oh !" exclaimed Mrs. Hylier, "they are taken for granted. No
one would think of engaging a governess that was not moral and all
that sort of thing, which are always matters of course."

"To be sure they are," added Mrs. Ryal, in that peremptory
tone which seemed to say, Do you dare to question my opinion? "To
be sure they are; and every one knows that nothing can be more de-
termined with respect to religion and morality than my practice with
my children. Rain, hail, or sunshine, well or ill, the governess must
be in the house before the clock strikes nine. Psalms read the first
thing; and if they have not got well through the French verbs, a

THE GOVERNESS.

chapttT besides for punishment ; catechism, Wednesdays and Fridays ;
and the Collect, Epistle, and Gospel, by heart, every Sunday after
church. I always do two things at once, when I can ; and this
strengthens their memory, and teaches them religion at the same time.
I never questioned my governess as to religion ; it looks narrow -
minded ; and yet ynine never dreams of objecting to what I desire."

" I should think not," was Mr. Byficld's quiet rejoinder ; " strange
ideas your children will entertain of the religion that is rendered a
punishment instead of a reward."

Mrs. Kyal grasped the tassel of her muflf, but made no reply.

"Oh," he continued, "here is the pith in a postscript — 'As the
lady will be treated as one of the family, a iiigh salary will not be
given.' Ladies !" exclaimed the old man, " do you not blush at this?
You ask for the fruits of an education that, if it lie half what you
demand, must have cost the governess the lal)our of a life, and her
friends many hundred pounds. It is your dlty to treat as one of
your family the pt-rson wlio is capable of bestowing upon your
children the greatest of earthly blesings ; and yet you n)ake the doing
so a reason for al)ridging a stipend, which pays a wretched interest
for time and money. Shame, hulies, shame!"

The ladies looked at each other, and at last Mrs. Ilylier said,
" Really, sir, I do not see it at all in llu' light in which you put it.
I know numberless instances where they are glad to come for less."

'J'ears came into Mrs. Gresham's eyes, and Mis. l{yal kicked the
ottoman violently.

"The more the pity." continued Mr. Hn lidd , " iiut 1 hold it
to be a principle of Mtiglish honesty tt» pay for v;due received, and
of Kngli.sh honour not to take advantage of distress."

"Suppose we cannot adbrd it, sir — am I to do without a governess
for my children because my husl)and cannot pay her sixty or
iievcniy poiuuln a-year ? "

" Iliit you naid just now, madam, that Mr. Ilylnr wished you to
pay that Mtnn."

" Yc«," Htamniered the fair economist, "if — if

" if !f"" '■""/</ tnanoftc nilh one /onlnian," said the old gentleman,

WOMAN S TRIALS.

"instead of two. In my young days, my wife, who had but one child,
and we were poor, said to me — 'Joseph, our girl is growing up
without education, and I cannot teach, for I never learned, but we
must send her to school.' I answered that we could not afford it.
' Oh, yes, we can,' she said ; ' I will discharge our servant ; I will
curtail our expenses in every way, because I am resolved that she
shall be well educated, and honestly paid for.' It never occurred to
that right-minded, yet simple-hearted, woman to propose lower terms to
a governess, but she proposed less indulgence to herself. Thus she
rendered justice. She would sooner have worked her fingers to the
bone than have bargained for intellect. Ay, Mrs. Ryal, you may
laugh ; but of all meannesses, the meanest is that which depreciates
mind, and having no power but the power that proceeds from a full
purse, insults the indigence which often hides more of the imrnaterial
world beneath a russet gown, than your wealth can purchase."

"My wealth!" exclaimed the offended lady; "?/o?^r wealth, if you
please; but though your wealth, and your oddity, and your altogether,
may awe some people, they can have no effect upon me, Mr. Byfield —
none in the world ; every one says you are a strange creature."

"My dear Mrs. Ryal," said Mrs. Hylier, "you positively must
not grow angry with our dear friend, Mr. Byfield ; he does not mean
half what he says."

"I beg your pardon," interrupted the eccentric old gentleman; "I
mean a great deal more. I only wish 1 had the means of giving to
the world my opinion as to the inestimable value of domestic education
for females. I would have every woman educated within the sanc-
tuary of her own home. I would not loosen the smallest fibre of the
affection which binds her to her father's house; it should be at once
her altar and her throne; but as it is a blessing which circumstances
prevent many from enjoying, I would command the legislature of this
mighty country to devise some means for the better ordering and
investigation of ' ladies' boarding schools.' To set up an establish-
ment for young ladies is very often the last resource for characterless
women, and persons who, failing in all else, resort to that as a means
of subsistence. Such temporary homes should be under the closest

THE GOVERNESS.

superintendence of high-minded and right-thinking gentlewomen. I
look upon the blue-boarded imd brass-plated schools that swarm in
our suburbs," he added, as he turned away to hide an emotion he
could not control — "I look upon them as the very charnel-houses
of morality."

Mrs. Ryal elevated her eyebrows, and shrugged her shoulders,
while the gentle Mrs. Gresham whispered her "not to mind; that
Mr. liyfield was half-mad on the subject of schools."

" Ladies," said the old man, apparently recovered from his agi-
tation, and in his usually quiet, calm, yet harshly-toned voice; "ladies,
you are, in dilll-rent degrees, all women of the world; you live with it,
and for it, and you are of it, but you are also mothers ; and though
your Ellen, Mrs. Ilylicr, does grow so fast as almost to overtake her
mother's beauty, and you, Mrs. Ryal, stand in open defiance of vulgar
contagion, because you fear a rival in a well-bred governess, and get
more time out of your daily labourer than you woidd expect frou) your
milliner for the same money; and you, Mrs. (ireshain — but I cannot
say to you more than that you all love your children — some more,
some less — still, according to your natures, you all love them dearly. So
did I mine. My child was all tlie world to me ! I told you what her
poor mother did for her improvement — the sacrifice she made. I3ut
though we had tlie longing to secure for her every advantage, we had
no skill as to the means of obtaining the knowledge we so desired her
to possess. We placed Iitr at a ' lirst-rate school,' as it was called,
and thought we had done oiir duty ; l)iit this going from lur liomc
loosened the cords of love that bound her to us. And when a sudden
stroke of goo<l fortune converted a |)o<)r into a rich man, and we
brought our child to a splendid house, we found that our daughter's
morals had become corrupted through the means of her companions —
an evil the most dillicult of all for a g.)V(rness to avirt —and that she
had imbibed moral poison with lur mental fmid." The old gentleman
b«'came so agitated, that he could not proceed ; and angry as the ladies
li.id been with him a few moments before for a |>lain-speaking which
amotmted to rudeness, they could not avoid sympalliising with his
feelings.

10 woman's trials.

" But we are not coins to send our cliildren to a school," suggested
Mrs. Gresham.

" I know that, madam," he rephed ; " but I want to convince you,
by comparison, of the blessings that await the power of cultivating both
the intellect and the affections under your own roof, and so argue you
into the necessity of paying honestly, if not liberally, the woman upon
the faithful discharge of whose duties depends the future happiness or
misery of those dear ones whom you have brought into the world. It
is now twenty-two years since I saw that daughter ; I shall never see
her again in this world ; I thought I had strength to tell you the story,
painful as it is, but I have not. I would have done so, in the hope
that I might have shown you how valuable, past all others, are the ser-
vices rendered by a worthy and upright woman when entrusted with
the education of youth ; but when I think of my lost child, I forget
every thing else. She stands before me as I speak. My blue-eyed
lovely one ! all innocence and truth — the light, and life, and love of
that small four-roomed cottage ; and then she loved me truly and
dearly ; and there again she is — most beautiful, but cankered at the
heart, fair, and frail ! Lay your children in their graves, and ring the
joy-bells over them rather than intrust them to the whirling pestilence
of a large school, or the care of a cheap governess ! "

" He certainly is mad, " whispered Mrs, Ryal to Mrs. Ilylier,
while the old gentleman, folding his hands one within the other, walked
up and down the room, his thoughts evidently far away from the three
wives, who were truly, as he had said "mere women of the world." And
yet he was right — they all loved their children, but it was after their own
fashion ; Mrs. Gresham with the most tenderness — she wished them to
be good and happy ; Mrs. Hylier's affection was mingled with a strong
desire that tliey might continue in a state of innocence as long as pos-
sible, and not grow too fast. Mrs. Ryal had none of that weakness ;
she did not care a whit whether she were considered old or young, as
long as she was obeyed ; so she determined her girls should have as
little of what is called heart as possible, that they might be free to
accept the best offers when they were made. She was continually
contrasting riches and poverty. All the rich were angels, and all the

THE GOVE UN ESS. 1 1

poor thieves ; there were no exceptions ; those who married according
to their parents' wishes rode in carriages, with two tall footmen behind
eacli ; those who married for love walked a-foot with draggled tails,
and died in a workhouse. Of all the women in Kensington, Mr.
Byfald disliked Mrs. Ryal the most, and seeing her at Mrs. Mylicr's
had irritated him more tha;i he cared to confess even to himself. Mrs.
Ryal entertained a corresponding animosity towards Mr. Byfield ; she
had resolved, come what wonld, to " sit him out ;' but she was afraid
if she remained much longer, that Miss Stack, the daily governess,
whose mother was ill, might go a few minutes before her time was up,
and she had more than once caught her shaking the hour-glass — so
much for the honesty of one party and the consideration of the other ;
she knew perfectly will that as soon as she was gone, she would be
abused "by the old monster ;" for she was conscious that, if he had gone,
it would have given her extreme pleasure and satisfaction to abuse
him. The old gentleman had not spoken for several minutes, but con-
tinued to walk up and down, pausing every now and then to look at
her over his spectacles, as if to inquire, "when do you mean to take
your departure .'" Mrs, liyal was too exalted to notice this; but after
consideration, she rose with nuich dignity, shook i);inds with her two
" dear friends," dropped a most exaggerated curtsy to Mr. Uyliild,
who, the moment she was out of the room, threw himself into an easy
chair, and drew a hngthened insj)iration, which said plaiidy enough,
*' Thank lieaven, she is gone !"

" And now, ladies, " he exclaimed, " fuuling that ynu want a gover-
ness, I want to reconnnend one — not to you, Mrs. (Jresham; notwiih-
standing ' little Teddy,' she wt)uld be too happy with you. I should
like her to livt- with you, Mrs. Ilylirr."

" With me, .'^ir f Why, aft«r the censure you have ])ris«.cd upon
11.1 lM)th, I should hardly thuik you woidd rt'conimend us a dog, nmcli
less n novemesji."

" I expect you will treat your govrrncs.j hardly as will as I treat
my dog," wns the ungrariouJi reply.

•• l{e.dly. Mr. IJ^firld"

" IMin, lady !" interrupted the strange old man ; " no words about

12 woman's trials.

it ; I have not been so long your opposite neighbour without knowing
that your hist governess did not sit at your table ; that when you had
the hot, she had the cold ; that when a visiter came, she went ; that
she was treated as a creature belonainsjc to an intermediate state of
society, wliich has never been defined or illustrated — being too high
for the kitchen, too low for the parlour ; that she was to govern her
temper towards those who never governed their tempers towards her ;
that she was to cultivate intellect, yet sit silent as a fool ; that she was
to instruct in all accomplishments, which she must know and feel, yet
never play any thing in society except quadrilles, because she played so
well that she might eclipse the young ladies who, not being governesses,
play for husbands, while she only plays for bread ! My good madam,
I know almost every governess who enters Kensington — by sight ; the
daily ones by their early hours, cotton umbrellas, and the cowed, de-
jected air with which they raise the knocker, uncertain how to let it
fall. Do I not know the musical ones by the worn out boa doubled
round their throats, and the roll of new music clasped in the thinly
gloved hand? — and the drawing ones — God help them — by the small
portfolio, pallid cheeks, and haggard eyes ? I could tell you tales of
those hard-labouring classes that would make factory labour seem a toy ;
but you would not understand me, though you can understand that you
want a governess, and you can also understand that I, Joseph Byfield,
hope you will take one of my recommending."

The sisters looked at each other, as well as to say, " What shall we
do?"

Mrs. Hylier assumed a cheerful, careless air, and replied — " Well,
sir, who is your governess ?"

" Who she exactly is, Mrs. Hylier, I will not tell you ; and she
does not know, though she imagines she does ; what she is 1 will tell
you. She is handsome, without the consciousness of beauty — accom-
plished, without affectation — gentle, without being inanimate — and I
should suppose patient ; for she has been a teacher in a school, as well
as in what is called a private family ; but I want to see her patience
tested."

" Is she a good musician ?"

THE OOVERNESS. 13

" Better than most women."

" And a good artist ?"

" That was not in the bond ; but she does confound perspective,
and distort tlie human body as excellently as most teachers of — the art
that can immortalise"

" My dear sir"

" Ay, ay ; half a dozen chalk heads — a few tawdry landscapes, with
the lights scratched out, and the shadows rubbed in — a bunch of flowers
on velvet, and a bundle of handscreens"

'* My dear sir," interrupted Mrs. Ilylier, " these sort of things
would not suit my daughters ; what tluy do must be artislic."

" Then get an artist to teach them ; you go upon the principle of
expecting Ilertz to paint like Eastlake, and Eastlake to play like
Hertz. Madam, she is a well-informed, prudent, intelligent gentle-
woman ; with feeling and understanding ; consequently doing nothing
ill, because she will not attempt what she cannot accomplish. She will
not undertake Ko finish (that's the term, I think) pupils in either music
or drawing, but she will do her best ; and as she has resided al)roadi
I am told (for I hate every language except my own) she is a good
linguist ; and I will answer for her accepting the fivc-and-twenty
poimds a-year."

'■ \ Cry desirable, no doubt," muttered Mrs. Hylier, unwilling, for
sundry reasons of great import connected with lur husband, to dis-
please .Mr. IJylicld, and yit most unwilling to receive into her family
a person whom, juilging of others by herself, she imagined must be a
spy upon her mcnafje.

" / kiu'w you would so consider any one I recommended," said the
ohl gentleman, wiih a smile that evinced the consciousness of power;
" and when shall the ' ijotni^ person (that is the phrase, is it not.') —
when .nhall shv eonie ?"

" I think I .sluddd lik*- to mv her lirsl," ans«treil the lady, hesi-
tating.

" Very giKnl ; but to what pur|M>se ? you know you will take her ?"

" Any thing to oblige you, my dear nir ; l>ut has kIic no female
friend ?"

It woman's trials.

" Some one of you ladies said a few moments ago that a governess
had no need of friends."

" You are aware, Mr. Byfield, it is usual upcn such occasions to
consult the lady the governess resided with last ; it is usual ; I do not
want to insist upon it, because I am sure you understand exactly what
I require."

" Indeed, madam, I do not pretend to such extensive information ;
I know, I think, what you ought to require, that is all. However, if
you wish, you shall have references besides mine," and Mr. Byfield
looked harder and stiffer than ever. He walked up to a small water-
colour drawing that hung above a little table, and contemplated it,
twirling his cane about in a half circle all the time. The subject was
ugly enough to look at — a long chimney emitting a column of dense
smoke like a steamer, and a slated building stuck on one side, being
a view of the " Achilles saw mills," which Mr. Hylier had lately pur-
chased, a considerable portion of the purchase-money having been
advanced by Mr. Byfield.

" No matter how odd, how rude, how incomprehensible our old
neighbour is, Caroline," Mr. Hylier had said to his wife only that
morning ; " no matter what he does, or says, or fancies ; if you con-
tradict or annoy him, it will be my ruin."

Her husband's words were forcibly recalled to her by the attitude
and look of the old gentleman, and she answered — " Oh, dear no, sir,
not at all ; one cannot help anxiety on such a subject ; and I must only
endeavour to make the lady comfortable, and all that sort of thing,
although I fear she may complain to you of"

" No, no, madam," he interrupted ; " I do not desire her to be
treated in any way better than your former governess ; I wish to see
how she bears the rubs of life ; I particularly request that no change
whatever be made in her favour ; if I wished her to be quiet and com-
fortable, I should have sent her to my gentle little friend Mrs. Gres-
ham."

Mrs. Hylier bit her lip. " Good morning, ladies ; when shall Miss
Dawson — her name is Emily Dawson — when shall she come?"

" When you please, sir."

" To-morrow, tlien, at twelve."

He sliut the door ; Mrs. Gresham rang the bell ; and Mrs. Hylicr,
in a weak fit of uncontrollable vexation, burst into tears.

■' Did you ever know such a savage?" exclaimed Mrs. Gres-
ham.

" I am sure you have no reason to complain — it' it was not for the
hold he has over Hylier"

" I wonder if she is any relation of his ?" said Mrs. Gresham, who
was a little given to romance.

" Not she, indeed ; he is as proud as Lucifer, and has money
enough to enable him to live in a palace."

'* Could it be possible that he intends to marry," suggested Mrs.
Gresham.

" Marry, indeed ; would any man that could prevent it, permit
the woman he intended to marry to be a governess ? No. I'll trouble
my head no more about it ; let her come ; one is pretty much the same
as another ; the only thing that really gives me pain is, that Mrs. Hyal
should have heard so much of it ; she's a regular bell-woman ; likes to
have the earliest information of whatever goes on in the world, so as
to be the first to set it going. She was the means of the dismissal of
five governesses only last winter, and there is n(» end to the matches
of her breaking. She will declare the girl is — God knows what — if
she finds all out."

" Well," said Mrs. (Jrcsham, musingly, " after all, it is very odd ;
only fancy -Mr. Hy field taking an interest in a governess at all. Still,
I must insert my advertisement, and I think I mi^^hl substitute dancing
for Greek ; they are about equally useful, and one must not be too
unreasonable."

" Very considerate and good of you, Fanny," said her sister; " but
believe mc, tlic more you require the more you will get ; and 1 am not
sure that Mrs. Ilynl was wrong ab(»ut the sciences; every day sonie-
thing fresh starts up that no one ever heard of before. nn<l one must Ik"
able t«» talk alM>ut it ; it is really very fatij^uing to keep up with all the
new thing*, and sonu-how I d«> not think the credit one gels by the
knowlrdge is half enl)U^h to repay one for the labour. '

WOMAN S TRIALS.

" Mr. Gresham says the whole system, or, as he calls it, tw system,
of female education is wroiifj."

" My dear Fanny, how absurd you are ! What can men possibly
know of female education? There is my husband, a worthy man as
ever lived, and yet he will tell you that the whole object of female
education should be to make women — now only imagine what ?"

" I am sure I do not know."

" Why, good wives and mothers."

" Both ladies laughed, and then Mrs. Hylier exclaimed, " to think
of my taking any one into my house vmder such circumstances? But
at all events, I must prepare the children for their new governess."

TART THE SECOND

Mii.Y Hauson hnd been nonrly four niontlis
in luT situation; during tliat time Mr.
Byfk'ld came and went at Mr. Hylier's,
as usual ; if he met his protegee on
the stairs, he turned his head aiu)tlu'r
way ; he never asked a question about
lur, nor seemed to take the least interest
ill hrr proeeedings ; once or twice Mrs.
Ilylier (who was jimud of her diplomacy) said something leading to
the .subject, but Mr. 15y field silenced her in a way peculiarly his own.
"Why «loi'H Mr. Uyliild turn away iVom you. Miss Dawson?"
inquired little T'dizabrth Hylier : (childrrn are acute observers:)
" he UHcd to atop us on the stairs, and call us juvenile jades ; now
he looks so — and goes on. Arc you a naiighty girl. Miss Dawson ? "
" I hope not, I'dizabeth," said the govcrnesa.

18 woman's trials.

" I am sure not," ackled Caroline, the elder of the two ; " I don't
think you ever were naughty. When you were a little girl, you were

always too steady — too serious — and" The young lady paused,

and looked earnestly in the face of her governess ;

" Well, my dear, go on," said INIiss Dawson, in a gentle voice.

" I would rather not say what I intended, for fear you would not
like it," answered the girl ; " and yet I should wish to say it."

" Then do, Caroline."

" I meant, too sad to be naughty, or like odier girls."

" I was not always sad, my dear ; though, I perceive, I must not
let you see that I am so now, even at times. If you say your lessons
well, and are as attentive as you have been this morning, I shall
be much happier." Caroline Hylier flung her arms round Miss
Dawson's neck and kissed her, declaring, she would do her best to
improve ; and while she was speaking, Mrs. Hylier entered the
school-room ; a cloud of the deepest displeasure overshadowed her
pretty face.

" Oh, mamma ! " exclaimed Elizabeth, " Miss Dawson says that
if we are good, she will be so much happier,"

" I should have thought," observed the jealous mother, " that
my being happier is of more consequence ; is it not, Miss Dawson?

"Certainly, madam," she replied.

"I do wish. Miss Dawson, you would not answer me in that
peculiarly sad voice; and that everlasting mourning you wear — it
makes me heart-broken to look at it."

" It nearly broke my heart," said the poor girl, "to put it on."

"Well, there is no occasion to be sharp about it. I thought when
you received your first quarter's salary, you would have changed it.
Caroline, take your hand out of Miss Dawson's ; I hate to see that
sort of familiarity. Since you have both been so good, suppose you
come and drive with me in the park."

" Oh, thank you, dear mamma ! " exclaimed both the children, in
a delighted tone of voice ; rejoiced to see her temper changed.

"Thank you, that will be a treat; and, mamma," added Caroline,
" may Miss Dawson come also ? "

TMK GOVERNESS. 19

" Miss Dawson has had her drive this week already," said Mrs.
Hylier, walking out of the room with renewed ill temper.

''Let Elizabeth go, and I will stay with you," whispered the
affectionate, though spoiled, child, to Miss Dawson.

"No, indeed," she replied — " no, indeed ; it was very kind of your
mamma to ask you, and you will offend her if you do not go. I have
a letter to write, and that will employ me until you return."

" Ah, you say that to make us go ! " said Elizabeth.

"For shame, Lizzy! you know we never found Miss Dawson
out in the very least little white fib in the world," observed Caroline.

"13ut that would not be a fib, would it, sister? — because mamma
often says those kind of things to papa, to get him to do what she
wants."

" You are too young, my dear Lizzy, to l)c able to judge of any
one's motives," said Miss Dawson; "and in tliis instance may be
mistaken. So now, dears, go, and do not keep mamma waiting."

Some person, who had seen Miss Dawson by chance at Mrs.
Hylier's, although she was " only a governess," had been heard to
observe that she was very pretty. I lad she not been a governess,
she could not have been looked at without being admired — not for
actual beauty, but for the sweet gentleness of lur countenance, the
purity of her complexion, the open, truthful outlooking of her fine
eyes, and the ease and grace of her movements. The deep mourn-
ing, which had excited Mrs. Hylier's displeasure, made her an object
of touching interest to all who had any feeling ; it harmonised with
the sad expression of lur face ; and two or three ladies, in open
defiance of .Mrs. Hylier's u»ll-known jealousy of disposition, had said
" liow glad they should be if Miss Dawson woidd visit thiir young
p<>oplc"— invitations which nhc thankfully declined. When she was
\v[\ alone — a luxury which her class so seldom enjoy — she opened
her desk, and, after glancing <iver some letters, fixed her eyes upon
a miniature Hhc had taken from a secret drawer. She looked at it
long and steadily, until her eyes overflowed, and tear after tt ar. large
round drops, coursed each other down her anguished face ; then,
wiping the moisture from it.s surface, she looked .igain at ihe picture,

20 woman's trials.

pressed it convulsively within her clasped palms, and laying her head
upon them, sobbed as if her heart was breaking. While sobbing, she
slid from her seat upon her knees ; her emotion gradually subsided.
She prayed, rose, kissed the cherished picture, and murmuring, as
she closed the case, " Mother — my mother !" replaced it in her desk.
Strange as it may seem, after this agitation she became at once com-
posed — it had done her good ; the petty insults which, cherished child
as she had been for so many years, she felt it hard to endure, had
passed away with the deluge of tears that welled up from her young
heart. She wondered how they could have grieved her — how she
could have felt them — when the superior bitterness of her mother's
loss came again upon lier. Small sorrows place us below the world — a
great sorrow above it ; and she continued a letter, written at intervals,
with a quieter and firmer mind than she had experienced for some
days. The letter was to a young lady, the sister of the curate who
had attended her mother's death-bed : a portion of it ran thus : —

" You ask me if I am happy : I ought to be happier than I am.
My two pupils are kind, affectionate girls ; and though somewhat idle,
and very ignorant, if I am permitted to manage them as I desire,
I have no doubt they will improve — not rapidly, but certainly. I
never could manage a child until I had obtained its affections — and
the affections of the young are generally ductile ; but Mrs. Hylier
is weak enough to be jealous of the little love the children bear me.
She does not understand that it is the only means I have of work-
ing out her, or what ought to be her, intentions. But the truth is,
that all she really desires them to know are a few showy accom-
plishments. She came home in an ecstacy of delight the other evening
with a girl who had repeated some long Italian poem — of which she
could not even remember the name, much less understand the mean-
ing — in a room crowded with company. ' The girl,' she said, ' had
so much self-possession, and her action was so graceful.' With the
same breath she declaimed against a woman's appearing on the stage.
I ventured to observe, that the child who, at twelve years of age,
could have sufficient confidence to repeat and act a poem in a
crowded drawing-room, would be very likely to desire to exhibit

THE GOVERNESS. 21

before a larger audience as she grew older ; but she could not per-
ceive the analogy, and thought, indeed said, I was impertinent for
making it. Is it not a cause of great regret that I have never yet
found a mother who would act in concert with me ? I submit
quietly to be treated with indifference by the lady and gentleman,
who, when I am in the room, speak and act exactly as if they were
alone, except when secrets are to be conununicatcd, then they begin
to whisper, and then, of course, I leave the apartment. I find, when
with my pupils, a deep, and happily, an absorbing interest, in their
improvement ; but, when that excitement is over, I droop again ; for
I am considered an intruder when lessons are over, and an automaton
while they are in progress. Shall I ever again hear the voice of
encouragement, which makes the heart bound to its duties — shall I ever
be praised any more ! Oh, do not think, because I say this, that I
yearn after flattery ; I do not ; but if the parent knew how kind con-
siderate words increase the desire to bring the children forward — a
smile — a gentle word — a simple ' you have done wt-ll,' would make
the labour, the weary labour, of thankless teaching a pleasure. Mrs.
Ilylicr seldom finds fault ; but she never utters a sound of commend-
ation. And yet «liy do 1 com]>lain .' You know that, for three years
before my mother was taken from me, I toiled through the streets of
that distant town, in the grey mists of the winter mornings, as well as
in the light of the sinnmer sun, teaching nmsic here and drawing
there— all the 'accomplishments' in one place, and 'the sciences' in
another ; and, as I had no protector — a creature to be insulted by those
v\hose manly garb was certainly no index to a manly mind ; I was dis-
missed from one house because the lady thought me too pretty to come
in the way of her son ; from aiiotlier, because I did not wear caps, :u)d
looked tot> young without them ; from another, because I woidd not
lunch with the ladv's maid ; and vet I bore all this, and more, as vou

• • •

know, eheerfully. becau.nc from six in the evening until eight the
next morning, I had the Hlieltering lN>som of my mother. The abilities
she had fostered were the nu-nns of NU|iporiing her at the last. In
those two small cottage rooms / had a iunnc ; there were her »mile, her
voice, her counnel, and her praytr. I was some one'n first object. She

22 woman's trials.

loved me ; the tenderness of her whole life was poured into my heart,
under every trial which a fatherless girl must endure, who has to grope
her way through the world's darkness. Oh, my mother ! my mother ! —
tears will blot the page when I write of her ! When I think of her, I
feel suflocated ; and I have no right to repine ; only thus much — even
a little kindness would make me work cheerfully. With the education,
and tastes, and feelings of a gentlewoman, it is hard to be treated as if
I l)ad neither education, nor taste, nor feeling. The lady's maid is a
confidant ; the liousekeeper a mistress ; the housemaid has half the day

to herself ; the governess But this is idle ; my mother would

reprove me for it ; she would tell me to do my duty in that state of
life to which it has pleased God to call me, and leave the rest to Him.
You know how she was deserted by her father in consequence of her
marriage; and, according to her desire, her death was mentioned exactly
as she wished. She tliouglit that if her father saw it, he would seek
out his grandchild. Perhaps he is dead ! — at least, no notice has been
taken of me ; and if it had not been for the chance which threw me in
the way of that strange old man, Mr. Byfield, I might have been left
upon the world without any occupation. He is certainly a very odd
old man ; he evinced a great degree of interest in me at first, but since
he placed me here, he has never spoken to me but once. I had been
walking the other morning in the park for more than two hours with the
children, and being tired, sat down upon one of the benches, while the
children walked up and down with their cousin, as their mother wishes,
and under the care of Mrs. Gresham's French governess ; he came so
suddenly, that he quite took me by surprise. ' Are you growing lazy V
he inquired. I answered, ' No ; but that I was not very well.' 'And
have you not found out,' he continued, ' that a governess has no right
to be ill !' I answered, ' I knew that ; and so was ill but seldom.'
' Do you jest with me V he said, sternly. ' No, sir,' I replied ; ' I
speak the truth. If I were independent, I would yield most likely to
a pain in my side, or, when my cough keeps me awake all night, send
for a doctor; the world believes in the sickness that is heard of, rather
than the sickness that must be examined into — no one sees my illness,
so I am ill but seldom.' And then he looked so penetratingly into my

THE GOVERNESS. 23

face, and asked me how I liad learned to reason ? and I had it on my
lip to answer, that I had learned to reason by endeavouring to cease to
feel, but thought the reply would seem pert from youth to age, so
smiled, and held my peace ; and when I smiled, he sighed so bitterly,
and walked away, and then looked back, and returned and sat down by
my side; then gazing in my face, he asked me if I had ever told a lie.
And I said truly, in the sight of God, I believed I never had since I
knew wrong from right. And tlun he answered, that I looked like
truth, as all women did when they lied most. It was unwise, I know ;
but I had done nothing to deserve such an insult, and I told him so,
without further j>arley, but as gently as I could, thanking him for the
kindness he had shown to one who had no friend but God. Will you
believe that he seemed no more moved by what I uttered than if I had
been dumb ; only, when I had finished speaking, I could not repress
the tears that would come — poor cowardly tears — I hate them so — those

waters of a troubled heart ; and then, shaking his head, he said

But I hear the voice of Mrs. Gresham's French governess, so must say
adieu for the present. If constant occupation did not increase my
weakness, I dare say my spirits would rrvive ; for I have a better
lot than many. There is a poor teacher at Mrs. Stonewell's school,
and Ma'amselle .Mercier tells me she has but fifteen pounds a-ycar, and
remains at school all the vacations, to mend up the house linen. Adieu."
•' .Ml I there you are !" exclaimed the light breezy voice of Made-
moiselle Mercier, as she ran up and kissed Emily Dawson on l)oth
cheeks. " ,\h I ma mic, vy you not go a valk in the Parks .' Ah !
you English ladies are given to the moj)es ; and ven you have five
moments to yourself, instead of enjoy all, you make sorrow more
sorrowful by thinking over him I Toujours gai I I have seen my
mainan this morning — she come from I'aris to l»e Bonne in Liuly
Craig's family, alU-r educating Lady Craig. She has lirouglit me such
a charming para.iol ; she loves me so moche, my dear niotherc ; Ah!
my dear, I beg your pardon, I forget ; I did not nu-an to call your
tears, chere Emily. I am thoughtless girl ; antl my niotherc make mc
full of joy. Now, do not cry ; bah I — there! I tell you. if you dry
up your nice bhu- English cyvs, I vill go and fetch my new parasol,

WOMAN S TRIALS.

and ve vill valk tofiethere in Kensin";ton Garden for half hour.
Madame Hylier, she say to Madame Gresham, they go three hour

drive, and they are not gone two hours yet Do come Madame

Gresham likes me to be vith you, you are so steady. All the company
is in the garden by this — and ve see such nice ladie and gentleman,
almost like Longchamps."

Miss Dawson begged to be excused ; she would rather stay at
home ; she had much to do ; was not well ; and urged a thousand
reasons, but without effect. " As you please, my dear," said the now
pouting French girl; "but it is unkind of you; Madame Gresham
vill not let me go vith any other lady, and I nevere get a valk. Dat
cher littel boy is such a plague ven ve go out — and he is avay. Now
do come ; it is cruel of you for fancy to prevent me !" Emily did not
continue to refuse, for she could not bear to be unkind; and drawing
a thick crape veil over her face, she prepared to accompany the
volatile but kind-hearted Frenchwoman. They were a national con-
trast, those two girls ; — the staid, quiet, graceful deportment of Emily
Dawson, and the vivid, tripping, carefully careless demarche of Colette
Mercier — the deep mourning of the English girl, and the tulip-like garb
of the French, in whose dress, though there were divers colours, there
was perfect harmony. " You look pale and tired already, mamie,"
she said to Emily ; " and we must not sit down in the gardens, I am
told. But it would be most pleasant, those charming, lovely ladies,
and handsome gentlemen, if they only vould look happy ; but they do
not — they look solemn, and valk dead marche in Saul ; and yet though
I am but poor governess, I am happier than they. There now, is an
English governess vith her pupils — how sad she look, poor girl ! I vill
tell you, Emily, vat my mothere tell me ven first I came to Englan'
' Ma cherc,' she say to me in confidance, ' do your duty as moche as
you can, vithout killing yourself. Some families will be very kind and
goot to you ; and out of seven that I taught in myself, one is good to
me now, that is Lady Craig; but the rest forgot the cares and teachings.
If you meet gratitude — which all who teach deserve from all who learn
— turn up your eyes and bless God, but do not expect it. I know what
young teachers think ven pains have been taken vidi them, as I take

THE GOVERNESS. 25

vith you ; they go to situation full of the importance of their duties.
Bah ! till inotheres treat governesses like gentlewomen, and feel that
the very best part of what an honest teacher gives her pupils — the
thoughts of her head and the feelings of her heart— cannot be paid for,
though the mere machinery of teaching may be remunerated — there
can be no reciprocity between them."

This Colette uttered rapidly, with her strong and peculiar accent, for
her French had a flavouring of patois, of which even her English par-
took ; and she laughed lightly when her speech was ended. '• That,"
answered Miss Dawson, " is an easy theory, but a bad practice. No
matter how you are treated, your duty remains the same; it cannot be
performed with the same pleasure, but it is the same !"

" Veil, my dear, so let it be ; torment the flesh off your bones —
plague yourself to death— fag, fag — and see ! At the last you vill have
no more thanks for your heavy toil than I shall have for my light
lal)our. Bah ! half the people do not know the diflerence between a
good and a bad governess. My motlare, she say, how should they
until they are better educated themselves i Now, there, you act
what you call conscientiously ; you are lliin, like a poor rush, and
sigh when alone. I take it lightly ; I do not trouble myself: I aui fat,
and laugh to myself. If you wear yourself to the bone, what do vou
satisfy .' "

" My own conscience," replied Emily.

" Ah I veil, if you go on satisfying your sort of conscience, you vill
soon have a bell ring over your grave," replied the Erencli girl. " Ah I"
»he added, looking under her companion's bonnet— for they had l)een
walking rather rapidly, and Emily was obliged to throw up her veil for
air—" you smile at that ; it is not smiling matter to die and be put in the
cold ground ven one is young, and tin- earth one great garden.''

Emily made no reply. " .\fler all," resinned C'olc-ite, " I do not see
no pretty parasol a.s mine villi any lady."

'• It IH very pretty, certainly," .sai<l Mihs Dnwson; " liul 1 think it
quite lime to return home." She was urged to this reuinrk by the stare
of a couple of gentlemen, who, certainly not unobserved by (\)Iette, had
followed them for the last few minutes, and, de.Hpite their r.-ipid foot-

26 woman's trials.

steps, managed to escort them, as soldiers do their prisoners, to their
door — Emily maintaining a dignified silence, and Colette divided be-
tween her national love for adventure and a certain womanly disdain of
insulting impertinence, which together — one feeling acting one moment
and another the next — prompted her to give vent to one or two clever
sarcasms, which provoked and amused their tormentors.

Mrs. Hylier and Mrs. Gresham were at the breakfast-room door as
they entered, and had been evidently watching their return.

*' I did not know you were going out, Miss Dawson," said Mrs.
Hylier, sternly.

" As the young ladies were with you, I thought I might accompany
Ma'amsclle," she answered.

" I do not approve of my governess walking with gentlemen," con-
tinued the lady, apparently unconscious that Miss Dawson had replied.

" Vot gentlemens?" exclaimed Miss Mercier, with an air of pretty
astonishment.

*' You know best, miss ; but as you are not in my employment, I
l)ave nothing to say to you ; I can only desire my governess not to do
it again," persisted Mrs. Hylier. " And I should like to know who
the gentlemen were."

" And so should I, indeed, ma'am," said Miss Dawson, " most
earnestly, thougli it would be to little purpose — for who would avenge
an insult offered to me?"

" Oh ! you should tell your patron saint, Mr. Byfield," returned the
lady, witli an insulting laugh and a sneer, as she entered the breakfast-
room with Mrs. Gresham, slapping the door in the face of the two girls.

Wliile Colette muttered to herself in French, Miss Dawson turned
slowly round to go up stairs, and saw the housemaid draw back her
head from over the bannisters, while the footman did not think it
necessary to conceal that he had heard the " blowing up, "as he elegantly
termed it, which his mistress gave "our governess."

Mrs. Hylier threw herself into a chair, and, looking at Mrs. Gres-
ham, exclaimed, " Well, and what do you mean to do ?"

" Why, nothing, sister; surely the poor girls cannot help it if im-
pertinent men will follow them home."

THE GOVERNESS. 27

" I know the French girl you have is good for nothing, and you
have suffered her to encroach too much."

" I really cannot tell, sister," said the tranquil Mrs. Gresham ; " 1
had an excellent character with her, and though Mrs. Kyal did say her
accent is bad, I don't think she is a good judge ; and one may go on
changing for ever, just as she does. Since that underbred daily gover-
ness of hers ran off with her own father's shopman, she has tried
half-a-dozen ; but, as Mr. Gresham says, she gives her servants better
wages than her teachers, and what can she expect?"

Again the ladies were interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Kyal,
just as they had been when about to advertise.

"I feel it my duty, Mrs. Hylier," she commenced, after the usual
nothings of the morning visit had been exchanged — " 1 feel it a posi-
tive duty to tell you that all the people of Kensington are talking
about you."

" I am glad they are so well employed," retorted Mrs. Ilylier, witli
a provoking smile.

"Then you are easily satisfied, my dear; but rather, I should have
iwiid, tlity are talking about your governess, and your ama/ing gullibi-
lity. Indeed, they are hinting that Mr. Hylier must have some parti-
cular reason for suflering such an inmate. Wliy — do — you — know —
mho — you — have — got — in — your — house ?" These last words were
pronounced with pecidiar emphasis, and divided exactly as they are
printed, the lady advancing her face close to that of Mrs. Hylier. and
opening her eyelids so a.s to make her round eyes seem hail' as large
again as they really were.

" Ye — s," stammered Mrs. ilylier; a g(j - verncss."

" \ — nonsense, my dear ; she is not a bit better than she should
he."

"Few of us are," saicl the nuik .Mrs. (Jrisham, ^^ll«^, Miimhow or
utiier — perhaps through the influence of a Kensible husband, whom .she
wn.H fortimate enough to love very much — was i)eginning t<i think oeca-
flionally, andio compare — the beat result of thouglii.

•' Mrs. Kyal l«N>ked d.if;'^rr!i at her ioT a moment, and then con-
tinued— " I'hal old Hyfnid is a wretch."

28 woman's trials.

" I always thought so," answered Mrs. Hylier, not wilhng to be
outdone in suspicion : " I always thought she was his daughter."

His daughter! that would be milk-white innocence to the fact — she
is much worse."

" Impossible !" said Mrs. Gresham.

" He could not be so bad as that," observed Mrs. Hylier.

" All men are bad," pronounced the decided Mrs. Ryal ; " all men
are bad, as I tell my husband ; but some are worse than others."

" You are mistaken — misinformed, I should have said," quoth the
perplexed Mrs. Hylier ; he has never taken the smallest notice of her
since she has been here— never asked why she was not in the drawing-
room. I even, one day, thinking to put him in good humour, showed
him a tulip she had worked in that everlasting tapestry of mine."

" Well, and what did he say ?"

" Why, he called it— rubbish."

" Sheer art," said Mrs. Ryal.

" I cannot believe he would put a person of bad character over my
children," urged Mrs. Hylier.

" Stuff!" exclaimed Mrs. Ryal.

"And the object?"

"Ah! that rests in the secret recesses of the man's own wicked
heart," said Mrs. Ryal, with due emphasis; and then addeil, "To get
at their motives is hard for us poor women; but the only way to get
even at their acts, is by putting that and that together." This was
said with an air of peculiar sagacity. " Now, let Mrs. Gresham ask
her popinjay of a governess, if, the other day in the park. Miss Daw-
son did not complain of being tired (now only fancy a governess, whose
duty it is, her positive duly, to walk as long with her pupils as it is
necessary they should walk — only fancy her being tired ! — ah ! ah !
there is a ruse in the very excuse (if she did not sit down on a seat,
and if Mr. Byfield, who seems so strange and unconcerned about her
here, did not come up, and not only sit down by her side, but take her
hand ; and then she sulked, and he went away, and came back again,
and kept her hand in his, and there they sat like two lovers, in Hyde
Park. It is really scandalous to repeat, and makes my cheeks all over

THE GOVERNESS. 29

in a glow. And to-day, my Mary was in Kensington Gardens — Mary,
my own maid — and slie saw your two governesses, ladies, flirting and
philandering about ; and tlicn, who should she also observe, watch-
ing the English girl's every movement, but old Byfield. Well, two
dandified gentlemen came up, attracted, Mary says, by the lightness of
their manner, and followed them home ; but not unobserved; for the
old gentleman, his face purple with jealousy"

" Or the March wind," sui'gested Mrs. Gresham.

" Kept at the other side of the way," continued Mrs. Ryal, with a
look of contempt at Mrs. Gresham. " But that is not all. This morn-
ing I sent .Mary with a letter to the post, and she overtook Mr. Byfield's
man, who was talking at the corner of Salter's to one of the butchers.
' Are you going to the post-office ?' he said. ' Then will you put my
master's letter in for me ?' And so she took the letter — she is very
obliging — and who should it be directed to but Miss Dawson I" Mrs.
Hylier rang the bell, and inquired of the servant if the governess had
received a letter. The man said the three o'clock post had brought
her one while she was out ; that he believed it had not yet been taken
to the school-room ; as it was not in his department, could not exactly
tell — would incpiire — went down, and returned with the letter : it had
been left on the kitchen dresser. TIu- I.hIv found no fault with the
servant's unpardonable inattention ; and when he had left the room, the
three ladies (U-elared it certainly was .Mr. Bylield's handwriting.

" Will yr)u l)reak the seal ?" inquired Mrs. Hyal, eyeing tlu- K tt<r
longingly.

" Certainly not," answi-red .Mrs. Hylier.

"All!" said .Mrs. Kyal, with a sigh, "Mary says true enough,
secrets arc secrets since the packet envelojws cnnu" in ; iIk n have her
down, and Her how she will look when she opens it." Mis. Ilylier's
hand was on the bell, when Mrs. Ciresham inlreposcd.

" Sister," iihe said, " it occurs to me that we may nil be in error;
And if so, how will you forgive yourself (or wounding the feelings of a
|Kx>r girl ?"

" Feclmgs, indeed !" sneereil Mrs. Kyal; "why, I vow she has
bewitrhe<l vou as well as the men ; can any thing l)e more evident ? —

30 woman's trials.

at least, if she is innocent, give her an opportunity of clearing
herself?"

The bell was rung ; and the governess, still smarting under the
lash of the previous insult, was sent for.

The servant returned with an apology — would Mrs. Hylier be so
good as to excuse her for a few moments; tlie servant added, that Miss
Dawson was crying.

" How I liave sustained my spirits since she came into the house
is extraordinary," observed Mrs. Hylier, smelling her vinaigrette —
" she is always sad."

" She has good reasons, you may depend on it," said Mrs. Ryal,
significantly.

" I think so too," added Mrs. Gresham, quietly.

*' Really, sister," said Mrs. Hylier, " to hear you talk of late, one
would think I was a savage. I am sure it is quite enough to be plagued
with great growing-up daughters, without those, governesses ; and if
I mention school, Mr. Hylier begins about morals. I wish you had
had Miss Dawson with all my heart."

" My French girl does pretty well ; but Mr. Gresham says she acts

from habit, not principle: and that — but hush" Emily Dawson

entered the room, while the traces of tears were yet fresh upon her fair
young face ; the earnest desire she had ever felt to perform her duty in
the highest and most important vocation which a woman can be called
upon to fulfil, had not only given an elevation to her countenance and
manner, but an expression to her features which never accompanies a
small or sordid mind ; and whatever Mrs. Hylier chose to say when she
was not present, the superiority of mind was so manifest in the manner
of the young governess, that, despite the presence of Mrs. Ryal, she
desired her to be seated, in a tone which signified a request. Then
came the question. Had she met Mr. Byfield in the Park— sat and con-
versed with him? To this she frankly answered, " Yes," and seemed
perfectly unconscious of the occasion of the smile and sneer that passed
between Mrs. Hylier and Mrs. Ryal. She professed herself quite
unable to account either for the countenance Mr. Byfield had shown her
at first, or his subsequent change of conduct. " He had,'' she said,

THE GOVERNESS. 31

•' apparently befriended her for the very reason which made the world
shun her — because she was friendless and poor." Then Mrs. Hylier
placed the letter in her hand; with what Mrs. Ryal afterwards termed
" unpardonable effrontery," she opened it, and as she read, her coun-
tenance became radiant with pleasure.

'* Well !" exclaimed the two ladies, actuated by the same impulse —
" Well, have you any objection to our seeing that letter?"

•* I cannot show it to Mrs. Hylier," she replied, with perfect frank-
ness, " because Mr. Byfield desires me not to do so." •

" Was ever such hardened impudence !" muttered Mrs. Ryal.

" It is very kind — very — I am sure," continued Emily, repcrusing
tlie letter, and too much absorbed with and delighted by its contents
to hear the remark Mrs. Ryal made. " It is too — too much !"

" What is?" said Mrs. CJresham.

" To take a lodging for me at Ilampstead, wluri' I run to remain
for a few months, until I get stronger and better — and .ill at his own
expense. I remember when I would have l)oen too proud to accept
such a favour, thinking I could earn all I required ; but of late 1 have
been so weak — so" — She looked fronj the gentle face of Mrs. (Iresham
to the other ladies, and, astonished at the expression of displeasure
and scorn oh their countenances, paused, and did not utter another
word.

" I think, then, the sooner you leave my house the better," said Mrs.
Hylii-r — " the sooner the better. Oh, what will Mr. Hylier say!"

** What have I <l()ne ?" exclaimed Miss Dawson.

" Oh, what a world it is — to see such a face as that masking so
much vice!" ejaculated .Mrs. Ryal.

" ,\re vou aware what will be said if yo\i place yoursilf \nid<r
Mr. Hyfield's protection in this way?" impiired Mrs. (Jnshani, still

kindly.

*• [,et her go, by nil means — there, you may go — aii<l the sooner
(lilt nl the house the In-tter ! OliI t.. tlimk of iny having such a
person as tins to take care of my innocent ehihlren I" and Mrs.
Ilvlier, overp<>v%ered by a sudd«n fit of maternal love, fell into strong
hysterics.

32 woman's trials.

Emily walked up stairs, the open letter in her hand, Miss Mercier
was still in the school-room.

" Ma'amselle," said Miss Dawson, " Mr. Byfield has written to
me that, knowing I am overworked and ill, he has taken for me a
country lodging for a few months. You know who he is, and all about
him?"

" And surely you are not going to accept that!" replied the French
girl ; " if you do, you lose character at once. No one evere do such
a naughty thing as that ; he must be bad man. Do, pray, send it
back ; young men sometimes make love for love, but old men always
for vickedness ; bah!"

Of all the difficult things in the world, it is the most difficult
for people of the world to comprehend the unselfishness of the good.

" I don't know how it is," persisted Ma'amselle; " you are in life
nearly as long as I am, and yet you don't know half so moche. De-
pend upon it, the old man is a bad man. If you go into the lodging he
take, you nevere come out with good charactere. Take my advice —
I know more than you."

" Good-bye, Ma'amselle,'' said Emily ; " thank you for your
frankness. God bless you ; leave me by myself to think a little."

When Emily was alone, she read the letter over again. The unac-
countable interest Mr. Byfield had taken in her as a stranger, did not
seem so singular as the carelessness he had evinced towards her for so
long a time. Emily Dawson's own pure mind could hardly conceive
the possibility of what she had heard from Mrs. Hylier and Mrs. Ryal ;
but she had often been astonished at tlie acuteness of the French-
woman's perceptions. Could such baseness be possible ? Her whole
nature seemed changed in a moment ; she trembled convulsively, fear-
ing she knew not what ; and, from suspecting nothing, she suspected
everything. Why should Mr. Byfield forbid her showing his letter to
Mrs. Hylier ? — why ? But her brain whirled — she could not think.
The housemaid entered the room ; she was a kind girl, and in tears.

" Please, miss, my mistress says you're to go to night," she said.

" Where?" inquired the governess, in a tone of such utter help-
lessness that it touched the poor thing to the heart.

THE GOVE UN ESS. 33

" I'm sure I don't know, miss. Slie said you could be at no loss
for a home ; and here's the month's salary and month's warning
money."

" Not to Mr. Byfield," she thouglit; "I must not go there: tliey all
say that; and yet this woman turns me out to the very vice she would
have me shun. God help me — I am quite, quite alone!"

" Master will be in a line way, that I know, when he comes home,"
continued the girl, good-naturedly busying herself packing up Miss
Dawson's wardrobe. " I'm sure I hope you ain't going to Mr.
Byfield's; though I'm sure there's no harm, yet I hope you're not.
miss. If you wouldn't be above it, my mother has a little pretty house
at Chelsea, and you might be there till you could turn yourself about
— safe, as one may say; and if so be you wish it, I'd be on my honour
and mv oath not to tell — not the old (gentleman, nor anv one else."

"Anywhere, Mary — any where," said the governess, listlessly;
" atiy where, away from all I have known in this liouse."

Mlizabeth, the youngest of her j)uj)ils, rushed into the room, and
flinging her arms round hrr neck, sobl)ed — " You shall not go, dear
Miss Dawson — you slutU not go. Mamma said I was not to come
near you, you were so wicked ; but I said I would."

" Your mamma mistakes," answered the governess, not even in the
anguish of that hour forgetting how necessary it is to make the parent
appear right always, at least in intention, in the eyes of the child.
'• 8he mistakes, dearest FJizabeth ; she will not always think so ; ])ut
you must not cling round nif. CJod ble.ss you, n)y dear child ; you did
wrong to come when manuna said vou were not to do so. (Jod bless
you — be good, be truihfid, anil olx-dieiit ; (Jod bless you I " and \xitli a
grntle force she obliged the we<'ping child to leave the room.

A short tinie completed her preparations, or rather the preparations
whieh .Nfarv made for her. It is pleasant and cheering t<» note the
kindness which the poor often bestow ujion those who are in trouble.
The evidence of the <-xistence of this lienevcdent feeling i« far more
frequent tlian pe«»ple ini.igine. It does not th-.scend in showers of
coin, but in wordn of kindness ; and in an pure ns the dew which an
all-wise nature distils into tin- cups of drooping flowers.

34 woman's trials.

" Let me tie your bonnet, miss, and pin your shawl. Lawk, how
7iumb your liands are ! Then, you'll go to my mother's, I think you
said, miss, and no one shall know ; she'll treat you as it becomes her
like to treat a lady, rich or poor. The cab is ready. Now, keep a
heart: God is above us all. I'll open the door myself," she continued ;
" and the trunk is in ; and keep up, miss — lies are found out sooner
or later. Why," she exclaimed, seeing that Emily paused opposite
the drawing-room, " surely you are not a going to be more insulted?
You might as well talk to a stone w-all as to my missus."

Emily nevertheless entered the apartment, where Mrs. Hylier was
alone, pondering, in no pleasant mood, over the occurrences of the
past hours — thinking how she had acted in decided opposition to her
husband's desire, who willed it that Mr. Byfield was never to be
contradicted, at least in his house ; and though she was half-convinced
of Emily's unworthiness, she knew how hard it would be to convince
him. The pale girl walked silently up to where Mrs. Hylier was
seated. " I come," she said, " to bid you remember what I say — that
you will (heartless as you are) repent the injustice and insult you have
heaped upon the head of a hoi^seless, homeless orphan. You have done
me cruel wrong by your suspicion, and you send me forth to make the
suspicion real; but God, who is above all, will save me yet!"

She spoke these few words in the tone of a breaking heart, and
without further word quitted the house. During the short time of her
residence there, she had conferred more lasting service upon Mrs.
Ilylier's children than they had ever received before — she had sown
healthful and truthful seed. Not content with teaching by lessons,
she had hallowed every tree, and leaf, and blade of grass, with a
history. A new existence had dawned upon their minds : they under-
stood rvhy their hoop rolled, and why it came to the ground ; they
understood why morning followed night, and why the heat was at
noon the most intense. They had learned more orally than they
had ever learned from books. Poor Emily knew this ; and as her
arm encircled her trunk, and her iiot fevered breath hung upon the
closed windows of the rattling cabriolet, that was taking her she knew
not where, the words of the French teacher rang in her ears —

THE GOVERNESS.

• Torment the flesli off your bones — plague yourself to death —
fag, fag — and see! At the last, you will have no more thanks for
your heavy toil than I shall for my light labour." " Still," she mur-
mured, " I have done my duty."

'• Please, ma'am," said the man to an elderly woman who opened
the door of a small house in a low suburb, " here's a lady, like,
your daughter in Kensington has sent you, as a lodger ; and you are
to be particular kind to her, and she'll try and run down lo-niorrow
night, between lights. The fare is paid, miss — the young woman paid
it. She said she knew you hadn't changed your cheque."

Mary's mother did not look as good natured as Mary herself.
But Emily was so bowed down as hardly to observe the difference.

" Well," said the woman to lior youngest daughter — '" will. I
never saw any one so careless about accommodation. Why, she said
the back would do as well as the front room, tliougii I told her she
might have either at the same rent ; ;iiid if 1 had not undressed her,
she'd have either sat up all night, or lain down in her clothes. She's
more like a dead than a living woman."

PART THE THIRD.

HE next morning the pat, pat, pat, of

Mr. Byfield's cane was heard ascending

the steps leading to Mr. Hylier's hall

3r ; his knock had the determined sound of

will come in." " Remember, James," said

mistress, " popping " her head out of the

-room, " I am not at home — I shall not be

day — I am out for a week — went down to

r master last night." James bowed, and the

lady disappeared.

" My mistress is not at home, sir," observed the
sapient footman. Mr. Byfield poked him aside with his
cane, and having entered the hall, said, " I want to speak to Miss
Dawson."

" Miss Dawson, sir, left the house last night."

meet

*• Left last night ! Tlien where is she gone ? "
" Really can't say, sir; she's left for good, trunk and all."
•' Left — gone; but surely you must know where she drove to? "
" The housemaid saw her ott", sir." Mr. Bytield commanded Mary
to appear ; but she, having always lived " in the best families,*' lied
with superior firnmess. " The very words Miss Dawson said, sir.
were, ' Tell the cab to drive to Oxford Street, and tliin I will direct
him the number;' these were htr last words, sir, ami I can tell no
more." Mary was in haste — not agitated l)y the untruth — so she
stayed no farther question, but dived down the kitchen stairs.
" Now," said the old gentleman. " I must see your mistress."'
" Not at home, sir," repeated James.
'• When will she be at home ?"

" Not for a week. She's gone down to where master's stopping."
" 'I'hat's the third falsehood you have lold since I came into this
li;ill, young man," observed Mr. Ryfield. " Your mistress cannot have
sjone down to where your master is, because business obliged your
master to conie t<} my house this morning, even before he visited his
own ; " and Mr. Uyfield turned and entered the break fast- room so
suddenly as almost to knock down the fair mistress of the mansion,
who certainly was as close to the door as if she had been about to open
it for her unwelcome intruder.

" (iood morning, madam I " he said, with the exceeding courtesy of
an angry man, before the storm ih.it lias gathered, l)reaks. " Good
morning. Will you have the kindness to tell me n/urc Miss Dawson
18 gone, and h7j// she is gone ? "

•Mrs. Ilylier suflered Mr. Hyfield to repeat his (ptestion In-fore .she
answered ; .she was debating within herself whether she shoidd assume
a tone of indignant and cjutraged propriety, or that of gentle upl)raiding;
her teni|H-r triumphed, and she lo.nt sight of her hu.sliand's interests ami
her liuxliAnd's wislies. In loud and uncpialified (erms she upbraided
Mr. Ily field with what she termed his sinfid duplicity, in Htrcing a
person, whom she called by no gentle name, into her house ; exhausted
n dictionary of epithets iip<in Miss DawHon — talkeil wildly and at
random of depravity — and wound all up l>y a movement something

ir>:i>Hi

38 woman's trials.

between an liysteric and a faint. Mr. Byfield sat — his great grey eyes
dilating and contracting, like those of a cat in the sunshine, according
as his passions were moved ; and notwitlistanding his age, such was
their fire, that they would have scorched the noisy fragile thing — who
had sunk into her luxurious chair, a trembling heap of mull-muslin and
English blonde — if she had had the moral courage once to look him
fairly and bravely in the face. There sat Mr. Byfield, white and
motionless — so white, that the flakes of his snowy hair covdd hardly be
distinguished from his cheek ; his eyes flashing, as I have said ; his
long bony fingers grasping either knee, and grasping it so tightly, that
the dark veins stood out like purple ridges on his hands.

" Ring the bell !" she said, at last perceiving that he took no more
notice of her sobs than he had done of her words : " Ring the bell !"
He neither spoke nor moved ; and at last the lady essayed to do it her-
self. He seized her arm — and Lord Lindsay's mailed glove did not
press more deeply into the soft arm of Mary of Scotland, than did
the old man's animated bones into the wrist of Mrs. Hylier. She
screamed with spleen and pain, but resumed her seat. And there he
continued to sit opposite to her, without trusting himself to speak, yet,
by his presence, effectually preventing her moving. Suddenly Mr.
Hylier's well-known knock resounded through the house. There was
a rush of light young feet — the echoes of the beatings of anxious
hearts — and exclamations of " Oh, papa !" — " Dear papa !" and a
wliisper or two, and then Mr. Hylier came in, just in time to catch his
wife, in another faint, upon his arm. Questions followed ; and the two
young ladies were turned out of the room ; while Mrs. Hylier sobbed
and moaned, and called herself an ill-used woman. At last the old
man, gathering up his energies, spoke. He stated fairly and plainly,
in agitated tones, that he had placed Miss Dawson with Mrs. Hylier,
because he wished to observe how she would bear the ill and careless
manner in which he knew she would be treated. It was (he said) of
paramount importance to him, that he should observe how she bore up
against the disagreeableness of her situation ; it had not (he continued)
escaped him, that, as long as the impression remained upon Mrs.
Hylier's mind, that it would please him to be kind to his protegee, she

THE GOVERNESS. 39

was tolerably considerate ; but when she found that lie neglected her
altoo'etlier — the circumstance that would have drawn a noble mind to
be more gracious to one so utterly deserted by the world, rendered
Mrs. Ilylier careless and unfeeling. Mr. By field had his own way of
doing every thing ; and there is little doubt, from his own statement,
that he would have gone on, heaping mystery on mystery, had he not
been suddenly aroused to a sense of Miss Dawson's uncomplaining
illness, by her appearance in the park ; and, after much mental
deliberation, he determined — still after his own strange fashion — to
provide her a quiet home, and be himself the bearer of his reasons to
Mrs. Ilylitr.

" I thought," he said, " that fertile as you and your friend Mrs.
Ryal are in attributing impurity to pure motives, you would hardly
have dared to pin a slander upon these white hairs, or suppose that so
single-minded and self-sacrificing a creature as Miss Dawson would
rush into vice — and such vice ! I did iuKigine, indeed, that you would
have considered me her father ; but to have thought and acted as you
have done — to have turned her pennyless'"

" I did not!" screamed Mrs. Ilylier; " I gave her a month's

salary — I — I" and then she appealed to .Mr. Ilylier, to know

why he suHired her to be insidted ; and, losing all conuii:ind ol' herself,
reiterated her opinion of Mr. liyfield's conduct.

'* For shame," said her husband. " Mr. Myfield, I entreat you to
consider how .Mrs. Ilylier has been acted upon by the misrepresenta-
tions of .Mrs. Kyal. She does not think her own thoughts, or speak her
own words.

*' I do I" repeated the foolish woman. *' If it is not as I say — what
connexion is he of Miss Dawson's? "

" IIi'.H GRANDCATiiKH !" answcrcd the old man. " And IkkI I
not believed that I coidd place dependence alone up«)n a character
that ban been Hlee|K-d to the lips in the bitter waters of the world's
strife— I ought to be ashamed to own it. Whv, then, should I feel such
bitterness towards you — |MM)r ifiiiifr of n whirling world ! ^ oul— upon
whom she had no riaun ; but thai in fnhe. Madam, there are wonun
in tin- world who acknowledge the claim of sistcthuod. «v< n whin it is

40 woman's trials.

covered by the rags of shame ; who seek to save — whose hands are
filled to overflowing by the charity which God pours into their hearts;
whose means, however small, like tlie widow's cruise, increase by
giving ; whose names w ill ascend and form pari of the glory of tlie
everlasting heavens, when ours will leave no record save upon the cold
and lying tombstone ! Oh, my God ! my God ! why do you not soften
onr hearts before it is too late!"

Mrs. Hylier would have essayed, if she dared, to say that she did not
believe he was Emily's grandfather, but she could not ; and Mr. Hylier,
while the old man paced the room violently, and wrung his hands,
whispered her he had but that morning returned from the neighbour-
hood where her mother died, and where her extraordinary and unceas-
ing efforts for the support of that dear mother, particularly during the
last years of her life, were talked of among a domestic and parent-
loving people, as something so enduring, so patient, so gentle, so holy,
as to be quite wonderful. " And this is the creature," he added, "that
the gossip of a chattering neighbourhood prompted you to insult. I
felt honoured by my friend's desire that I should investigate for myself,
and all I can say is, that if 1 had had the slightest knowledge of her
high qualities, she should never liave been treated as she has been."

" A lesson ! — a lesson !" said the old man, in a voice hoarse with an
emotion he used every exertion to control — " A lesson to us all, Hylier.
But now to find my — yes, my child — the child of my daughter, and tell
her who I am." He again paced the room, pressing his hands together,
and almost convulsed.

" May I hope, sir" stammered Mrs. Hylier.

'' Hope nothing, madam," lie interrupted, " as I do, but that time
may be given you, as well as me, to render justice."

And now, if my tale were to end, as luade up stories do, with a
record that the old man found his grandchild much better than he had
anticipated ; that they lived for a short time happily together, and then
the governess was married to a great lord, to the discomfiture of all
gossips, I should substitute fiction for fact — which I cannot do. The
life of a young woman, devoted to the instruction of youth, may be
likened to those streams we read of — springing up we know not

where — which imirmur along, fertilising as they flow ; and then, after
trees, and flowers, and sightly plants, have sprung up through their
unhonoured influence — behold! they have disappeared into the bowels
of the earth, and are seen no more ! In society, we constantly meet
young and accomplished ladies ; tlieir acquirements are universally
acknowledged and admired; until they " came out," they were attended
to always in their hours of study, of illness, of amusement, by their
" governess." She is gone now ; no one ever inquires after her. She
is gone, if young enough, to another situation, again to attend upon
young ladies in their hours of study, amusement, and illness — again
to be dismissed — again forgotten. Surely it is a high privilege to be
intrusted with the education of youth — one of the very highest that
a woman can enjoy ; and if she perform her duty, her services should
never be sli^/tled or forgotten. The " teacher" should rank, after lur
own immediate family, in the pupil's aflections ; or, if that cannot
be (for wc may respect those we do not love), in her esteem ; she
should always be honoured, and never permitted to want; her import-
ance to society is as vital as the imscen sap to the blooming tree ; her
situation subordinate, her influence paramount — not in the usual course
of influences, but if we hx.k back to our own young days, wc shall
remember how nuieh we learned from some patient teacher that
directed us through after life. Our astonishment is often excited, not
by the little which governesses know, but bv their knowing so much.
Nevertheless, until some decided step is t.ikcn by tin- legislature to
regulate not only schools, l)ut the educzition of teachers, there nuist
always be a danger of their incompetency to j)erf()rni at hast a portion
of all that is required of them. Still, in nine cases out often, wh.it has
been done for ourselves in the way of education, has been done by this
hardly-used race. And, eertaiidy. Mr. I'yfhld ought to li.ive bc«n
satisfied \\n\i »hat Kniily Dawson li:i<l .iln-ady accomplished, without
turning her over to one whom he knew woidd try her to the uttermost.
1 1 IN feelings were hardened, and he was rendered suspicious — by the
past circumstances of n varied lift — of there being any good in human
nature; his benevolence was nfinx frozen «»ver ; but « hen it thawed,
the verdure of a generous nature <;iiiii' i|uickly forth.

42 woman's trials.

The first step he endeavoured to take was to ascertain where Miss
Dawson now was ; but here he was baffled. The housemaid Imd received
warning from lier mistress the previous night, in consequence, she said,
of her attention to " the governess ;" and a few moments after Mr. Byfield
had spoken to iier, had gone, as Mrs. Hylier had commanded she
should. The other servants pretended to be, or were, ignorant of her
residence ; and there had been such firmness of mnnner in her false-
hood, that Mr, Bvfield believed she had told the truth. The natural
impetuosity of his character was now directed to find her out; and
fancying she had gone to her old friends, he posted off, leaving a
wonderful story to the good people of Kensington, which was told in
at least twenty different ways, the last being the most extraordinary.

While all was agitation and confusion in her former home — while
Mrs. Hylier reproached Mrs. Ryal, and Mrs. Ryal continued to assert
that, despite all, she knew she was right — while Mrs. Gresham's soft
heart yielded in all the weak lovingness of its nature to the conviction
that Emily Dawson was a "wonder among governesses," and Miss Colette
Mercier divided her feelings as equally as possible between " chere
Emily," her new parasol, her chere maman, and a certain leaning
towards a gentleman who always wore " such sweet kid gloves" —
while the servants regretted they had not been more civil, and the
visiters that they had not been more polite — Emily Dawson, over-
powered by the weight of an illness she had so long borne up against,
was lying utterly incapable of sustained thought or action in the small
back room of a tiny house at Chelsea. Mary's arrival was a great
consolation to her. She sat by her bedside " mending up her things,"
and " quilling her caps," as a preparatory step to her " looking for a
new place." Emily would have been glad had she talked less ; but as
she never expected an answer, and chattered in a low, sleepy, rippling
tone of voice, it did not disturb her much. She spoke in what she
considered would he the most consoling manner, showing how much
better off Emily was " than many a poor lady governess she knew long
ago." She told of one who, having lost her health, died in a work-
house, and no one ever looked after her; of another, who was the only
comfort and support of a blind father, who would sit holding her

THE GOVERNESS. 43

hands in liis, running his fingers over the arm worn to a shadow,
listening for tlie doctor's tread, and turning his sightless eyes to his
face, as if trying to read an opinion it gave the good doctor pain to
pronounce. And then, how she did pray that God would take her
father first ; but the prayer was not heard, for she died, and every
morning the father crawled to the churchyard. The little children
would frequently go out of their way to guide him to his daughter's
grave ; and at last he died ujion it, without a complaint ; and the
coroner returned a verdict — "Died by the visitation of God ;" but she
knew it was by the visitation of famine. " Another young person"
passed them by every morning ; there, that was her walk, she knew it
by the halting, as she was lame, though for all that, she got over many
a mile in a week. She had a turn for lanijuaces, and tanijlit a "rcat
many at a shilling a-lesson, and liad constant eniployment ; and one
sister instructed in nuisic, and another in dancing. They worked very
hard, and did not earn much, but they lived happily with one another,
and liked it better than going out for good, though Miss Fanny (the
dancer) was fearful she couldn't teach this last winter, from a wheezing
she cau;^ht from damp feet, as she could not afford to ride. Indeed,
Mary declared, in her time she had seen nnich misery under a thin silk
gown ; poor ladies were obliged to seem rich, for if they did not dress
" respectable," no one would have them, though they hardly paid them
enough to earn salt. Miss Dawson was happy, compared to many she
knew. It was a pity that tradesmen did not keej) their daughters to
the shop instead of giving them notions above one thing and below
another. .Making them governesses half times, was little better than
making tlu-m slaves. Miss Dawson ought lo i)le8s her stars ; for as
soon as her cold wore away, she'd be sure of a good situation.

And she would have talked thus much longer, had not Iut mother
called her out to inrpiire, if she knew " what property the ' poor lady'
had," as a doctor ought to sec her ; and Mnry, good-natured girl,
spurned the qucntion, yet coincided in the opinion, saying she was
no expense lo llum, for she had neither ate nor drank; and if she had.
»he had wherj-with lo pay — it niay I'f renu-mbered that Mary did not
particularly odhrre to truth — and that the doctor had brlttT come at

•t4 woman's trials.

once ; slie would go and fetch him — and so she did ; and when he
heard her cough, and saw the flush upon her cheek, and her hair moist
witli the dews of tliat English disease to ivhich thousands are sacrificed,
he blistered her chest to relieve her breathing, ordered a light diet, and
particularly recommended Italy, the south of France, or Madeira ; and
that to a governess, with three pounds five and sixpence in her purse,
and no friend !

" Oh, I shall soon be better, sir," she said — " very soon. I have
been much worse ; a few days' rest and quiet will quite set me up."

" Send to her friends," said the doctor to Mary.

'• Lord, sir!" replied Mary, opening her eyes, " sure she's only a
governess !"

Let any one recall the sick-bed of a beloved object suffering from
hectic fever ; how wearing that everlasting cough, which only ceases,
to begin again ; how sad, after you have drawn the curtain, softened
the night-lamp, and given the composing draught, with an earnest
prayer to Almighty God that the patient may enjoy sleep, how sad it is
to hear the hack, hack, of the gasping chest breaking up the false
repose, and then to know, by the movement and the sigh, that the poor
patient has turned ; and though the pillows are down, and the sheets
cambric, and though thoughts and hands of tenderest love have
smoothed them, and poured out the most soothing and reviving per-
fumes — that still, though there is little positive pain, there is no rest ;
and you are called ; — that sweet silver voice steals its melodious way
from your ear to your heart ; the church clock has struck two, and the
watchers' eyes are heavy, but the eyes of the watched are bright ; and
she will have you open the curtain, and she talks of things to come in
this world — of the spring time and the summer, and of when she shall
be better, and of how pleasantly the autumn will pass at the sea-side ;
the summer will fly quite away with her cough, and then she shall so
enjoy the autumn ! And while she talks, her thin pure face and
glorious brow, round which the damp air clings, rest on your bosom,
and you know that it is now December ; but that autumn, summer,
spring, will never again be gladdened by that hopeful voice ! Nothing
can bring her back the ease of body which the poor cat enjoys before

THE GOVERNESS. 1-5

the fire ; tended, as she is, by the watchful love of a whole house, she
knows not rest. How much more must the governess have suffered in
that small room, upon a hard bed, shaken by kindly but rough hands,
believing that if Cod prolonged the life which, despite our suftl-rings,
we all cling to, it would be ended — where ? Alas ! no hospital will
open its doors to consumption; the lagging, certain, wearing, wasting,
complaint, engendered by our shivering atmosphere, of which so many
hundreds, especially governesses, perish, finds no public friend in
charitable Engl.md* But it was not only the wretched, unrelieved,
weariness and pain of body Emily suffered ; it was, that she had
been hooted forth characterless : she, the pure, high-minded, upright,
honourable girl, trembled lest she was sinking into her grave tainted;
that she would meet her mother with the mark of shame which passeth
not away, upon her brow. The notion haunted her ; the thought of it
would not let her sleep by night or by day ; she said in the morning
she would be better by the evening, and in the evening she would bo
certainly better in the morning; for she was of a hopeful spirit; and
her disease — slow, pallid, traitor it is — encouraged hope. Several days
elapsed, and her little money, despite .Mary's exertions, was nearly
gone. With tin- high-toned grnero.sity of a noble mind, she would not
write to her friend of her distress, for she knew she had not the means
to relieve her, and why should she make her unhai)py. She did write,
though, a little every day, resolving to send the letter of\' n- hen she was
belter. 'lUv doctor saw she grew raj)idly worse, more rajjidly than
u^ual, for lier mind was goading the disease to double sj)eed ; her
money was gone, though Mary stoutly said it was not, and showed her
silver, which the girl had pledged her own Sunday shawl to ol)tain.

In the mean time, Mr. Hylield was driven almost to madness. W liat
would he not have given to have had the power of recalling his former
harshnesH ?— how he deprrcalcd the bitterness which made him rhangc
even his name, that his child might never hear of him I I low crutl did

• I rrjojcc to br rnabU-<l now lo mrrcct lhi« «t«trmrm ; there U •n hoi|iil«l for con-
•umption ; »l Old Uroin|iton too ; I m>« it from mjr room-window crcry d«y, and blcM
(1<k1 who j»rompir«l hi«li. th- iiarntirply humblr, minds, to remove from our

roiinirv. and, for ever, a deep t

46 WOMAN S TRIALS.

he deem what a little time before he would have called his consistency !
how did he mingle tears with his morning and evening prayers, and in
positive agony call upon his wife to forgive him liis unforgiveness
towards his child ! He found no trace of his granddaughter in her
native place, and in London he was bewildered by the difficulties he
experienced everywhere.

Mary had only been a few weeks at Mrs. Hylier's, and had covered
her retreat with what she considered admirable skill. 'I"he abruptness
and violence of Mr. Byfield's manner frustrated his own plans ; but
fortunately, Mrs. Gresham, who had taken from the first a warm interest
in Emily, was more successful. She made inquiries with a woman's
tact, and at last communicated the good news, that she had traced Miss
Dawson to Mary's house. The old man entreated her to accompany
him there, and she consented. Mary's mother had become very dis-
contented at her lodger's poverty, and mother and daughter were in
loud altercation on the subject, when Mr. Byfield, unable to restrain
his impatience, thundered so loudly at the door, as to bring all the
inhabitants of the street to their windows.

" I tell you, sir, 1 know nothing about her. How should I ? "
exclaimed Mary to Mr. Byfield, who could only get his stick through
the open door, for she held it close with a considerable share of strength.
" It's no use your coming in ; she's not here ; and if she was, what is it
to you, you old sinner ? "

" I tell you," said Mr. Byfield, " she is my grandchild. God help
me ! " muttered the old man, as he leant against the door-post ; " God
help me ! that rough girl guards her honour more carefully than
I did."

" That's impossible ! " answered Mary. " If you was her grand-
father, you'd never have sent her governessing to Mrs. Hylier,
I know."

" I am here, Mary," said the gentle voice of Mrs. Gresham ; " and
it is quite true that Miss Dawson is Mr. Byfield's granddaughter."

Mary opened the door with what, in the poor, is deemed " imper-
tinence," in the rich " self possession," as if nothing had occurred ;
curtsied them in, and hoped that Mr. Byfield would not think the

THE GOVERNESS. 47

worse of her; slie was a poor girl ; and though great folks might live
without a character, she could not.

Mrs. Gresham told Miss Dawson of her tnie position, as delicately
and carefully as it could be told ; and accounted for the old man's
strangeness by expressing the desire he felt to see, himself, how she
would bear the rubs of life. She thanked God earnestly for the dis-
closure. The old man knelt by her bedside, and called her " his child "
— "his dear child" — "his only hope and comfort on this side the
grave." Alas ! people who are liberal of the bitters of existence,
should remember, that poison, even unto death, may steal into the cup.

In a few hours, Emily was removed upon luxurious cushions to the
house of which she had become the honoured mistress ; even Mrs.
Hylier sent her little girls to minister to her comforts ; and Mary was
of course with her. A sudden spirit of sisterly love and tenderness
sprang up amongst those who had been accounted censorius and male-
volent ; and tlie surrounding maids, wives, and widows, became
animated by a most extraordinary longing to inquire into the state of
Miss Dawson's health. They ascertained what Mr. Hyfuld's name
had been, and that ho had changed it to avoid his daughter's recog-
nition. This knowledge aflTordcd them satisfaction ; they did not even
venture to censure the unpardonable harshness of a father to a child,
though some of the more indepindent spirits among them insinuated,
that *' it was at least very strange, and carrying resentment farther than
thcij could have done." Mrs. Ryal was the only one who remained
firm to her first " jirinciples " and opinions,

Kv(ry thing that skill could suggest, or luNury itivrnf, was
resorted lo for the relief and comfi)rt of the long-neglected girl. The
great physician of the day lold her grandfather, who stood before him
with clasprd and trembling hands, watchful eyes and ears, drinking in
his wonl«, that whtn she was able to be removed, he would rcconiniend
the south of Italy. This was in her dressing-room — a rooni htmg with
pale pink silk, win-re ihr sofirst br« tzt- whispered its way amid
crowded exotics, and the very light of heaven stole through tinted
glass; where the old man himself rj-moved his shoos before he entered,
lest the Kmallest noise might disturb the rreatnrc cushioned upon satin.

48 woman's trials.

wlio, only a few weeks before, was expected to brave cold winds and
everlasting fatigue. The reaction upon the grandfatlier's mind amounted
almost to insanity. The stern, bitter satirist, had melted into a fond
old man, who seemed absorbed in having once more something upon
which he could safely pour out his long pent-up affections.

The physician again felt her pulse, spoke a few kindly words, and
departed. So softly did Mr. Byfield follow him down stairs, that
he did not even hear his foot-fall ; but he arrested his attention when in
the hall, by pressing his arm. " Sir, sir," he said, in a trembling tone ;
" in here — speak softly — she does not like noise. You said, when she
was able, we were to go to the soutli of Italy. Now, how soon will
that be ? We have had some sharp north winds — those keep her back ;
but will it be when the wind changes ? "

" Not so soon as that, my good sir ; but I hope soon — indeed I
hope it — she has interested me much. You must keep her quiet —
perfect repose — she must speak as little as possible ; she must not
exert herself in the least ; her lungs have been over-worked."

" God forgive me ; they have, they have ! "

" We must watch the symptoms, and act accordingly."

" Certainly, sir ; but you say this climate is not fit for her?"

" It is not ; but she cannot bear exertion yet. Good morning,
my dear sir ; I will try and be here to-morrow precisely at the
same hour."

" You do not trifle with me, sir, do you ? — raising hope to destroy
it?" inquired the old man, almost fiercely.

" I have raised no hope," returned the doctor. " If she bears
removal, it must be to the south of Italy." Mr. Byfield caught at the
back of a chair, and gasped for breath ; at last he repeated, " If — if;
you said if. Is there any doubt, then ? "

The agony of despair in the old man's face compelled the doctor
to lay down his hat; and seat himself by Mr. Byfield's side.

" My dear, good sir, I never deceive ; and I hope you will nerve
yourself as becomes a Christian. All things are possible ; and every
thing shall be, indeed of late has been, done, to overthrow our insidious
foe. If I had seen her sooner" — the old man started as if an asp had

THK GOVERNESS. -1 U

Stung liim ; " tliough, indeed, that might not have availed much," con-
tinued the ready doctor ; " she is young — the summer before her — let
us liope for the best ; but, frankly, the symptoms are against us."

" But she said she was so much better this morning?"

" It is a cause of exceeding thankfulness to find her so cheerful."

*' And a good sign, sir?"

" The sign of a good mind, ' replied the doctor, evasively.

Mr. Byfield was gratified by the idea. " And so slie has — an
angel's mind," he answered. " Perhaps you can tell me to-morrow
about Italy, sir. I liave worked hard all my life, and have been a
thriving man — more rich than people think, sir. I will heap gold
upon that table, so that yon cannot move it, if you but save her life."

"What an extraordinary development of character!" thought
the physician, as his carriage rolled away ; " why, a tithe of this
care woidd have saved her — ay, six months ago !"

" An<l where have you been, dear gran<lpapa," said Emily, as he
stole into her room, to sit and look at her: " Wliore have you been ?"

" Hush !" you must not talk !" he said.

" Oh, but I may; a little under my breath. I used to be obliged
to talk, but now it is a pleasure. Do let me mention what we spoke
of yesterday — the nice alms-houses you said you would build for
aged governesses. Oh, how glad I shall be to see the first stone
laid! When shall it be? — Next August, on my birth-day? — Or,
come lierc, I will speak very softly, if you will not be angry. .My
poor mother ! She used to i)e so ])roud of her governess-child !
Will you lay the first stone on hvr birih-d.iy ? Thank you, dear grand-
papal Bless you! F shall not want to go lo Italy; that will cure me!"

It \\M beautiful to observe, that, though this creature loved life,
an a young bird loves to poise n|)on its feel)le wings, she di<l not
fear death. As her frame decaye«l — as she wasted into a shadowy
outline of what nil those who ha<l known her, noiv (h-elari- had been
!»o lovelv, her mind berami- more buoyant — purer it could hardly
he — though more ethereal, when her rounh pt-rmined short snatches
of sleep. She seemed as if, throuj^h these thin eyelids, slu* gazed
upon all the mysteries of an unclouded world : a perpetual smile

50 WOMAN S TRIALS.

parted the pallid lip, like the division of a lily-bud ; and when she
awoke, it was to confer fresh interest on the things of life.

Poor Miss Mercier would kneel for hours by her side, and smile
and weep by turns. " It did her good," she said ; and she said
rightly ; such scenes do good ; they strike upon the heart ; there is
no deception in them.

" Do not weep for me," said Emily, " I shall be better soon. Every
day I become better; and if I could only make you feel the import-
ance of your duties, I should be so much happier. I am changed,
though, a good deal. Were I to teach again, I would try and interest
my pupils more about Hereafter than I did. I would talk to them
much more about the heavens, those lightsome heavens where the
just are made perfect; it is so happy to think of their radiance, their
glory, their eternity ; and to think of this beautiful world, in which I
once sorrowed and laboured, and yet loved ; for surely it was created
by God as a place of passage, where the good may have a foretaste of
the happiness prepared for them hereafter !"

She would talk thus to all, pouring forth the very sweetness of
wisdom, so that people wondered how she had gained such knowledge.
Her two former pupils could hardly be separated from her ; and though
her grandfather manifested much impatience at being disturbed from
her side by any one, still he was so proud of her sweet mind,
that he could not refuse them admission, but made up for disappoint-
ments by stealing into the room during the night, and watching 'or
praying while the heavy-eyed nurse slept. Each day the physician
came, and each day the old gentleman would follow him outside the
door, and inquire, as though the question were still new — " When
will the time come ? When may we go to Italy ?" And the doctor
would reply, with a kind look, " Not yet."

To all beside — except herself — it was evident she was dying ; it is
almost too hard a word to apply to such a passing away ; it was as if a
rose dropped leaf by leaf, until the last few petals that remained
trembled on the stem. She said, every day, she was better, much
better ; she had no pain now ; and she should soon be able to drive
out in the warm sunshine. Her friend, the clergyman's sister, came to

THE GOVERKESS. 51

her from the country. And the clergyman himself, he who had
attended lier mother's death-bed, prayed beside hers. It might have
been that the young man loved her ; but she never dreamt he did —
never. She talked a great deal of the past and future, and of what
blessings would arise from a higher-toned education. And one morning
in particular, when the doctor called, he reproved her for wasting her
strength in words. Again Mr. Bytield followed him outside the room,
and the physician led him into another apartment, and closed the door.

*' My dear sir," he said, " our dear patient is very weak to-day,"

" She said she was better," replied Mr. Byfield.

" She is not ; her mind is purer, and higher, and holier than ever ;
but she is sinking."

" Not unto death ? " muttered the old man.

The physician turned away ; he could not bear to look upon tlie
features of the old man—'" God bless you, sir; you have a great con-
solation ; every thing has been done that could be done : I wish I was
as sure of heaven as she is; good morning — be composed."

The old man turned away — he was alone — he sank into a chair ;
burst after burst of tears convulsed his frame. It was nearly four
hours before he could enter her room again ; he saw she was greatly
changed in that short space of time, and yet she liailed him with her
feeble voice, declaring she was better; he motioned Miss Mercier,
who had been with her, to leave the chamber. lie took her hand in
his, gazed earnestly into her face, and sank upon his knees.

•' It is not time for prayer yet, is it ? — it is not night yet ?" she said ;
" but pray, dear grandfather ; it is always time for prayer."

" I am going," he answered, " to pray to you. Listen! Here on
my knees, I do intreat your pardon ; an old man, whose harshness
depriv<-d you of your mofln-r — whose harshness has abridged the hiigth
of your swift lif*-. I did nr)t iut<'iid to tiy you beyond your strength,
but I ought to have known be Iter. I chained you with those hands lo
the galley, when I should have given you freejh)m. Can you forgive
me, Krnily ? And when you meet your motlur, will you nsk her not
to turn from me in heaven as I turned from her on earth I"

The poor girl wn% deeply nlTected ; she threw herself feel)ly for-

52 woman's trials.

ward and clasped her arms round liis neck, and pressed her cheek to
his. She poured forgiveness and blessings on his white head, and
fondly pushed back the silver hair from his brow. He replaced her
on her pillows ; but the exertion had shaken the sand in the glass of
life : it was passing rapidly.

" You will be kind to those I love," she said, " and truly forgive
those who were harsh to me ; and you will be very good to poor Mary ;
and — oh, heavenly Father, receive my spirit!"

These were her last words. The old man, frantic with grief,
dispatched the nurse, who had just entered the room, for help ; and
when she returned, the dead face of his grandchild was resting on his
breast, and he held up his finger, and said, " Hush! hush!" as though
she slept, which he believed she did ; and all night long he remained
in the same position, murmuring every now and then, as if soothing a
slumbering infant.

The old man is still living, but his mind is gone ; and his heart is
in her grave, — which he persists in saying was dug by his hands.

'-£^

(.RACE HUNTLEY.

had b

K will call luT Cirace," said a pale,

'^^y*. , ^fy/jit. di'licatt'-lookinj^ yoiinf^ woman to lirr

Fl'^.'^ ' liushand, as slio raiscjl flic white flannel

•^ I */ hood, that he nn'f^ht gaze upon the features

of their new-born babe. " Al)el, I never expected

to be the mother of a living child ; but (Jod has

J^r hcvn merciful ; so we will give to lur die gentle

name of Grace ; and, dearest, let us pray that, in

nil the troubles and trials of life, not the name merely, but

the spirit, may dwtll with lu-r I "

It was only n few weeks afterwards that the grave closed
over the fair young mother; but the blessing wln'rewith she
essed her child had hi in In ;,rd and regintered in heaven.

" You are not angry witli me, dear father — not angry with your
poor Grace — and you will forgive Joseph Huntley! O!" added the
girl playfully, " if we youngsters could but get your wisdom,
without your wrinkles, what wonderful creatures we should be ! "

" My child, my child ! age will bring wrinkles, as autumn brings
withered leaves ; yet wisdom doth not always come with years. But
our hearts do not grow old, girl ; so I forgive you ! "

" And Joseph too, father?"

The schoolmaster (for such was his calling) shook his head. " Of
all the youths it has been my fortune to instruct, I never met with so
wilful a boy as Joseph Huntley."

" He is not a boy now, father ; you forget he is now out of
his time."

" So much the worse. His master, worthy Matthew Greenshaw,
tells me he spoils more mahogany than any apprentice that ever
entered his house ; and you know, Grace, the desk he made, as a
present for me last Christmas, tumbled to pieces the second time I
leant upon it."

" Dear father, you lean your elbows so heavily I But Joseph has
made you such a pretty ruler of cherry-tree wood ! "

" I believe he is a kind-hearted fellow ; but, dear Grace, a kind
heart alone will not insure prosperity ; there must be forethought, and
industry, and discretion. And, truth to say, I fear your heart is too
much set upon this same Joseph Huntley. Whatever he does, you
view in one light, and I in another. I would not judge harshly, my
dear child; yet do I wish it had pleased God your mother had lived :
it is no easy thing for a man to bring up a daughter, and make her
learned in woman's craft, and other matters meet for her to understand.
A pains-taking schoolmaster, like myself, has but small opportunity of
cultivating a knowledge of female sentiment ; yet have I not been a bad
father, for never did I harbour the thought of giving a second mother
dominion over you ; and, albeit you are not skilled in the arts of cross-
stitch, back-stitch, or Quakers hem, which our good neighbour
Mrs. Craddock so exceedingly laments, yet is our house clean and
well ordered — and few girls comprehend better the first four rules of

GRACE IILNTLEY. iiO

arithmetic, or can write a fairer hand, than my own Grace," The
simple-minded man looked upon his darling child for a few moments,
while a feeling of pride irradiated his countenance ; a change, however,
soon passed over it, a change striking, yet not uncommon — a change
from pride to piety ; his eye moistened, and his voice faltered, as,
laying his hand upon the beautiful head of his only one, he continued:
" And when I am laid in my grave, Grace, you will remember that
your poor old father taught you more than mere writing and ciphering;
you will remember our quiet evenings, when you sat upon this
footstool, and we conversed together on the piety of the Danish
Canute, who showed unto his courtiers the vanity of earthly grandeur
by a very simple expedient; — on the dignity and purity of our English
Alfred, whose virtues were so happily tempered, so justly IjJended,
that each prevented the other from exceeding its proper bounds ; — or
on the grace and beauty of Cornelia, who regarded her noble children
as the richest jewels a niatron could possess. You will also call to
mind passages of our sublime Milton, which you learned as a recreation
from graver studies ; but, above all, my child will bear in her memory
our holy and simple Sabbath enjoyments — the free, imf»'ttered day,
rightly appreciated only by those who toil wearily through the wi-ek —
the clear breezy morning — the early prayer — the walk to the village
church — the evening sacrifice in our own cottage. Ah I I could never
read the story ot .loscph and his brethren, or the sweet reply of Kuth
to her mother, without weeping ; and you, too, Grace, — can you ever
forget the parable of the five wise virgins? Flow often have I prayed
that the I^ord, when !Ie came, might find us watching! .\nd surely my
prayers were heard, for you are a good girl, Grace — although something
wilful in tin- matter of Joseph Huntley, who, by the way, I see eomitig
over the nii-adow. Perhaps he can mend my disk."

'• Then you forgive liiu), father.''"

" Forgive him! — why, yes; for, to own the iruili, I forget «hat it
wa.i I was angry iil>ouf ! Do you remember ? "

** () ! never mind, dear father, never mind!" and (irare kissed her
father afTeclionatc ly, but too well pleaN«-<l that his memory was some-
what, and not unfrequcnily, treacherous concerning late events.

56 woman's trials.

It would, in all human probability, have been far happier for
Grace had her mother lived. Abel had spoken truly in saying he
had but small opportunity of cultivating a knowledge of what he
called " female sentiment ;" and though he formed his daughter's
mind to the best of his ability, yet he formed, or rather directed
it, so as to draw forth the higher and nobler faculties, while those
that are called into action by the every-day and homely occurrences
of life were, comparatively, neglected. It was fortunate for Grace
that she was wholly exempt from those small vanities which so often
obtain dominion over females who acquire only a moderate degree
of information. But she was preserved by the halo and protection
of pure and self-denying religious impressions. There are those whose
apparent belief emanates from circumstances — the seed is scattered by
the way-side, and the fowls of the air may pick or uproot it. But
the religion of the schoolmaster's daughter was not of this kind.
The seed had been sown in good ground, and its fruit was peace,
hope, love, and a tender caring for others — the only unquestionable
proof of true charity. She was, as her father has said, wilful in
the matter of Joseph Huntley, and it was as regarded him that a
mother's watchfulness was more especially needed. That the old
man was dissatisfied with the person on whom her affections had
been placed was evident, since observations such as those I have
recorded were of frequent occurrence ; yet parent and child differed
in the conclusions drawn from the actions of the lover : and no
wonder. Acquainted with the schoolmaster's abstracted and peculiar
habits, young Huntley was less careful before him than before
Grace. Now, a mother would have had sufficient skill, had she
perceived his evil propensities, to exhibit them palpably in the pre-
sence of her daughter ; well knowing that railing at faults the existence
of which is not credited is the sure way to confirm affection in a
youthful bosom — the generous mind being always roused at the bare
idea of injustice. But worthy Abel Darley had no notion of such
management ; he satisfied his conscience by frequent allusions to
Joseph's faults, and then, imagining he had been too severe, he would,
in nearly the same breath, lavish praises on his virtues.

GRACE HUNTLEY. 57

As the lover entered the schoohnaster's cottage, it was impossible
not to admire his manly form and excellent carriage. Considerably
above the middle height, his head well placed, and his finely-developed
features set off to every possible advantage by a scrupulous attention
to neat and even gentlemanly attire, Joseph Huntley might well have
been pronounced the handsomest youth in the village of Craytliorpe.
When he took off his hat, however, there was invariably mingled with
admiration a feeling for which it was difficult to account. Those skilled
in physiognomy would have observed that his forehead was too low,
and that a peculiar contraction of the brows denoted the vicinity of
stormy passions ; the mouth was mean in expression, but as it usually
extended into a smile, discovering even and beautiful teeth, the defect
escaped general notice ; and Joseph Huntley was accounted, as I have
said, the handsomest youth in the retired village of Craytliorpe. What
he was in reality, actions will tell better than words ; but my readers
must permit me to remind tluin that, in books as well as in actual life,
it takes time for character to unfold itself.

About fifteen months after Abel Darley had complained of Joseph
Himtley's bad workmanship and careless habits, his zeal for his
daugliter's happiness triumphed over his fears, and he gave all that he
valued upon earth into the keeping of one she loved, " not wisely, but
too well.'

The father shuddered involuntarily, and turned pale, as he pre-
sented her hand to the gay bridegroom ; and all present were dismayed
by an oversight of the sexton, who opened the prayer-book at the
funeral, instead of at the wedding, service. The clergyman had abso-
lutfly read the first few words before the error was discovered. Old
women grouped in the churchyard to talk over the unlucky omen ; and
the bride's companions blesse«l her with a tearfid earnestness, rarrly to
be Keen among the ytuithful at n rustic wedding.

Al.i», for the lont'liness of the father's hearth, when it is deserted by
a beloved, an ojdy rhild I Often <li»l .Miel Darlt-y liJt his eyes fr<im the
Bible, where(»n (perhaps for the fir»t lime since his fire-side wan first
left desolate) he hntked without rrcciving insirurtion — oOcn did he
raise them from the sacred pngr, and gnze upon the long candle,

58 woman's trials.

wondering why it waxed dim — and then, remembering that the hand

which trimmed it was away, and another's, sigh lieavily, and pore again

over the book, without, however, brightening the h'ght, or calhng to the

little serving-maiden to do so for him ; — then, when the clock chimed

ten, he read aloud as usual the evening prayer, and commenced the

simple hymn that consecrates the name of Ken more than the mitre which

crowned his brows. He had taught Grace, when a child, to sing with

him, alternately, a verse of this gentle strain ; and when he finished

the line —

" Beneath thine own almighty wings,"

he paused for a few moments, expecting to hear her voice, so low, so
soft, so like the murmuring music of a young bird's warblings before
it knows its own power of song ; then, as if the truth came suddenly
upon him, that her melody had gone to delight another's dwelling, the
old man burst into a flood of tears, and, covering his face with his
hands, wept long and bitterly, even to the solitary hour of one, when,
like a troubled child, he retired to his bed, and sobbed and slumbered
until morn.

" Grace, what are you in such a bustle about?" inquired her hus-
band, as she busied herself with more than usual diligence to set all
things in order in their clean and cheerful-looking cottage.

Grace silently pointed to the watch that hung over the chimney-
piece.

" Well," replied he, " and what then ? I see it is rather late ;
but this is Sunday, and we who work must have a holiday sometimes."

" And so we should, Joseph. But do you not hear — "

" What ?"

" The church-bell ?"

" Well?"

" Come then, dearest, and make haste, or we shall be late, and that
will not be right."

" Then, I suppose, it will be wrong. But I do not think I shall go
to church to-day."

'• My dear, are you ill ?" inquired his wife, looking affectionately
in his face.

GRACE HUNTLEY. 59

"Never was better; but I ilon't feel inclined — is that so very
extraordinary ?"

" Oh, Joseph ! you will surely not stay from church ! — what would
the clergyman think? — what would my father say? You will not
suffer me to walk all through the lanes by myself, dear Joseph !"

'' But you are not obliged to go. It is very proper to attend
church; but to tramp such a distance through all weatliers ! — why it
rained almost the whole night!"

*' It is beautiful now ; the air is so clear, and the birds are sinijin<r
so gaily I O, do come I"

" I will not ; so do not tease me ; I must take a long walk after
dinner."

" Dear Josepii," she continued, kissing him, though her eyes were
filled with tears, " and must I, indeed, go by myself?"

•' If you go, you must most certainly,'' he replied, returning her
caress at the same time with all his usual aflection.

It was the first solitary walk she had taken iluring the last seven
months — since her marriage, in fact; and she thought that, considering
her situation, it was rather unkind of Joseph to perniit lur to go
alone.

.Vhnost every tree — certainly every stile she passed — was hallowed
by some remembrance connected with the playmate of her ciiildhood —
the lovtr of her early youth — the husi)and of her allections. When
she looki-d on the dew dancing amid the ilelicate tracery of the lield-
Bpider's wfl) — w hen the joyous whistle of the gay l)lackbird broke upon
her ear — ga/ing silently on all that was really fresh and beautiful in
nature — she fell that, instead of warming, it fell elulhly upon her
heart. .\nd yet all was ns usual the bright sun, and the smiling
landitcape. NVhy, then, was she less cheerful ? She was alone ! No
one she loved was by her side, to whom to sny, " flow beautiful!"

The knowledge, the painful knowledge, which this, and a few other
simitar circumstances, conveyed to (Jrace, as to the real slate of her
hu<tban<i')i religious senlinirnta, made lur a ^inir but a sadder noman.
Conscious that he had deceived her in one instance, she dread* «l to ask
herself if the deception extended also to minor matters. Me no longer

60 woman's trials.

deemed it necessary to keep up even appearances, and not unfrequently
jested at the simplicity of his wife's once believing him "a saint;'
although, when she first became a mother, he seemed pleased and
amused with the infant, and either was, or affected to be, touched by
the earnest prayers and supplications she poured forth, that the child
might be blessed, and become worthy of the name and calling of
a Christian.

Had Grace made a parade of her feelings, her husband, judging
from his own, might have doubted their sincerity ; but he only heard
them when she tliought liim hushed in sleep. At the midnight watch,
when she trimmed her lamp, and looked into the peaceful face of her
little one, so tranquil in its slumbers, then her prayers were not loud,
l)ut deep ; for a tender mother's hopes, as she gazes on her child, are
ever mingled with fears — fears which nothing can dispel, except a true
and perfect trustfulness in the all-watchful care of a benevolent God
It may be that, as with the woman in Scripture, her first entreaties
have been unanswered ; yet is she not weary; her voice neither falters
nor fails ; the heart is still petitioning, and the pious mother's prayer
floats upwards — on, on, from sphere to sphere — until it reaches the
throne of the Great Omnipotent, whose dearest attribute is mercy !

I have said that his wife's maternal tenderness affected a heart
which every-day occurrences continued to steep more deeply in hard-
ness and sin ; for the progress from idleness to comparative want, from
want to vice, whether slow or not, is sure; and even a disinclination to
employment, where there is nothing but industry to look to for sup-
port, is in itself a crime that heralds the approach of crimes more
consuming. So that, when the momentary excitement to good feeling
was past, Joseph Huntley relaxed into a cold indifference towards
those whom it was his duty to cherish.

The rapidity with which love may glide from the heart of a
man is a moral phenomenon for which it would puzzle philosophers
to account. The brief space of a few months not unfrequently con-
verts the devoted into the unkind, or — to a delicate mind, still
worse — the neglectful, husband. Grace knew that Joseph's circum-
stances, when they married, were prosperous ; but very soon after

GRACE IIl'NTI.EY. Gl

she was made a wife a cliange came over all things — gradually it
came, as a small cloud increases to an ovcrw])elining tempest. In
his husiness young Huntley might have been distinguished ; but the
orders he received were slighted for the boon companions of the
village ale-house ; and debts accumulated, which there was no money
to pay.

" What sort of bread do you call this ?" inquired Joseph, some-
what sulkily, of her who had prepared a homely cake, and baked
it over the ashes, for his supper.

" It is nice wholesome food, Joseph, for I made it myself. You
used to like my cakes."

" But the flour is coarse."

Grace did not reply.

" Did you hear me say the flour is coarse V

" It is not as tine as usual, for I brought it from my father's — he
gave me some ; and — and — "

" And wliat, Grace .' — women arc seldom slow of speech."

" 'I'he baker, love, has asked so often for his bill, that, as you told
me I should have money to-morrow to pay him, I did not like to get
anything more till then."

" I'ell him to-morrow that I cannot pav him for a month ; and
manage, at the same time, to have properly boulted flour to make your
cakes. This cats like saw-dust."

'* My dear, dear Joseph ! I really caimot put the man olf. 1 jiro-
mised faithfully, as you told me. I will work night and day, Joseph —
I will do any thing you desire ; but do not make me the instrument of
falsfhoo<l — indeed, indeed, it will break my heart I"

Her liusl)and looked for a moment into lier face; but his counte-
nance expressed no sympathy with \wr honest feelings.

" (trace, you arc a fool ! What does a little lon;^er credit signify
to Rurh a man as Meall)ag.' Oi — hark ve, (trace — what tloes it matter
if, like my betters, I, one of tlics*' days, give leg-bad for my debts, or
«lc'ep three months in n well-gnar<led house, conunimly calle<l a gaol ?"
The colour faded from the voting woman's countenance as she
returned her husban<rH gaze; nnoiher moment, and the w:irm red

Cy woman's trials.

blood rushed back to her cheek, and her fine eyes brightened with an
expression that his could not encounter.

" What!" she exclaimed, vehemently, " turn rogue, Joseph! — be
pointed at as a dishonest tradesman ! — cheat those who labour for their
food. If anything has occured, not brought on by your own careless-
ness — do not frown, I did not mean that — if anything has happened,
no matter how it has been brought on, to prevent your paying, and
that soon, take all — take everything — the bed from under us — the
gown I wear — all, all I have in the world ; — sell, and pay — pay to the
last farthing. — I can work ! Oh, yes ! I could beg — starve ! — but I
could not bear any one to call you rogue! — or our child, Joseph — our
dear, dear child — a dishonest man's son ! " She clasped her boy to
her bosom ; and then, again looking on her husband, threw herself into
his arms, and pressing her cheek, moist with tears, to his, murmured,
" But you did not mean it, Joseph — you could not mean it — you never
could mean that ! You only said it to tease, to try me ; but it was
very cruel of you ! Just say you did not mean it."

" What a fuss about a simple word ! Why, girl, you are more silly
than I took you for! Mean it! — no, no! But, Grace, you need not
have turned so suddenly on me, even if I did mean it. I have
heard of women who would bear much more for their husband's good
than that."

" For your good, Joseph ! " she replied passionately : " O, yes ! for
your good I would bear anything ; but it could never be for your
good to have your name joined by dishonesty to dishonour. Say you
did not mean it, and I will believe you — but just say it again, Joseph
— ^just once more ! Thank you. And now," she added, drawing
a heavy breath, and rising from his bosom, " my heart is lighter — and
— may 1 go on ? "

" Yes."

" You will pay the baker to-morrow ? "

" I cannot. The money I intended for him I have been obliged
to give elsewhere."

" What, to the man who sold you the mahogany?"

" Yes, and for other little matters ; so, dear, you must put off the

GRACE HTNTLEY. 63

baker, you see. — Wliy, my little Abel cannot eat this bread ! — One of
your sweet smiles will put him off; — or else you must borrow the
money from your father."

'• I cannot do cither," she replied, shaking her head mournfully.
" I promised the baker ; and my poor father has no money, except a
small sum laid by to purchase a new great-coat and some flannel,
for winter : perhaps you could not repay him before that season came.
But, Joseph, listen — my silk cloak— what do I want with such finery ?
The glazier's wife said she would give two jiounds for a cloak of
the kind ; so let her have it. I hope you will like me as well in a
tenponny print, particularly when you see that I have kept my word."

There is something so commanding, so holy, in virtue, that, though
the wicked may not imitate, they cannot withold from it their
admiration. As Huntley looked upon his wife, he thought she IkkI
never appeared so lovely. Some of the affection of earlier ami
purer years returned warmly to his luart ; and, as he kissed her,
words of happier import broke from his lips—" God bless you, Grace I
I am a sad scoundrel, and that's the truth."

Years rolled into eternity ; the million, indeed, heeded not their
passing, but Grace Huntley had recorded them with tears. Meanwhile
her husband sunk deeper and deeper in vice ; yet the misery that
followed schooled her still more in the ways of virtue. " They are
bitter," she would say, "but perhaps they are useful lessons." It
was s.id indeed to know that the hearts which once were united had
severed — and severed — and severed, until, as with the rich man .ind
Lazarus in the parable, " there was a great gulf" between them. At
first distrust, next coldness, then reproaches, ended in — but no! they
did not hate each other; she could not hate him \\lio had received her
early and only love — the man to whom, at God's altar, she had sworn
duty and affection. The heart shr had trusted .she wouhl have given
worlds to recall to virtu«' ; and the voic«' which now sehlom spoke hut
to bla.<iphcme — how shr prayed that it might again b<> restor«'«l to the
mu.iic of fonner years — the harmony of kindness and sweet communion !
She coidd not hate him ; and he, base and hardened as he was, could
not hate her.

Ot woman's trials.

In less than eight years after their marriage, her little family were
entirely dependent upon her for support. The workshop, filled witli
implements and materials for labour, had passed into other hands ; and
the pretty cottage, with its little flower-garden, was tenanted by a
more industrious master. For months together, Joseph used to absent
himself from home, under the pretext of seeking employment. So
ruined was his reputation that no one in his own neighbourhood would
intrust him with work ; and he was but too willing to follow the
wandering bent of his disordered mind. How he was really occupied
during these excursions was a profound secret even to his wife.
Sometimes he returned well-dressed and with plenty of money, which
he would lavish foolishly, in sudden fits of affection, upon his children.
On other occasions, he appeared with hardly sufficient clothes to cover
him — poor, and suffering bodily and mental misery. Then, when
from her earnings he was provided and fed, he would again go forth,
and neither be seen nor heard of for many months.

When chid by her neighbours for the kindness with which she
treated this reckless spendthrift, she would reply calmly, " He is my
husband — the father of my children ; and, as such, can I see
him want ?"

From the very day she had parted with her first portion of dress,
to pay the baker's bill, she had toiled unceasingly with her own hands
for the benefit of her family. Mrs. Craddock could no longer say
that she was unskilled in woman's craft ; to the astonishment of all, in
a little time she was the most exquisite needlewoman in the neighbour-
hood. Nothing came amiss in the way of labour. Long before
daylight she was busied with her housewifery — the earliest smoke of
the village was from the chimney of her neat, though plain and
scantily furnished, cottage ; and so punctual was she in her engage-
ments, that " As true as Grace Huntley " became a proverb in
Craythorpe. Humble yet exalted distinction ! — one that all desire —
so few deserve !

With increasing years, the mind of Abel Darley became more and
more absent ; nevertheless, though decidedly opposed to all modern
innovations, (whenever, indeed, he could be made to consider the

GRACE HUNTLEY. 65

import of such things,) he still continued to perform his duty of in-
structing his pupils on the approved old plan — that is to say, with a
birch rod in the right hand, and a lesson-book in the left. Yet was the
schoolmaster not prone to chastisement, retaining the birch rather as
an emblem of authority than for use. He had a ferule for big boys, —
a fool's-cap for little ones ; and lavished even more, if possible, than
the indulgence usually bestowed by grandpapas on their grandcliildren,
upon " the child Abel," as he was wont to call his daughter's eldest
son, who greatly resembled his father, not only in person, but in mind.
The anxiety diis resemblance caused his mother may be better imagined
than described. The small cottage, which, when Abel was about twelve
years old, sulliced for licr dwciling, was nearly at the corner of the
village churchyard, and about ten minutes' walk frdiii her fatiier's
school-house. A small, green lane, that skirted the village, led by her
door; and it was pleasant to see the merry, light-hearted boys, full t)f
childish glee, passing along that shady path, after they had laid down
their l)o<}ks, and given their whole anxieties to healthftd jilay.

Her second son was a delicate and sickly child ; but her girl — her
Josephine, as she was named at her father's request, was the miniature
resemblance of the still beautiftd mother. Often had she watched, till
her eyes became dim, and her heart swelled almost to bursting within
her bosom, as her eldest-born led his little sister by the hand on his
return from school — now chasing, to give her pleasure, the gay butter-
fly — then hanging fron> the branches of the sweet hawthorn or golden
laburniun that fringed the road, to gather for her the earliest and
sweetest flowers. "They are so like us!" she would think, — "so
like what wc were! How w»ll I can remember his father at his age,
when first he came to the school, and used to watch over and i)lay with
nif, n.H Abel do<-» with Josephine!"

The increasing wilfulness and restlessness of young Alu-I's disjto-
lition Hupplied additional causes of sorrow to his anxious mothrr. If
nnvlhing could rcconcdc her to her husband's absence, it was ilw con-
MciousncMs that, were he living with them, his bad example woid«l
Oj)cratc but t(M» powerfully on their elih-st son. Yet one iM-tter " taught "
in the wnyn of the world, and the rulcH of modern ctiucntion, might have

66 woman's trials.

envied Grace Huntley the skill she manifested in the management of
her children.

" Had his mother so tutored her son, Joseph Huntley would have
been a different sort of person," said the parish rector, Mr. Glasscott,
one Sunday evening to his wife, after young Abel had undergone a long
examination, not only in the Church Catechism, but on the great lead-
ing doctrines of Christianity.

" True, my dear," replied his lady ; " but there are few mothers
like Grace Huntley, teaching and practising industry in the most won-
derful manner — I may say, disdaining assistance ; for I have thought
that her lip curled with even more pride than befitted a Christian,
when Lady Purseful offered her a dole of meal and money last
Christmas."

" It was independence, not pride. They are, in effect, so like
each other, that the world confounds them ; but in reality they are
very different. Grace Huntley is a Christian, and a high-minded
woman, whose spirit has struggled nobly through adversity — subdued,
but not broken, by the trials she has encountered."

" It is very long since her husband has. been seen in the neighbour-
hood."

" So much the better ; yet I have heard his poor wife declare that
it would cost her less pain to close his eyes, and perform the offices
which the dead claim of the living, than to remain in the dreadful
uncertainty that rankles in her heart like a rusted dagger."

" Poor woman ! Has he not been suspected of crimes that the law
might take hold of?"

" He has. I trust he may never be brought before me on any
charge of the kind : for her sake, I should feel much grieved at per-
forming a magistrate's duty."

On the same evening, Grace Huntley was sitting in the seat she
had occupied in her father's cottage years before ; and such were the

GRACE HUNTLEY. 67

schoolmaster's abstracted habits, that it is very doubtful whether the
events uhich had changed the lofty but cheerful girl into the reserved,
and, it might be, cold-mannered woman, had been at all noted by him.
He wondered much why Joseph left his family ; although, he observed,
with his usual simplicity, he never expected to have seen in him a
careful husband; but Grace was so patient, so uncomplaining, that he
believed her to be happy, and was satisfied.

" You are not going yet, my child?" said the old man, checking
her affectionately as she rose to depart.

" I must go, father ; the children, you know, are alone."

" Poor things ! — you ought to have brought them witli you. Ah,
Grace! it is very cruel of you not to come and live entirely here — it
would be so much better than moping alone."

Grace smiled sorrowfully. " It' I had not a home, where he could
be entirely master, to receive hiui, you know, father, he would never
return."

•' And no great matter."

" Father, for shame! — he is my husband ! "

" My dear cliild, I beg your pardon — I forgot! Y()\i are not
angry ! "

" No, my dear father! Hut it was of Abel I wished to speak — he
is now twelve years old. I cannot afford, on the probability of his
turning out a genius, to keep him in indolence ; and Mr. Greythorpe's
gardener has ofl^L-red to take him in sjjring to — "

•* Take the infant from his lessons in spring ! " interrupted the old
man: " Whv, Grace, you art- not of the sound judgment you were in
former times, or you would never dream of such a thing. Tin- l)oy is
a prmligy — there is nothing he cannot learn. 1 <lo \un despair — »vc
niunt never dcHpair — of giving him sucii knowledge as may, in a few
years, fit him, mayhap, for a college gown, (iraee, (trace! you \\ill
bring down my grey hairs with sorrow to tlu- grave if you lake the
child from bin studieH. I watch for bin i.te|) — I love his voice — I frcl
my own youth renewed when I look upon him. You must let him
'bide with Iiih bonk<« until hi<t fifleenlh ye.ir, at nil events ; and then, if
he has i)<>> -i< <->>iii|i1i.))i ,| womtirs, ni.ikc liiin, if von will, .1 hewer of

GS woman's trials.

wood or a drawer of water; — but you would not take from me the
hope and comfort of my old age, Grace ! "

" Father, believe me ! Abel has no taste for books ; they may con-
stitute his pastime, but will never be his business ; actual labour is the
only thing for a mind like his. I cannot afford to apprentice him to a
substantial trade, so let him be a husbandman — he is fond of flowers,
and takes delight in curious plants : it is an innocent and sweet thing
to live as a gardener, among the testimonies of God's goodness ; it will
employ his mind and soften his heart. I have seldom heard of one
who spent his life in the pure fields, occupied in training the works of
nature to perfection, who was either mean or wicked."

'■' It is a gentle calling, doubtless ; but there are higher ones ; and
the ' candle,' saith the Holy Scriptures, ' must not be hid under a
bushel.' "

" Well, well, sir, it is not yet spring ; only, my dear father, do not
let him idle when he is here ; there is no peace, no honour, no pros-
perity, for the slothful."

" I will — I will make him industrious ; he shall do six sums to-
morrow in fractions, and repeat the multiplication-table as far as nine
times, out of class, twice ; moreover, he shall read the eighth and ninth
chapters of Roman history, with questions, and write "

" A parcel of idle ballads on the back of his exercises," interrupted
poor Grace, taking up a scrawled and blotted copy-book, and smiling
at the list of emj)loyments her father had marked out for her son.

" No," replied the schoolmaster, resolutely, " no ; albeit poetry,
such as Milton's, softens and elevates the mind. He shall write one
copy in text, and one in small caps, and do two exercises : so that will
be sufficient occupation for one day to satisfy you, Grace ; — though,
methinks, you might leave me to decide the quantity as well as quality
of his studies."

" You are not offended with me, father ?"

" Ah, no, Grace ! you never, my child, gave me reason to be angry
in your life ; yet, when I look at you now — it is very strange — my
heart grows heavy — not light. There, tie your cloak firmly, my own
child ; and God bless you ! But, as you hope to lay your dying head

GRACE HUNTLEY. 69

on a peaceful pillow, do not send the lad away. I will make him
work — indeed I will, Grace ; I will take especial care that he does
not idle a single minute of precious time. Your mother went first ;
then you deserted your father's hearth ; but the child Abel — do not
bereave me of him, Grace — do not leave me to say, like Jacob of old,
* If I be bereaved of my children, I am bereaved !' "

Grace affectionately kissed her father ; and in a few minutes her
hand was upon the latch of her own cottage-door. Ere she had crossed
the threshold, a voice, whose tones could not be mistaken, thrilled to
her heart. It was that of her husband ! He was standing before the
fire, holding his hands over the flame ; his figure seemed more muscu-
lar than ever, but its fine proportions were lost in the appearance of
increased and (if the term may be used) coarse strength. Mis hair
hung loosely over his brows, so as to convey the idea of habitual care-
lessness ; and his tattered garments bespoke the extreme of poverty.
He turned slowly round, as the exclamation of " Mother, dear mother!"
burst from the lips of Josephine, who had been gazing from a corner at
her father, more than half afraid to approach him.

One look— and one only, was enough to stifle all reproach, and stir
up the affection of Grace's heart. Want was palpably stamped upon
his countenance ; and, as her eye glanced rapidly over his figure, she
shuddered at the alteration which a few months had accomplished.
For some moments neither spoke ; at last, he advanced and held out
his hand to her: as he walked, she perceived that his feet were shoeless
and bleednig. All his faults, his cruelties, were forgotten — she only
remembered that he suff'ered, and was her husband ; and she fell upon
his bosom and wept bitterly-
Whatever were the sins of Joseph Huntley, either before or after
this |K-ri<Ml of his life, it is but jtistice to him to believe that the tears
he that night mingled with his wife's were those of a contrite in-art.
When hIh- asked him how and where he had spent his time during the
past monlhjt, he entreated her to forbear sue!) (pie'<tii>ns for a little
whde, and that then he wouhl satisfy her : but the peri(»«l never came ;
and the dislike he evinced to afford her any inforniaiion on the .subject,
together with his Bp«edy relapne into intemperate and dissolute habits,

70 woman's trials.

checked her inquiries, and renewed her fears for the future well-doing
of her eldest son.

In the vicinity of gentlemen's seats, there are always a propor-
tionate number of poachers ; and it requires more than magisterial
vigilance to restrain their devastations. Although it was impossible
to fix a stigma of this kind on any particular person in the village of
Craythorpe, there were two men, basket-makers by trade, who were
strongly suspected of such practices. John and Sandy Smith lived
together in a wretched hut on tlie skirts of Craytliorpe Common.
No one knew whence they came. Lonely and reserved in their
habits, they seldom mingled with the villagers. Little children loved
not their approach ; and the large Newfoundland dog at " the Swinging
Hen" would never form acquaintance with them or their mongrel
lurcher : the latter, to confess the truth, was as reserved as his
masters, and made but few friendly overtures towards the nobler
animal. The only thing connected with the strangers that made a
respectable appearance was a fleet and finn-footed black pony, which
they maintained and treated with great care, for the ostensible purpose
of hawking their brooms through the country ; but people did talk ;
and, indeed, it was difficult to account for various petty peculations
that had occurred ; or how the landlord of the same " Swinging Hen"
obtained his exquisite French brandy. Grace learned with regret that
an acquaintance had commenced, and quickly ripened into intimacy,
between her husband and these men. Joseph was no sooner clothed,
and reinstated in his humble cottage, than his bad habits returned, and
his evil propensities grew stronger and stronger.

Yet the ill-temper so constantly manifested towards his wife and
younger children was never extended to his eldest boy, who, happy in
the removal of all restraint, and heedless of the misery his conduct
inflicted on his aged grandfather, flung aside his books, and, careless
of his mother's injunctions, appealed to a higher power when he was
reproved for his frequently repeated faults. He galloped on the
Smiths' pony, and made friends with their dog Covey ; began by
shooting sparrows and tit-mice with bow and arrows, and ended by
bringing home a hare as a present to his mother, which she resolutely

refused to dress, notwithstanding the entreaties of tlie son and the
commands of his father.

"Did you see, or take any silver away from hence?" inquired
Grace, who had been anxiously occupied in looking over her small
chest of drawers.

" How could we get at the drawer, mother?" replied Abel, quickly,
but reddening at the same time.

" Oh, Abel !" exclaimed Josephine.

" If you have taken the money, tell the truth," enjoined his mother,
in her clear, quiet voice,

Abel made a si^n of silence to his little sister. " Why should I
take it ?" he said, sullenly, at last.

" Abel, Abel !" screamed Josephine, attempting to put her hand on
l)is mouth at the same time, " God will hate you if you lie! I saw you
take the money — all mother's white shillings ; but I thought she bid
you do so."

Grace turned slowly romi<l from tlie table ; her face was of an
unearthly paleness : no word, no sound passed from between her
parted lips ; but she stood, like the cold fixed statue of Despair,
gazing upon her children. Josephine rose, and climbing on the table,
endeavoured to win her mother's attention. Gerald, the sickly
brother, getting up from his chair, clasped and kissed her hand. With
Al)(l, there was a struggle — not of long duration, but nevertheless
powerful — the struggle of bad habit with good principle ; the latter
conquered, an«l he fell at his mother's feet.

•• Forgive me — forgive me ! G(k1 knows I nm sorr}-. It was not
for myself I took it — father told —

" Flush!" intrrruptrd Grace, "do not say that before tlus<" — and
§hr iK>inted to the chihlren ; adding, with great presenre of mind, " It
was your father's money, if it was mine. Abtl ; but you were- wrong in
not tcllini,' me of it. There, Josephine and (ierald, go into tJu' lane, if
you will ; I wish to s|KMk to your brotlur."

Willi .ilinosf inronreivablr ntronv, this excellent woman learned that

WOMAN S TRIALS.

her son was far gone in falsehood. His heart was opened by the
sight of liis mother's distress ; and it takes time to make a practised
deceiver. With the earnestness of truth, he poured forth the wicked
knowledge he had acquired ; and Grace shuddered, while she prayed
that the Almighty would watch over her son in this sore and dangerous
extremity.

And now came one of her bitterest trials. She had guarded Abel
from the effect of his father's sin, as an angel watches over the des-
tinies of a beloved object, — unceasingly, but unseen. She had never
alluded to her husband's faults, nor even to his vmkindness, before her
children ; yet now the time had arrived when she must rend the veil —
she must expose his shame : and to whom ? — to his own son ! Now
it became her duty — her painful but imperative duty — to caution Abel
openly against his own father — against his influences and -habits ; and
to show the child that the parent was guiding him in the way that
leadeth to destruction.

If anything like justice has been done to the development of Grace
Huntley's character, this sacrifice will be appreciated. How many a
deed of unostentatious but devoted virtue is performed beneath a
peasant's roof — amid the lanes and alleys of humble life, unknown to,
or unheeded by, the world !

Huntley soon discovered that his wife had been influencing their
child's conduct : indeed, the sacred law of truth formed so completely
the basis of her words and actions that she did not attempt for a
moment to conceal it.

"Then you mean to set yourself in opposition to me ?" he said, all
evil passions gathering at his heart and storming on his brow."

" Not to you, but to your sins, Joseph," was her meek but firm
reply : whereupon he swore a bitter oath, that he would bring up his
own child in the way which best suited him, and dared her inter-
ference.

" As sure as you are a living woman," he continued — with that
concentrated rage which is a thousand times more dangerous than
impetuous fury — " as sure as you are a living woman, you shall repent
of this ! I see the way to punish your wilfulness : if you oppose me

GRACE HUNTLEY. 73

in the management of my children, one by one they shall be taken
from you to serve my purposes ! You may look for them in vain ;
until (he added, with a fiendish smile) you read their names in the
columns of the Newgate Calendar."

That night, as latterly had been his custom, he sallied forth
about eight o'clock, leaving his home and family without food or
money. The children crowded round their mother's knee to repeat
their simple prayers, and retired, cold and hungry, to bed. It was
near midnight ere her task was finished ; and then she stole softly
into her chamber, having first looked upon and blessed her treasures.
Her sleep was of that restless, heavy kind, which yields no refreshment ;
once she was awakened by hearing iier husband shut the cottage-
door ; again she slept, l)ut started from a horrid dream — or was it,
indeed, reality — and had her husband and her son Abel quitted the
dwelling together? She sprang from her bed, and felt on the
pallet — Gerald was there ; again she felt — she called — she passed
into the next room — " Abel, Abel, my child ! as you value your
mother's blessing, speak!" There was no reply. A dizzy sickness
almost overpowered her senses. Was her husband's horrid threat
indeed fulfilled — and had he so soon taken their child as his par-
ticipator in unequivocal sin! She opened the door, and looked out
upon the night : it was cold and misty, and her sight could not
penetrate the gloom. The chill fog rested upon her face like the
damps of the grave. She attempted to call again upon her son, but
her powers of utterance were palsied — her tongue quivered — her lips
separated, yet there came forth no voice, n(» sound to l)r( ;ik the
silence of oppressed natur«' ; Iht eyes moved mechanically towards
the heavens — they were dark as the earth : — had (lod deserte«l her? —
would he deny one ray, one little ray of light, to lead her to her
child ? Why «lid the moon cease to shine, and the stars withhold
their brightness ? .Should she never .Tgain behold her boy — her first-
luirn ? Ilrr heart swelled and beat withui her bosom. Sin* shivered
with intense agony, and leaned her throbbing l)row against the door-
post, to which she had clung fi>r support. Her hunband's words
rang in her ears — " One by one shall your children be t.ikcn from

74 woman's trials.

you to serve my purposes ! Through the dense fog she fancied
that he glared upon her in bitter hatred — his deep-set eyes flashing
with demoniac fire, and his smile, now extending, now contracting,
into all the varied expressions of triumphant malignity. She pressed
her hand on her eyes to shut out the horrid vision ; and a prayer,
a simple prayer, rose to her lips : like oil upon the troubled waters,
it soothed and composed her spirit. She could not arrange or even
remember a form of words ; but she repeated, again and again, the
emphatic appeal, "Lord, save me; I perish!" until she felt suf-
ficient strength to enable her to look again into the night. As if
hope had set its beacon in the sky, calmly and brightly the moon
was now shining upon her cottage. With the sudden change, at once
the curse and blessing of our climate, a sharp east wind had set in,
and was rolling the mist from the canopy of heaven ; numerous
stars were visible where, but five minutes before, all had been
darkness and gloom. The shadow passed from her soul — she gazed
steadily upwards — her mind regained its firmness — her resolve was
taken. She returned to her bed-room — dressed — and, wrapping her
cloak closely to her bosom, was quickly on her way to the Smiths'
dwelling on Craythorpe Common.

The solitary hut was more than two miles from the village ; the
path leading to it broken and interrupted by fragments of rocks, roots
of furze, and stubbed underwood, and, at one particular point, inter-
sected by a deep and brawling brook. Soon after Grace had crossed
this stream, she came in view of the cottage, looking like a misshapen
mound of earth ; and, upon peering in at the window, which was only
partially lined by a broken shutter. Covey, the lurcher, uttered, from
the inside, a sharp muttering bark, something between reproof and
recognition. There had, certainly, been a good fire, not long before,
on the capacious hearth, for the burning ashes cast a lurid light upon
an old table and two or three dilapidated chairs ; there was also a
fowling-piece lying across the table ; but it was evident none of the
inmates were at home ; and Grace walked slowly, yet disappointedly,
round the dwelling, till she came to the other side, that rested against
a huge mass of mingled rock and clay, overgrown with long tangled

GEACE HUNTLEY. 75

fern and heather : she climbed to tlie top, and had not been many
minutes on the look-out ere she perceived three men rapidly approach-
ing from the opposite path. As they drew nearer, she saw that one of
them was her husband ; but where was her son ? Silently she lay
among the heather, fearing she knew not what — yet knowing she had
much to fear. The chinmey that rose from the cabin had, she
thougiit, eflectually concealed her from their view ; but in this she was
mistaken — for while Huntley and one of the Smiths entered the abode,
the other climbed up the mound. She saw his hat within a foot of
where she rested, and fancied she could feel his breath upon her cheek,
as she crouched, like a frightened hare, more closely in her form ;
he surveyed the spot, however, without ascending further, and then
retreated, muttering something about corbies and ravens ; and, almost
instantly, she heard the door of the hut close. Cautiously she crept
down from her hiding-place ; and, crawling along the ground with
stealth and silence, knelt before the little window, so as to observe,
through tlie broken shutter the occupation of the inmates. The dog
alone was conscious of her approacii ; but the men were too seriously
engaged to heed his intimations of danger.

Merciful powers! — had Grace Huntley suffered so long, so pa-
tiently, only to witness sucli a scene! She almost wished that God,
in his mercy, had stricken her with blindness ; she prayed for insensi-
l,i|ity — for death — for any thing save the knowledge now imparteil with
such fearful truth. Would that it were a dream I IJut no — the horrid
proofs were licfore her eyes — in her ears ; and tiie one drop of
comfort, the only one, was the information that her son had returned
home by a shorter path — that the ruflians feared yet (oh, the import,
the dreadful import, that little word carried with it!) — that they feared
yet to trust him witli all their secrets : they feared to bring him tjil to
iheir den.

"Then there is hope for my poor chihl," she thought, "and I
can — I n-tll »ave him I" With this resolve, she stole away as softly an«l
as quickly as her trembling limbs would pi-rmit. Tlu- depredators
revelled in their fancied security. The old creaking tal)le groaned
under tlic weight of food, and ardent spirits ; and the chorus of

76 woman's trials.

a wild drinking song broke upon her ear as returning strength enabled
her to hasten along the rude path leading to Craythorpe.

The first grey uncertain light of morning was visible through the
old church-yard trees, as she came within sight of her cottage. She
entered quietly, and saw that Abel had not only returned, but was
sleeping soundly by his brother's side.

Grace set her house in order — took the work she had finished to
her employer — came back, and prepared breakfast, of which her
husband, having by this time also returned, partook. Now he was
neither the tyrant whose threat still rung in her ears, nor the reckless
bravo of the common ; he appeared that morning, at least so his wife
fancied, more like the being she had loved so fondly and so long.

" I will sleep, Grace," he said, when their meal was finished — " I
will sleep for an hour ; and to-morrow we shall have a better break-
fast." He called his son into the bed-room, where a few words passed
between them. Immediately after, Grace went into the little chamber
to fetch her bonnet. She would not trust herself to look upon the
sleeper ; but her lips moved as if in prayer ; and even her children
still remember that, as she passed out of the cottage door, she had a
flushed and agitated appearance.

"Good morning, Mrs. Huntley," said her old neighbour, Mrs.
Craddock. " Have you heard the news ? Ah ! bad people going — "

" True, true !" replied poor Grace, as she hiu'ried onwards, " I
know — I heard it all — "

Mrs. Craddock looked after her; surprised at her abruptness.

" I was coming down to you, Grace," said her father, standing so
as to arrest her progress ; " I wished to see if there was any chance
of the child Abel's returning to his exercises ; as this is a holiday,
I thought — "

" Come with me," interrupted Grace, " come with me, father ; and
we will make a rare holiday."

She hurried the feeble old man along the road leading to the
rectory ; but returned no answer to his inquiries. The servant told
her, when she arrived at her destination, that his master was engaged —
particularly engaged — could not be disturbed — Sir Thomas Purcel was

GRACE HUNTLEY.

with him ; and as tlie man spoke, the study door opened, and Sir
'J'homas crossed the hall.

"Come back with me, sir !" exclaimed Grace Huntley, eagerly ;
I can tell you all you want to know."

The baronet shook ofl' the hand she had laid upon his arm, as if she
were a maniac. Grace appeared to read the expression of his coun-
tenance. " I am not mad. Sir Thomas Purcel," she continued, in a
suppressed, tremulous voice ; " not mad, though I may be so soon.
Keep back these people and return with me. Mr. Glasscott knows 1
am not mad."

She passed into the study witli a resolute step, and held the door
for Sir 'I'homas to enter ; her father followed also, as a child traces its
mother's footsteps, and looked around him, and at his daughter with
weak astonishment. One or two of the servants, wiio were loitering
in the hall, moved as if they would have followed.

" Back, back, I say," she repeated, " I need no witnesses — there
will be enough of them soon. Mr. Glasscott," she continued, closing
the door, " hear me while I am able to bear testimony, lest weakness
— woman's weakness — overcome me, and I falter in the truth. In the
broom-sellers' cottage, across the common, on tlie left side of the
chimney, concealed by a large flat stone, is a holt" — there much of the
properly taken from Sir Thomas Purcel's last night is concealed."

" I have long suspected these men — Smith, 1 think they call them-
selves ; yet they are but two. Now, we have abundant proof that
three men absolutely entered the house "

" There was a third," murmured Grace, almost inaudibly.

" Who?"

" My — my — my husband!" and, as she uttered the word, she leaned
ngainiit the chimney-piece for support, and buried Iter face in her hands.

'I'he clergyman groaned audibly ; he had known (trace from her
cluldliood, and fell what the declaration must have cost her. Sir
Tlniman I'urtcl was erst in n sterner moidd. " Wv are put clearly
upon the track, Mr. Glajuicott," he naicl, "and must follow it forthwith;
yet there in Homi-thing most repugnant to my feelings in finding a
woman thus herald her husband to dentruclion "

WOMAN S TRIALS.

" It was to save my children from sin," exclaimed Grace, starting
forward with an energy that appalled them all : " God in heaven,
whom I call to witness, knows, that though I would sooner starve than
taste of the fruits of his wickedness, yet I could not betray the husband
of my bosom to — to — I dare not tliink what! I tried — I laboured to
give my offspring honest bread ; I neither asked nor received charity ;
with my hands I laboured, and blessed the Power that enabled me to
do so. If we are poor, we will be honest, was my maxim and my
boast ; but he — my husband, returned ; he taught my boy to lie — to
steal ; and when I remonstrated — when I prayed, with many tears, that
he would cease to train our — ay, our child for destruction, he
mocked — scorned — told me that, one by one, I should be bereaved of
my children, if I thwarted his purposes ; and that I might seek in vain
for them through the world, until I saw their names recorded in the
book of shame ! Gentlemen, this was no idle threat — last night Abel
was taken from me "

" I knew there must have been a fourth," interrupted Sir Thomas,
coldly ; " we must have the boy also secured."

The wretched mother, who had not imagined that any harm could
result to her son, stood as if a thunderbolt had transfixed her — her
hands clenched and extended — her features rigid and blanched — her
frame perfectly erect, and motionless as a statue. The schoolmaster,
during the whole of this scene, had been completely bewildered, until
the idea of his grandchild's danger, or disappearance, he knew not
which, took possession of his mind ; and, filled with the single thought
his faculties had the power of grasping at a time, he came forward to
the table at which Mr. Glasscott was seated ; and, respectfully un-
covering his grey hairs, his simple countenance presenting a strong
contrast to the agonized iron-bound features of his daughter, he
addressed himself to the worthy magistrate : —

" I trust you will cause instant search to be made for the child
Abel, whom your reverence used kindly to regard with especial
favour."

He repeated this sentence at least half a dozen times, while the
gentlemen were issuing orders to the persons assembled for the

GRACE HUNTLEY.

apprehension of the burglars, and some of the females of the family
were endeavouring to restore Grace to animation. At last, Sir Thomas
Purcel turned suddenly round upon Abel Darloy, and, in his stentorian
tone, bawled out, " And who are you ?"

" The schoolmaster of Craythorpe, so please you, sir — that young
woman's fadier — and one whose heart is broken !"

So saying, he burst into tears ; and his wail was very sad, like that
of an afflicted child. Presently there was a stir among the little
crowd — a murmur — and then two officers ushered Joseph Huntley and
his son into the apartment.

He walked boldly up to the magistrate's table, and placed his hand
upon it, before he perceived his wife, to whom consciousness had not
yet returned. The moment he beheld her, lie started back, saying,
" Whatever charge you may have against me, gentlemen, you can have
none against that woman."

" Nor have we," replied Sir Thomas ; " she is your accuser!"

The fine features of Joseph Huntley relaxed into an expression of
scorn and unbelief. " She appear against me ! Not — not if I were to
attempt to murder her !" he answered, firmly.

"Grace I" exclaimed her father, joyfully," here is the child Abel —
he is found !" an«l seizing the trembling boy, with evident exultation,
he led him to lier. The effect of this act of the poor simple-minded
man was electrical — the mother instantly revived, but turned her face
from her liusband ; and, entwining her son in her arms, pressed him
closely to her side. The clergyman proceeded to interrogate the pri-
soner, but he ansivered notliing, keeping his eyes intensely fixed upon
his wife and child. In the mean time, the officers of justice had been
prompt in the execution of their duty : the .Smiths were apprehended
in the village; and the greater portion of ilir properfv stolen from
Sir Thomn.H I'urcel was found in the luit ulicre Grace had Ixluld it
concealed.

When the prcparationn were suffii-initly forward to roniluct the
unfortutiatc men to prison, Josrph Huntley advanced to his wife.
The scornful, as well as uiulaunted, expression of his countenance
had changed to one of painful intenniiv ; he took her hand within

80 woman's trials.

his, and pressed it to his lips, without articulating a syllable.
Slowly she moved her face, so that their eyes at last encountered
in one long mournful look. Ten years of continued suffering could
not have exacted a heavier tribute from Grace Huntley's beauty.
No language can express the withering effects of the few hours
agony ; her husband saw it, and felt, perhaps for the first time, how
truly he had once been loved, and how much of happiness he had
sacrificed to sin.

" 'Twas to save my children !" was the only sentence she uttered,
or rather murmured ; and it was the last coherent one she spoke for
many weeks. Her fine reason seemed overwhelmed. It was a sight
few could witness without tears. The old father, tending the couch of
his afflicted daughter, would sit for hours by her bed-side, clasping the
child Abel's hand within his, and every now and then shaking his head
when her ravings were loud or violent.

About fifteen years after these distressing events had agitated the
little village of Craythorpe, an elderly woman, of mild and cheerful
aspect, sat calmly reading a large volume she supported against the
railing of a noble vessel that was steering its course from the shores
of " Merrie England," to some land far over sea. The ocean
was calm and clear — so very calm that it reflected, as if from a
solid surface every vapour that floated along the heavens; it was
like sailing into a new world — a creation whose laws and boundaries
must remain for ever unknown to us. How exciting to imagination!
So many fantastic forms revelled beneath the transparent crystal,
huge rocks looking like castles, exaggerated by the watery distance ;
bleak Alpine landscapes stretching far away; and then the monsters
of the deep moving in the solemn majesty of silence! living things,
without one sympathy for the earth about them ; without a single feel-
ing that we can comprehend ! it may be, if our eyes do not weary, that, in
fancy, we gaze deeper down, and strange unearthly forms are succeeded
by deeps on deeps — the very eternity of waters! — where we can
see nothing but the blue abyss! — down — down — down ! it is a fearful

GRACE HUNTLEY. 81

thing to pass over their mysteries — a great lesson — this teaching us
how little we really know of what exists around us — of the mar-
vels that " compass us in on every side" — of the niiji;Iity miracles
that are working day by day, niglit by night, in the inlinity of space.
Many of the passengers on board this vessel laughed and talked, and
speculated on the future as if they already grasped the wealth of the
new world, or had altogether forgotten the old; the solitary woman con-
tinued to read, and yet there was a sweetness and forbearance in the
expression of her countenance, wliich gave assurance that slie would
close her book and reply, if any cliose to ([uestion or speak to her.
Two gentlemen, who were lounging on the quarter-deck, arm in arm,
frequently passed her. The elder, in a peculiarly kind lone of voice,
said, " You bear the voyage well, dame."

" Thank God, yes, sir!"

" Ah I you will soon wish yourself back in oM England."

" I did not wish to leave it, sir ; but duty compelled me."

Tlie gentlemen walked on.

" Who is she ?" in(|uired llie younger.

" A very singidar woman. Her information transported for life a
husband whom she loved, notwithstanding his crimes. She had, at
that time, three chihlren, and the eldest had already become con-
taminated by his father's example. Slie saw notliing but destruction
for them ; her warnings and entreaties being alike unregarded ; so she
made her election — sacrificed the husband, and saved the children!"

" Hut what does slie lierc i"

** Her eldest son is now established in a small business, and
respected by all who know him; her second boy, and a fatlur whom
htr misfortunes reduced to a deplorable .stale of wretchedness, are
dead ; her daughter, a vdhige b. lie and beauty, is married to my
father's hand.some new pari.sh-ch rk ; and Mrs. Huntley liaving seen
her chihlren provided fur, ami by htr \irtues aii.l industry made
re!ipectal)le in the OhI World, in now on her voyage to the New,
to Bco, if I may be permitteil to um- her own .nimple language,
' whether she can contribute to tender the last days of her hus-
band as happy a.s the first they pawed together.' It is only justice

WOMAN S TRIALS.

to the criminal, to say that I believe him truly and perfectly re-
formed."

" And on this chance she leaves her children and her country ?"
'• She does ! She argues that, as the will of Providence prevented
her from discharging her duties together, she must endeavour to per-
form them separately. He was sentenced to die ; but, by my father's
exertions, his sentence was commuted to one of transportation for life ;
and I know she has quitted England without the hope of ever again
beholding its white cliffs."

THE WIFE or TWO III S HANDS.

4-^ ow lii^^li Ik- iDouiits ! Hark, Henry;

we lioar liiin still. Sure tlu-ii I enn fancy

that i)ir(l like Hope, soaring — soaring —

till lie roacJic's Heaven — "

Wliicli he will never do ;" responded Henry

>nni'll to liin fair cousin. *' Do you not see

iwk, tracing its pathway through the clouds

'reyhound tracks the liar*- upon the earth ?"

Marian shaded lur de«p blue eyes from the inys oi the

~ f/^ .'liirious sun. The song of the bird had ce.iscd, as it changed

^ * Its course, dcfcending tf)wards the meadows for the safety

which the skies denied it. " What a glori(»us clinse !" observed the

young sportsman, as he watched the issue.

84 woman's trials.

"Fire, fire, dear Harry !" exclaimed Marian. Ah I do now ! the
monster gains upon the bird ; do fire."

" Nay, Marian, you know not what sport is," replied the youth,
cooly and slowly raising his piece. " What a noble bird he is! 'Tis
a pity to bring him down till the chase is ended."

" Fire, Harry, fire," interrupted Marian, " oh fire ! There now,
dear, dear Harry. Oh ! the poor lark is struck. Fire, fire, if you
love me !"

Quick as lightning the mandate of death sent the hawk tumbling
through (he air ; and, almost at the same moment, the little sing-
ing bird, wounded and struggling, fell on the grassy turf at the
maiden's feet.

Had you fired sooner the lark would have been saved !" she ex-
claimed, tenderly taking it in her hand. " Now — it will never sing-
again ! — its nest, too, I know is in the furze. What will become of its
poor mate I — Alas ! my simile was indeed naught — how unlike Hope
is this dying bird !"

Many tears flowed over Marian Raymond's blooming cheek as she
watched the last agonies of the wood-lark : Harry would have taken it
from her, but she retained it to the last, and then raising a portion of
the turf, placed it in its rest. The tears of youth are easily excited,
and flow — without long gatherincr in their shining fountains. Their
source, at the time of sorrow, seems inexhaustible ; — yet they soon
cease. April's sunshine and showers convey but little idea of the
rapid succession of smiles and tears on a cheek that has only numbered
sixteen summers. Marian, shaking back the raven curls that clus-
tered over her white forehead, looked into her cousin's face, as cheer-
fully as if she had never known a moment's grief.

" W^hen I go to England, and join my regiment, Marian," said
Henry, as they proceeded homeward to Castle Raymond, " you will
not, 1 hope, forget me, — years must pass ere I return — but you will
still think of me, and be my little wife — will you not?"

Marian held down her beautiful head, and made no reply.

" I wish you would promise never to love but mo, and then I
should go gladly to the wild wars, and return — a general and a hero."

THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 85

" Return a hero, Harry, and I shall be satisfied."
"No, Marian — a general for your sake — a hero for my own."
" Selfish boy ! — so you prefer the greater glory for yourself."
" Not so ; but you must never be a poor man's wife ! Young as 1
am, I know enough of human nature to see that you will be courted —
admired — flattered — and all more for your beauty than your fortune ;
although you are an heiress."

A peculiar expression of scorn, amounting almost to bitterness,
curled the maiden's lip, as she repeated — " Heiress! — Oh, yes — I shall
doubtless be an heiress ; but what, Harry, what shall I inherit ! right
noble blood — the cold-hearted cannot expel that from my veins; a
spotless name — no act but mine own can tarnish that. What else ? —
Alas! Harry, the mouldering walls of yonder castle, which to my an-
cestors was indeed a tower of strength, is now but a fitting abode for
the wilder inhnbitants of earth and air. My father, with that impro-
vidence, which you tell me characterises the Irish nation, has never
retrenched a single expenditure, even since the Ballamoyle estate was
irrecoverably mortgaged — and at this moment I know he is pressed
by incumbrances on every side."

" An Knglish gentleman, if so circumstanced, would stll off a jiart
to clear that which remained."

Marian shook her head. — Dwelling so mucli among the English
lately, Harry, has made you alien to our feelings and our customs:
here I stand, the last descendant of the housi- of Raymond ; the hills of
four counties, that were ours, are in sight ; two bright and fertilizing
rivers j)aid ustrihuti-; and many hundred men followi-d us, when
needed, inr.-im|)and field :- behold to what a handful our property, or,
what is nominally our property, is reduced! the birch uood to the left
— the ruinii of Castle C'Inyne, with its almost deserted villat>r, to the
right — the black bog, stretcliing in sluggish sloth along yondtr hollow
— and my own brioved moiddi-ring caslle, with its suilocaled moat, its
broken windowji, itn crumbling walls, .nnil ilH ivy lowers : which, of all
the objects I have mentioned, could my father part with?"

•' .Sir Chnrle* Harnett's agent is instructed to give any sum your
father thinks fit to demand for Castle Ravmond,"

86 woman's trials.

"And has the Sassenach! — " exclaimed the proud Irish girl, who
not ten minutes before was weeping, as if her heart would break, over
a stricken lark — "has he presumed thus to insult us? If the paltry
Englishman were but here, I would look him into dust, and — "

"Ashes," interrupted her companion, with a want of tact that paid
no respect to her excited feelings. " My dear Marian, when I am a
general, you shall come with me to England, where they value warm
commodious houses more than ihey do old castles and- — but you are
not angry with me again, sweet girl ? Surely you know I would
not willingly cause you a moment's pain ; although I lament — lament
most deeply, that your wild enthusiasm and uncalculating habits will
lead — to much misery."

"Thank you for your prophecy, Henry."

" Dearest Marian, — I liave named your only fault — and what a
host of virtues do you possess to counterbalance that, which experience
will soon eradicate — leaving you all perfection!"

" It is strange," replied Marian, after a pause, and wjth that de-
lightful naivete, which fades from the heart as the blush from the
cheek, with this sad difference, that, when once departed, the blush
returns, the feeling — never ; " it is very strange, that, while you
see so many faults in me, I tliink you perfect — you are certainly
much wiser — and I know that, when you go, I shall want a friend
so much ! — there's my dear father — he is my friend, of course — yet he
talks of nothing but Oliver Cromwell and the battle of the Boyne — the
bane and glory of our ancestors — and — I may say it to you, Harry,
who know him so well— drinks so much, that he is no Aear^-friend for
a girl like me."

" Am I a Aef/r^-fricnd Marian ?"

" Be easy, do. — Then my poor nurse ! — she tells such delightful
fairy tales— but the worst of it is that the half of them are made up."

" I should think they were."

" Now, Harry, don't teaze me — I assure you. Nurse Grady's
mother saw — why, I declare, there goes Busca hot-foot after the grey
cat!"

" And there goes Marian Raymond after both," soliloquised Henry

THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 87

O'Donnell ; blessed, blessed girl — tenderness, love, pride, and gaiety
of soul and spirit, free from every taint of evil, dwell together in that
noble breast : would that I could call you all mine own — I wish you
had not the reputation of wealth, for then, even now you might be a
soldier's bride— and, if so wedded, how quickly could I win a way to
riches and to honour !"

The youth folded his arms over his gun across his breast, and
leaned against a noble o;ik, which the lightning of by-gone years had
despoiled of its topmost branches. It was a fine contrast — the tree,
magnificent in decay, scorning in its greatness the very power which
had levelled its antlers to the green and humble plain ; and the youth,
whose dark eye drank in the rays of the setting sun, and wJiose erect
and finely-proportioned figure told of prowess of no common order.
Youth and age are, either in the natural or the moral world, the most
interesting stajres of existence; iiiiddle-a<fe is too worUllv-mindi'd — too
busied with thought and occupation — too well able to take care of
itself— to create the sympathy we feel for the young anil the very
old; we look on the fornur with hope, on the latter with veneration;
we pray for both, and feel eipial interest in the simrise and simset
of life.

Henry O'Donnell was ritli in all things but the gifts of fortune ; he
had lieen brought up by Marian's fatlur as his own chihl, and the old
gentleman had used his interest to get him educated and i)rovided for
in the only profession which, according to his theory, a gentleman coidd
enter. Mr. Itaymond was one of the few survivors of a race of Irish
country-genlh'inen now, I believe extinct. lie was tall and hand-
Jiome, though his countenance expressed bravery, generosity, and good
temper, rather than intellect or observation ; his forehead was high,
but not broad; and his eyes large and lustrous, but defiii«iit in expres-
sion; he wan even in advanced lifr, a gnat adept in all sports con-
nected with n«»od and tiebl — kipt a lliglit of hawks and the best fox-
liotmdH in the county — until liternlly oliliged to part, before li«' ujort-
gnged his lie.it estate, uitli Iuh iipUndid pack, from inability to support
U)em. So he gave them nway, and hunted no more : poor Marian
uxed to say, he broke hit heart when the plough broke up his dog-

88 WOMAN S TRIALS.

kennel ; and I believe she was right — he certainly drank more claret
after dinner than when he followed the hounds ; and when his wine-
merchant objected to his having any more pipes of that regal wine,
because his bill had not been paid for more than eight years, Mr.
Raymond chastised him severely for his insolence ; and to punish him
more effectually vowed a vow, which he religiously kept, never to drink
any thing in future but whiskey punch. Of this most wicked beverage
he certainly drank enough ; and, as it invariably weakens the intellect,
and excites a tempoi'ary madness when indulged in, the old gentleman
kind, considerate, and affectionate in the morning, became proud,
tyrannical, almost brutal in the evening. No wonder poor Marian
should regret her cousin's departure ; the little acquaintance she had
with books and accomplishments she owed to Henry O'Donnell. Henry
invariably strung her harp, and corrected her drawings. Her compa-
nions were few, and unsuited to her tastes and feelings; she was refined
both by nature and habit — for her father, with all his peculiarities, had
a just idea of female propriety- Mr. Raymond's politics were stern
and unbending ; offensive from their violence, even to his own party,
and, of course, calculated to make him bitter enemies among those of
opposite opinions. Descended from a line of ancestors who had ever
directed their minds to the arrangements of the national affliirs, while
their own were considered perfectly beneath their notice, the last of
the name inherited the prejudices and habits of his progenitors without
their wealth ; and truly had Marian pointed out to her cousin the nar-
row boundaries of their once wide estates. Notwithstanding his habits'
his eccentricities, and his increasing embarrassments, there were many
who venerated and esteemed his good qualities. The Irish peasantry,
with all their cunning and many faults, are, in heart and practice, the
most generous people on the face of the earth — poverty with them is
no sin.

" Shane," exclaimed a poor woman to her husband, as the master
of Castle Raymond, but indifferently mounted, passed up the hill of
Cloync, "runout, agra ! — here, put on yer hat, Shane, that ye' may
have the satisfaction of pulling it off" to a raal gintleman — and Shane,
lake the childer out wid ye — now mind yer bows and yer curtsies, ye

THE WIFE OF TWO HVSBANDS. 89

pack o'gaffers ; always pay respect to dacent blood ; it's but little of it's
going these bad times, and more's the pity. Thank God and the Var-
gin, we want nothing from his honour — but it's a grate satisfaction to
oneself to show proper respect to the gintrij, especially when they're
down in the world." Mr. Raymond passed on, after exchanging salu-
tations with the peasant, and praising his children. " His honour's not
like himself, somehow," continued the loquacious dame ; " they say he
can't keep on the ould castle, and that the rain comes in through the
roof, — and \urse Grady tells nothing, barring a word now and then —
she's desperate cute — only I think by her that Miss Marian is over
fond of her cousin, and her cousin of her; and if so, I don't see why
they shouldn't be married at onc't ; if they wait to get rich, they may
wait long enough ; and, sure, two can battle the poverty better nor one."
This is tjie Irish maxim, and much of Irish misery can be traced to its
influence; the perfect heedlessness with which the poor unite hands and
hearts has its origin in this pernicious belief. Her husband perfectly
agreed witli his wife, although both were suffering from the effects of
the evil principle ; and he contented himself with adding, "It is
enough to make his honour look quare, to have that English Sir
Charles Barnett coming here on a visit to his agent, with his dogs, and
his horses, and his sarvents, like the Lord Mayor o' Dublin, Ni-ily,
kivered wid goold and silver, and his outriders, and all in the teeth of
the counlhrey — and he nothing but a bit of a banker — a pen-cutter,
after all. Blessed Mary I if here an't the whole gang of them coming
up the hill, assure as my name's Shane Hyley."

" And sure, yc'r not going to salute the likes o' him," exclaimed
Nelly; "come in doors, do — here Paddy, Norry, Looney, Katty,
Kelly, every child o' ye, whether mine or not — come off' the dunghill,
every one o' ye, and in wid ye — sorra a bow or a scrape shall yc ever
make to them that's beneath ye. There, Katty ! if yoti w.uU to sec
the fine coach, bad luck to it! pull tin- lock of straw (tut of the ind
windey, and ye'll have tin- si^dit and the <lust together. The poor
young lady's the most to bt- pitie«l ; she's had no molher over her for
many a long year— babbies dc.ir, what would ye do without your
niainniy !" And the " habhirs," fal, rosy, dirty brats, kissed their

90 woman's trials.

mother with more pure affection than the pink-lipped, well-bred off"-
spring of the great and wealthy deem it right to evince towards their
courtly parents.

If Nelly Ryley did not possess philosophy, she was gifted with fore-
thought; " the poor young lady" was the most to be pitied, because she
had imbibed correct and just notions, that enabled her to see the error
of her father's ways, without possessing the power either to alter or
improve them. Her calm and beautiful mother, whose portrait smiled
so placidly upon her from the cold and mouldering wall of their spa-
cious and dreary reception-room, had taken all things tranquilly ; she
loved her husband, and believed that whatever he did was necessary to
support his dignity. An English lady so situated, would have consi-
dered her life a life of trial ; but Mrs. Raymond took it for granted
that trades-people who dunned, were very impertinent, and deserved
punishment instead of pay ; that it was not at all wrong for Mr. Ray-
mond to drink claret to excess, because all gentlemen did the same ;
that it would be exceedingly mean to keep, much less investigate,
accounts ; and that the entree at " The Castle," and four greys to draw
her through the beautiful woods of her domain, formed the summit of
human happiness. Her body was as fragile as her mind ; she died one
summer morning in consequence of taking a cold bath instead of a warm
one, and her husband drank a double quantity of claret during the next
three months, for sorrow that she had departed, leaving him a daughter
and not a son. Many wondered he did not marry again, and it was
reported that he had proposed in a very high quarter, and been
refused : — be that as it may, from the day she entered her teens,
Marian Raymond had been considered and treated as the mistress of
Raymond Castle.

It was about two years after the stricken lark died upon her hand,
that Marian was seated near a small table which supported her father's
elbow ; the evening sun had not set, and its beams scattered a variety
of tints over the antique room, whose furniture, time-worn and moth-
eaten, showed harshly in the garish light : the shadows on the wall
looked strange and uncouth, and the noble old gi-eyhound, crouching at
his master's feet, gazed with "lack lustre eye" up to the face of his

THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 91

young mistress. Poor Busca liad long been blind, but the creature's
fidelity was all the same ; and if he had lost one sense in the service to
which he was so ardently devoted, he gave to the other four work in
proportion to make up for the deficiency. He was swift of foot as
ever, liis scent as keen, and his hearing as perfect, as when, in his
yoimger days, he accompanied his friend Harry along the vales and
over the mountains of Kerry. Marian sat near the table, on which
were placed tiie ordinary " materials" for the manufacture of punch, but
they remained untouched, and the master of Raymond's head leaned
upon his bosom ; Marian's eyes were glazed within their sockets, from
whence they looked straight out upon the landscape, without, it would
seem, the power of noting herb, or tree, or flower ; her hands and arms
rested on her lap, and the paper she had been reading lay at hir feet ;
her luxuriant hair burst from the light blue riband tliat h;i(l confined
its abundance, and fell in rich shadowy masses over her neck and
shoulders — every feature told that she liad received a sudden ami
fearful shock, and her cheek and lips were as white as monumental
marble.

The father and daughtt-r continued in this state of intense agony
for nearly an hour, when the old oak door creaked upon its hinges,
and Marian's nurse entered. In conformity with an Irish custom still
venerated, she had remained in the house since her young lady's birth,
tlu- i)lague and amusement of the servants, and the humble companion,
confidant, and adviser of her mistress.

••Ocli wirrasthrou! and is it thnie ! Och, Miss Machree, is it the
ihruth inlirely, that the young masther's gone from us— I can't belave
the postman's news — and »ure the whoK- kitchen's in a fU»()d o' tears,
and every thing in the house broken-hearted. Oh, ttll me, Miss, honey,
if indeed its on the paper that M.islcr Harry's missing?"

Still Marian remained as before; and Mr. Kaymond made no
reply.

"Och, ma vourneen, you are, Miss M.irian ! Ali ' then, put the
atarc out of your beautiful eycji, and spake to your poor nurse — sure
you're the only comfort I have now in the widi- world— Maslher, spake
to her, she'll mind V""." rnntinurd tin- affectionate creature, really

92 woman's trials.

alarmed at the rigidity and coldness of the hand which she clasped to
her bosom, — " Masther, Masther! Miss Marian's dying — Och, wisha,
wisha, you poor stupid ould jintleman ! " she added, in an imder tone,
" \Vliat will I do — Busca, Busca ! you baste, if you war not blind
you'd call her to herself, and lick her face, and howl ; for sure, its
good rason you have, and yer young master dead." The poor ani-
mal, as if understanding her appeal, raised itself on his hind legs,
placed its fore-paws on Marian's lap, and, turning its sightless eyes
upwards, uttered a howl so piteous and so mournful, that Mr. Raymond
started from his stupor, and half rose from his seat. The creature,
when its wail was ended, first licked the hands of its mistress, and
placing its face next hers, uttered a low moaning caressing noise,
applying its cold nose to her cheek, with a tenderness which, of all the
brute creation, dogs largely possess. This succeeded in rousing her para-
lysed feelings — she folded her arms round the animal's neck, and, burst-
ing into a torrent of tears, exclaimed, " Your poor master, Busca !"

" Take away these things. Nurse Grady, and don't let any one
but yourself wait upon us this evening," said Mr. Raymond, as the
twilight deepened.

" But, sir, honey, you haven't so much as wet your lips with the
punch ! " replied the nurse in astonishment, seeming to think by this
sign, that he. must be ill indeed. "Sure you'll go to the bad intirely
with the grief if you don't take a drop now and agin."

" I shall do that whether or no," replied the old gentlemaij, faintly
smiling — " no nurse, I have much to say, much to do to night, and it
must be said one time or another."

" The only drop o' comfort for us all now is, that he may have
been taken prisoner," said Nurse Grady.

" He was too brave for that," murmured Marian, in one of those
low whispers that thrill to the very heart — " too — all too brave —
I might have known it — and often did I pray to the God of battles

to protect ." Her voice died away, and though her utterance

was imperfect, still her cousin's name mingled with the tears that
came to the relief of her bursting heart.

" Let her talk — let her talk — it will do her good — it does good

THE WUE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 93

to man or woman, but especially to woman. Och, but her throuble
is grate, and no wonder. Oh, sir, sir, honey, to tliink he was reajed
for the slaugliter !" said Nurse Grady.

The accounts were but too correct. No trace of Harry O'DonncU
had been discovered after the fatal battle of Albuera, thougli a
friend, a young ensign, who was by his side during the engage-
ment, had searched for his body in every direction, and though he
distinctly recognised tlie spot where, in the act of encouraging his
men, the gallant fellow had been cut down by a French sabre.

To poor Marian it was indeed a bitter trial ; and though in after-
life she encountered many afflictions, none struck her so heavily as
this : he was her first, her only affection — in childhood she had loved
him as a brother, and time had knit llicir hearts with love ; to him
all her hopes were directed — he was the planet round which all her
affections, all her thoughts, revolved. Her fatlier had noted the
growing attachment, but considered it a mere juvenile feeling which
a little time and experience would destroy. He had some prudential
thoughts, as regarded liis daughter's future establishment, and trusted
to time and absence, and — chance — to wear it out. Harry O'Donnell,
his step-sister's child, with nothing but his sword to win his way
to glory, could neither retrieve the Raymond estates from jeopardy,
nor add new honours to the name : he had, therefore, made up his
mind to regard and to serve Harry as a nephew, never as a son;
and was greatly shucked at perceiving the effect produced on his
daughter l)y the account of his death. Though he sorrowed much,
he was perplexed and sorely tormented at the knowledge, which
broke upon him for the first time, that Marian really loved her
cousin — loved him with the deep and intense love which dies but
with the heart. The master of Castle Hayn)ond was but little skilled
in human nature, or he woidd have knitwn that it wouhl have been far
l)ctlcr (o have suffered Marian'n feelings to calm down into something
hkc resignation b«'fore he spoke to her of any future plans, and, above
nil, of the possibility of her fbnning another attachment; but he
fancied that the pres<*nt was the best, and, moreover, lie liad dispensed
with his arcustomcil beverage, and was not willing to run the risk of

94 woman's trials.

keeping a cool liead for two nights, when tlie sacrifice of one to the god
of ^temperance might surely be deemed sufficient. Under any circum-
stances he would have mourned more deeply for his nephew, though it
must be confessed that the yoimg man's English habits and inde-
pendent ideas jarred much with the old gentleman's preconceived and
hereditary notions : — a certain fearlessness of character having ren-
dered poor Harry less careful of wounding his uncle's prejudices than
was consistent with his own interests.

" Perhaps, my dear Marian," commenced Mr. Raymond, — " per-
haps I had better not mention our affairs this evening, although they
concern me so very nearly."

" I will listen now, dearest father — now, or at any time, to aught
that affects you. Busca — poor Busca — here, rest your head upon my
lap — his hand will never caress you more !"

" Where is the spaniel — the pretty Blenheim, Sir Charles Barnett
sent you, Marian? it is a fitter pet, I think, than that great hound."

Marian looked into her father's face, as if doubtful that she heard
aright, and while her pale cheek crimsoned, made no reply, but by
pressing her lips on the dog's head.

" My dear child, I have this day fathomed what I could not before
understand ; the cause of your coolness to Sir Charles Barnett — a
gentleman — an English gentleman to be sure, but still a gentleman,
and, I must say, a man of liberal feelings— a man of sound political
views, too — never contradicted me in his life : poor dear Harry would
always have an opinion of his own ! But Sir Charles is a steady man,
of good family, too, in its way, and old enough to take care of the
main chance ; rich as a Jew, and not purse-proud, wishing, as you
know, our families to be united, which proves his respect for ancestry,
and, I must confess, make me respect him in return." He paused for
a reply, but Marian offered no observation, her lips still rested upon the
brow of the noble hound, and Mr. Raymond continued — " I suppose
some girlish and boyish engagement passed between you and Harry?"

Another pause, and no reply.

" Then, I must say, I think it was very dishonourable of him —
to—"

THE WIFE OF TWO HLSBANDS. 95

" Father!" intcrruptecl Marian, springing on Iit-r feet in an instant,
and clasping her hands witli startling energy — " Fatiier, name not
him and dishonour in the same breatli— purify your heart and lips
from such a conception and such an utterance — Dishonour and Henry
O'Donnell were never before blended. And you, too, who so well
knew him, within these walls, in this very room, where so often he
has corrected my faults, and directed my wandering thoughts to
the right path — these walls to hear the blasphemy of that dear

name !" Then, as if thinking that to her father she had said

too much, the poor girl throw herself at his feet, and bending her
head to the earth, sobbed out a petition that he would retract his
words, and forgive the agony which drove her to such extremes.

Mr. Raymond folded her to his bosom, greatly shocked at a
violence he ha<l so little anticipated ; and said every thing that
occurred to him to convince her he meant nothing that cnuKl sully
O'Donnell's reputation in the least.

" We will talk of this another time, my child, he said tenderly;
" but it nuist be soon, very soon, Marian — very soon, or you will see
your fatiier within the county gaol, a prisoner — a prisoner, Marian,
for paltry debts."

She j)rcssed her hands to her forehead, and at last murmured —
** Father ! I understand you now — and now I cannot biar more —
not to-night, but to-morrow, father — to-morrow, or the next day.
God help me, and direct me for the best. Good night, dear father.
You believe that he was inca|)able of a dishonourable thought, and
you forgive n)y petulance. Now bless me, father — bless me, for I
have need of blessing." She sank on her knees, and her unhappy
and ruined parent pronounced as fervent n blessing ns ever passed
from himinn lips.

" I)(» not think of a gaol, father. Wliat have I lo live for
now !"

A.H nhe pa.Hse«l from the aparlm«nt, the litlh- sp.iniel. Sir Charles's
prt'iienl, met lu-r nt the diM)r, an<l fawned upon lu-r ns was Iuh custom,
for all ihingn loved lu'r well ; nhr Hpurned iiim from her, and the
creature ran yelling through the hall ; the sound omute upon her

96 woman's trials.

ear — "God forgive me!" she ejaculated; "Satan is busy at my
heart." She crossed the vestibule ; the rusty armour, and the dis-
arranged fishing, and other sporting implements, appeared dropping
from the neglected walls ; the splendid lamp, which had once shed its
many-coloured light over the marble pavement, hung broken and
dangling, from the painted and cobwebed ceiling ; the spacious fire-
place, round which a hundred followers had often crouched, exhibited
rusty bars and broken fragments of stone ; and as she passed it, the
bright and glittering eyes of a starved rat that had been prowling
for prey, glared upon her with their poisoning light : she shuddered
with superstitious dread from the influence of the unclean animal, nor
did she breathe freely until, standing on the green slope leading to the
castle gardens, she fixed a long and piercing gaze upon the blue sky,
studded with its starry worlds ; there was his planet, glorious among
the many, shining in its white raiment of brilliant light— fully and
splendidly shining, not beneath a cloud, but standing out in the
heavens, as if in triumph ! Will poor Marian be accused of weak-
mindedness if it be confessed that the brightness of the star communi-
cated hope to her heart ? She wandered among the tangled plantations,
with her eyes still fixed upon the shining orb, until she found herself
on the moor beyond the gardens. Her foot struck against a mound of
earth, and when she looked down she found herself on the very spot
where she had placed the dead lark beneath the turf. After that little
incident, with girlish romance, she had planted two white rose-trees on
the tiny grave, to prove, as she laughingly assured her cousin, her
theory to be correct ; for the spirit of the lark would mingle with the
perfume of the roses, and teach them to mount the skies. Harry too
smiled at, if not with, her. The rose-trees grew and flourished ; and
now, in the decline of summer, the grass was strewed with their white
leaves ; she stooped to see if one remained that she could gather ; and
when she raised her head, she saw that the white clouds which had
been careering, like the sea-foam, through the heavens, had obscured
the brightness of his natal star ! — it was too much for her excited
imagination, and she sunk upon the spot where, two years before, her
hopeful emblem had met with an untimely end. Let no one make

THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 97

sport of youthful sorrow — it is tlie bitterest we are doomed to endure
in our course through life ; the trials of after age are, doubtless, more
real, but they are not so intense— they are of the world, worldly — it is
seldom they are unselfish — rarely untutured. Let any of us recall tlie
devotedness of our first real grief, the anguish of our first real
disappointment, and remember how literally it was deep and heart-
felt — how entirely mind and body were stricken during its con-
tinuance, and then, in justice to fast coming memories, we can never
make sport of early sorrowings.

*' And here, you are, a-launan, and your beautiful hair \vi.t wid
the night dew — after myself, and the whole house seeking for ye,
in every hole and corner, up ai)d down, in and out. What brought
you here intirely ? Och, my grief! Come in, Jslore ma chrcc, and
go into your comfortable bed ; and don't take on so, though grate is
your throuble ; sure, darlint, we are born, all of us, without asking
our laves, and we die — rich and poor, grate and small, in the same
way. Och, a-coushla ! it's a grief to my heart that you war not
brought up in the thrue religion — for sure, a trifle of patters and avys
would make ye so comfortable ! The master thinks you asleep, and
niver a wink on yer eye, no more than on the lady moon, who's
blessing us with her light. Maybe, after all, lie's not dead — who
knows, but a little time will tell !"

A little lime, and a long time pasNcd, and told nothing — nothing
was heard of Harry O'Donnell. His comp.inions in arms had
cea.sed to think of him — his uncle widird to forget he had ever
existed — the old nurse even had taken the hue and character of the
time, and spoke of liim no more. Autumn with its golden sceptre
tinged the wwkIs with divers and magnificent colours — the swallows
had deserted their haunts l»y the tranquil lake and the wooded hills —
the song of the reaper, and the glad whistle of the blithesome black-
bird, no long»r danced amid the v.dhys. Winter came, stealthily at
first, ttprinkling the earth with frosty diamonds, and ni|ii)ing the young
buds that ventured forth from their myntic inclosures — then, in his ice-
car, he mounted the hurricane, and capped the ntountains with his
snows. Spring — lovely, all-healing Spring— with its young sunshine.

98 woman's trials.

and gentle showers, succeeded ; the hills were green, the violets blue,

the cowslips mingled their blossoms with the furze, the golden catkins

hung from the birchin woods, over the blossoms of the timid and

trembling anemone ; the fly-a-way birds came back to their old

habitations with unsoiled wings and unruffled plumage, as if they had

never wandered, —

" The elm tree blossomed o'er the brooding bird,
And wild and wide the plover's wail was heard."

The seasons liad changed ; but in Marian Raymond there was no
change, "neither shadow of turning"' — Did 1 say, no change? I did
her injustice; her beautiftd head, which at first had been bowed to
the earth, had risen into an erect and statue-like dignity, as she had
said — " Here I and sorrow sit." She had learned, from commune
with her noble self, to meet, not sink beneath, her destiny ; her cheek
had settled into extreme paleness, and her eye gained in strength
what it lost in brightness. The summer had seen her a wild, ardent,
confiding girl ; the succeeding spring found her a cold-mannered,
dignified woman, whose lips were rarely known to smile, and in whose
eyes no tears were ever seen ; yet she loved Henry as deeply, and
as tenderly as ever — in that one sentiment she was unchanged.

" And they all seemed to love him too," she exclaimed in the
solitude of her dreary chamber ; " I thought it was real, and that
they would have laid down life for Harry— yet but one remembers
him besides myself— his poor, poor dog!"

" Och, Mistress Grady ! an' I'm heart glad to see ye," said Nelly
Riley of Cloyne. "Sit down, ma'am— and is it thrue that your Miss
is to be married after all to that English barrow-night, who's ould
enough to be her father, and has nothin' in him but the spirit of a
tame nigger?— he'd take a penny out of a blind man's hat."

" Indeed, then, Nelly Hiley, I take it to be an ill patthern of your
manners to say the likes o' that to one who's coming into our family,
and has good blood in his veins ; sure, then, ye little know what
he'd do for the sake of the young Mistress."

THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 91)

*' M ivhe I do know, Mrs. Grady ; don't I know how (God look
down upon her!) she's been drooping all the wintlier ; don't I know
how the lieart-faver came upon her, a laughing girl, and left her a
sober heart-struck woman ; don't all the coimthrey know how the
poor Masther (more's the pity) has been distressed ; don't we know
how tlic jaws of the law (bad luck to it!) has been stretched open
for him ! and don't we see that he's stuffing liis daughter betwixt
to stop its mouth ? Sure, every body in his whole town-land knows
that Sir Charles wanted to buy the estate long ago, and has money
enouiih in the Limerick bank, and the Waterford bank, and the big
bank in Dublin, to say notliing of his outlandish banks, to buy fifty
estates like it ; but he wanted the lady too, for he could get nothing in
England like her — the ould, dressed up, buckram-sliffened, face-
painted dandy. You needn't grizzle, like a pea on a gridiile, Mrs.
Grady, it's the truth I'm tellin', and I don't care who liears it I hut
this I know if the poor young gintlenian had'nt l)een kilk-d, she'd
ha' seen Castle Raymond down the Shannon (and my blissing to her for
that same) before she'd ha' sould herself to that Knglish thingiuuby,
you call l)arrow-knight."

" You're a blasphaming ould woman, to talk that way of Castle
Raymond; and y<^u're a ]HM)r desaved craythur, too, for I can tell ye,
that though Sir Charles is an Englishman, (which counthrey, you'll
agree, is preferable before the world, afther Ireland,) he has a gene-
rous spirit of his own, when there's occasion for it."

" I sec how it is, nurse, an<l why ver two good-looking shoul-
ders stick out so grand, under yer beautiful Injeo shawl; l»ut I'd scorn
to bo bril)ed, poor as I am ; and, remimber I till ye, that (hough
I grand she mav lie, rich she may l>e, yet ye'll nivcr si e the smile
on her lip ho l)right, or her stejt so dancing, as wlu n she wtut wan-
dering, like a blessed bird over these lulls, with him whose grave
was made, without cross or pr.iyi r to m.'iik, ii in .1 tar counthrey."
" Nellv," roplie«l Nurse (irady, "you're not a larned woman, so
I can't binmc vc : but voii mav take the word of one who knows
better than youriwlf what belongn to the quality, and hho (ells yc,
(ha( Mils Marian «dl be as happy an the day is long — and why

100 woman's trials.

not? Won't she ha' got a rich husband; won't she ha' saved Castle
Raymond from being sould ; and sure you know that if iver tliat
came to pass, it would be the ould gentleman's death ; won't she "

" Don't bother us, axing yer pardon, nurse ; haven't I got the
sight o' my eyes, and the feelings o' my heart — and don't I see
how it is ?"

Nelly Riley was right ; the pulse of Marian Raymond's heart
was chilled. Sir Charles Barnett had been a leader of fashion,
when fashion and vice were even more synonymous than in our own
days. He had drank and gamed in royal company. He was still
brilliant and most elegant in his manners, but he was no longer
supreme in matters of taste and ton ; younger men were preferred)
by the new beauties, and Sir Charles sought retirement on his Irish
estates, to recruit both health and purse. An old uncle died sud-
denly, and left him the reversion of immense wealth. He longed
again to dazzle and to lead ; but he felt and knew that, except as
a dinner-giver, his reign was over : — a man may give dinners at
any age ; but at any age he cannot waltz, sing, and flirt with
ladies who have succeeded their mammas in the empire of
fashion. He had ever eschewed matrimony, for reasons which it is
needless to explain ; but the radiant and dazzling beauty of Marian
Raymond attracted his notice. He perceived, with the quickness of
a man of the world, that she would immediately create a sensation ;
herniiivete, her wit, could have no rivals — her beauty, few. When first
he saw her she had scarcely numbered fifteen summers, and then
he introduced himself to Mr. Raymond by offering to purchase the
castle and grounds. This was received as an insult by the proud, though
needy proprietor, and it subsequently required all Sir Charles Barnett's
tact to gain the good graces of the master of Raymond. He suc-
ceeded, as we have seen, effectually ; for Mr. Raymond had only
told his daughter the truth when he affirmed, that her accepting Sir
Charles's hand was the only way to save him from a gaol. Poor
girl! she saw that indeed her father's hour was come, as well as
her own, and she agreed — only stipulating that she was not to be called
upon to fulfil her contract until the following summer. Sir Charles

THE WIFK UK TWO HUSBANDS. 101

cerUiinly acted with great liberality, paid off" all incumbrances, and was
recognized as the heir to Cabtle Raymond after the present possessor's
death. A maddening fever was the result of this self-sacrifice, and Sir
Charles might have repented (for with her characteristic nobility
of soul she told liim all the truth), liad he not consoled himself
with the idea, that as her lover was dead it was of no consequence ;
every one, he believed, must have a first love before a second, and its
memory would pass from her mind as clouds from the summer sky.

•' I am come, father — Marian Raymond is come to demand, for
the last time, her father's l)lessing."

Her father was alone in his chamber, but a joyous bridal party
crowded the saloon.

" For the last time, my girl !— What do you mean?"

" After this morning there will be no Marian Raymond."

" Ah ! mv dear, I wish you had been a boy — and yet I do not —
but, though not Marian Raymond, you are my daughter still." Ah •
well may he l>e jiroud of you "

" I adorned, you see, father, lur the sacrifice."

" Sacrifice, do you call it?" he replied — " say rather, for the festival.'"

•' Be it so — there is some coiuitry, I think — though I cannot tell
where, which he used to speak of, where they made the sacrifice a
festival. Ibit you will hv happy, father — you will enjoy, long, long
enjoy dear Castle Raynu)n<l."

" .S«) I will — that rascally wine-merchant, Marian, has been writing
to me, to get back my custom ; but not a tlrop of his claret shall rv«r
enter my cellars — no, no; wlun you return you wdl hardly know the
old pl.ice."

" Father grant me one re<pic»t — the fishing-tackle, and Harry's old
fowling-piecc — he hung them on tin- walls hinisilf, where they now
are — </« nvt let them hr rrmorrd."

Mr. Raymond prensc-il his dnughtcrH hand in hilenrr.

" Wh. II I return, fatln r, I hope I shall fiml you hajipy : — what
1 do io-(lay, IS for you only."

103 woman's trials

•' Haj)py ! how can I be otherwise, my Marian? I never felt
better in my life — never in better health or spirits."

He led her into the saloon ; and soon after a gay cavalcade passed
through the motley crowd to the village church — they entered its ivy-
gamished portal — the ceremony commenced — proceeded — concluded.
It was observed afterwards by many, that when the clergyman
demanded — " Who gives this woman to be the wife of this man V
Mr. Raymond's voice faltered, and his countenance, latterly much
bloated, assumed a purple and inflamed appearance. When all was
over, he moved as if to salute his daughter ; but instead of the
warm kiss of parental affection on her cheek, she received the dying
body of her father in her arms. A strong apoplectic fit had rendered
the master of Raymond a corpse witliin twenty minutes after he
entered the Church of Cloyne. How truly were the words of Scrip-
ture fulfilled ! " In the midst of life we are in death."

And poor Marian — what would she not have given that the blow, if
it was to be, had fallen a few minutes sooner. "Then, then I might
have been preserved from this hateful union — what cared I for those
estates — I might have lived and toiled at liberty, not driven, alas, to
live with him I loathe !"

It is but justice to Sir Charles Barnett to confess," that, after
this unfortunate occurrence, he did everything he could to gratify
the feelings of his bride. Though strongly disliking the Irish wakes
and funerals, yet he permitted both to proceed according to ancient
custom, and took the lead in the procession as chief mourner. His
conduct, towards Marian, on this occasion, commanded her esteem,
if not her love ; and deeply grateful was she for it. Youth is apt
to attribute all vices where it discovers one, and to believe that those
they dislike must inherit all the faults and imperfections they can
possibly imagine. So it was with Marian ; yet she endeavoured, with
a resolution, not one of her least trials, to make herself believe she
had done her husband injustice.

" I will now, she said, " labour to discharge my duty."

THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 103

When all was over, anil they prepared to leave the country for the
London season, Lady Barnett, on descending one morning from her
dressing-room, found Sir Charles occupied in giving directions to
various workmen as to the necessary repairs of the castle during
their absence" — the old armour and fishing-t;ickle had been torn rudely
from the walls, and lay in heaps upon the marble pavement.

" Let these rubbishing things be given away, and the })ictures
and statues I shall send from London occupy their places." One
old gun, surmounted by a cap and fishing-rod, still remained un-
touched near the back entrance to the hall. " Shall I take these down
too, your honour ?" inquired one of the men.

" No, no," replied Marian, who was leaning against the oaken
ballustrades of the staircase — "No, no. Sir Charles does not wish these
removed."

" Not removed, my dear ! you cannot, surely, mean these things
to remain stuck up over the door ! they would destroy the harmony
of my entire arrangement. The hall is really lini- ; those cohnnns and
carvings are in admirable keeping; and, when my plans are completed,
it will l)e as imposing as anything in England ; you are not serious,
.Marian? — Peters, Lady Hanitlt has changed lur opinion — remove
those things."

At this instant the remembrance of her noble cousin, as he had
placed his implements of sport in their rest, wliile she, with tearful
eyes, stood at one side, and poor lUisca, little dreaming that his
dear m.isler was about to depart, at the otiier, can)e full upon her —
she could not bear them to bi- removed — she eoidd not support the idea
of thi'ir bfing profaned by any touch ; before I'eters could exi-euti- his
nianter'H orders, she called — " l''orl)iar I" in a tone, it might In* of
emotion, it might be of authority — it was, most likely, a mingling of
both, ".Sir Charles," bIio added, going into the lireakfasl-room, "Sir
Cliarlen, I would npeak with you." lie followed her into the apart-
ment, and clo<ie<l the diM)r.

" It is a weakness, nn«l one f«»r which, perhaps, I should brg you
to forgive me ; but I have never, »incc the commencement of our
acquaintance, us« d the ftlightent concealment townr<ls you." Sir

104 woman's trials.

Charles bowed. " That cap, gun, and fishing-rod, were hung there
by my cousin the night before he left us — for ever; — will you oblige
me by not having them removed."

There was a pause. Often, how much of our destiny hangs
upon a few words ! Brief they may be — unstudied, and seemingly un-
important, yet how powerful their influence ! The instruments of will,
the arbiters of fate — and its controllers! — brief words ! — that stamp
an impress on memory which time can never efface. Oh, if words
were but more accurately weighed, how much misery might be
spared, how much evil prevented !

Marian waited for his reply — on it depended more than the
narrow-minded baronet imagined; she waited long, so long that it
became necessary again to speak.

" On the morning of my marriage, the last request I made my
poor father was, that they should remain untouched."

" You must," replied Sir Charles, but too evidently mortified,
" attach much value to the person who placed them there, to object
so strongly to their removal."

" I did attach much value to him, and I regard his memory — he
was my cousin."

Sir Charles forgot his good-breeding ; and, with a perfectly well-
bred sneer, interrupted her at the word — cousin. " You need not
attempt to conceal the fact from 7ne, Lady Barnett ; he was more
dear to you than any cousin."

" Sir Charles," she replied, " I never did, and never will, conceal
aught from you. You are my husband ; and, whether he be de-
serving or not, a husband has a right to a wife's imqualified con-
fidence : concealment I believe to be the root of all domestic misery.
What my sentiments towards Henry O'Donnell were, you heard
long ago, and from me ; you cannot entertain any unpleasant feeling
towards the clay — the mouldering clay — of my childhood's friend. I
promised him that those implements of the chase should never be
removed except by his own hand ; do then, I intreat you, let them
remain as long as I live — they are in the shadow — do not, pray do
not, remove them, for — "

THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 105

" For my sake," slje wislied to liave added, but she could not ;
she was unable to frame an appeal, bordering on affection, to one
for whom she felt it not.

'' I am sorry, Marian," he replied coldly, " but I regret to say,
that trifling as it may seem, having given the order, I cannot see how I
can retract : the things will be better out of sight. I liad no idea
that you entertained such a strong penchant for the gentleman ;
indeed, cherishing such a feeling, you ought to have paused before
you honoured me with your hand."

Marian's only reply was a bitter groan ; and, without another
word, she left the apartment, crossed the hall, and proceeded with
unmingled bitterness of spirit to the dressing-room she had recently
quitted. She threw herself on her knees, and, burying her face
in her hands, gave way to a burst of regret, such as she seldom
indidged in — for tears arc an indulgence, and a blessed one, to the
stricken at heart. Mingled with her tears were prayers — prayers
to the .Almighty, who is known to us in tin- hour of troul)lc, whether
of mind or of body, as the One holy and true Spirit, who will either
remove from us our aftlictions, or teach us how to bear them as
Christians only can. Marian had known little, during her early years,
of religion, except its name ; but sorrow and solitude had taught
licr where she might fmd consolation ; and enthusiasm, so strong
a feature in her character, having latterly no worldly object to
chain it to tarth, worked its way towards heaven. "Teach me,
() Lord !" she ejactdated, " to bear the reproach I have in a measure
merited; teach me to perform the hard and heavy duty of wife to him
whom I love not, though Thou knowest full well there is no other on
earth whom I do love."

She was interrupt rd l)y a whining noise, which she wi-ll recog-
niiwl— it \\a% jwior MuHca ! Her four-footed fiiend was readily
admit(e<l ; and hIh- pondered in her mind wlu-ther hhe ought to
cnrenH even hin dog, when he whom at liie altar .nlie had engaged lo
love, honour, and obey, wouhl, fdie doubled n<»t, disapprove of her wi
doing. The poor animal nlretched upon the rug as usual, and con-
tented himself by elevating an ear occasionallv, as his beautiful mis-

106

WOMAN S TRIALS.

tress paced up and down the chamber. It was evident that Sir
Charles Barnett's mind, however dressed and fashioned by circum-
stances, was intrinsically poor and mean. Had he thought kindly,
or even wisely, he would have seen at once, that though Marian
was perhaps wrong, as a married woman, in cherishing the remem-
brance of one, all too dear in former times, yet the noble frankness
she had shown, the freedom from all art upon the subject, the con-
fidence she reposed in him so bravely, deserved a similar return ;
and had he been capable of valuing her as she merited, he would have
been proud to preserve what she had frankly confessed she valued.
Were even the wisdom of generosity sufficiently estimated, the world
would go on in better tune : people, for the most part, endeavour
to bring events within the compass of their own narrow concep-
tions, instead of striving to expand with them.

PAKT THE SECOND

jix ytr partlon, Mi^s — my liudy, I mane —
ilear, dear, it's hard to turn one's tongue to
a word one's not used to ; but you have the
h( art's respect, any way," said thi- old gar-

h^'^^L dcner at Castle Raymond, thi- morning be-
^ -Jy fore Marian was to leave her ehildhoml's

" home — " and may I make boidd to ax, if you
£4JM ' (y^ intend taking IJusea with yon over tlu- seas ?"

.-f^C^^ "J .. Y.'s, Frank."

" L.TVr him witli mi-, Miss, my I.ady, and
111 take care of the baste ; he ha.s no taste for
tr.ivflling now ; and our.- Nrlly Riley's son.
Rat, writes a fine hand, and 'dl imlite a htler with the prient (no
disrcH|>ect to his reverence); and, if you didn't think I'd br m.ikin

108 woman's trials.

too free, sure Id direct a line to tell you how Busca was, and how
the rosies got on, and all about the mellon-bed, and the new graft
on the apple-trees."

" I shall be happy to hear from you, thank you, Frank ; but I
cannot part with Busca, he was my father's favourite, and, — in
short, I must take Busca."

" Busca," persisted the gardener, " is fond o' me, and he and the
grey cat are tl)e best friends in the world now ; they lie together on
my ould jock, that sarves em for a mat ; indeed, lady dear, I wish
you would lave me Busca."

" I am grieved I cannot oblige you in this, Frank ; is there
any thing else I can do? can I send you any thing from England?"

" God bless you, my Lady, I should like a quarter of English
tobaccy ; Fve a grate curosity to see what sort of stuff it raally
is ; and I hear their kail, particularly their brocoli, bates Banagher.
But ma'am, my Lady darlint, for the love o' the poor ould master,
and for the love — no, not that, because, in coorse it's past, but,
for the regard of Master Harry — lave Busca to me ; see how the
craythur rams his could nose into my hand, as if he said, FU stay
wid you."

"It's very strange you should have set your mind on this!"

" May be so, my Lady, strange things happen every day. Sure,
it's mighty strange what makes sich a beautiful, great, big sun-
flower, as that yonder, come out of a little blay, humpy seed, not as
big, no, nor half, nor quarter as big as a praytee's eye! Well, plaze
yer Ladyship, all I can say is, that if you don't lave Busca be-
hind, he'll never see the ould grey cat again, that's all ! "

" Frank ! I insist upon knowing wliat you mean."

" Ah, Busca, a cushla ! " continued the gardener, with true Irish
tact — " ah, thin Busca, would yer misthress not let on, I'd incense
her into it, you poor brute, how ye'r no favourite with Misther Bijaw,
my Lord's valley de sham, and how he said to me — ' Ould Blossom,'
says he, ' if my lady intends bringing that ould stinking baste
(axing yer pardon, Busca ; but 'twas he said it, not me) with us (by us,
maneing Sir Charles and himself, the rude ill-raired pup,) — witli

THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 109

US,* says he, ' we'll give him a dose,' says he, ' crossing the channel,'
says he, 'and then make our (the impident blackguard!) our lady
believe lie died of the say sickness.' So with that, says I, what
would his honour say to that? says I — ' O, nothing at all,' says he,
'for Sir Charles hates the sight o' him, and wheniver my lady's
back is turned gives him a poke or a puck with his foot — I have
good raison to know that he'd never say a word, except " O be
joyful," if he was fairly gone.' Sol says nothing; for the might's
the right evermore with thim English agin us. Now, ma'am, my
Lady, a' vourneen, you'll let Busca stay with his ould friend Frank."

Marian made no reply ; her heart was too full to spiak. She
turned from the gardener to conceal her emotion, and at a break in
the plantations encountered her husband.

" I have been giving some fiii.-il directions as to the trees we
wished put down this aulunm," he observed, as they met — " Have
you been directing your old gardener as to your flowers ? by the
way, he gets old, that Master Frank — I must send off some of my
Scotch people from Harnett Park to get every thing in right order."

" Not to turn away Frank, Sir Charles ?"

"Certainly not, my dear, if you wish t<i the contrary — always
most happy to niect your views, where they are consistent with
proj)ricti/."

Poor Marian made no observation on this sarcastic reply, but
fancied that Sir Charles cast an unkind look on tlu' hound, who,
certainly, often provoked the baronet; for, in iorniir times, Husca
always received his advances uith a certain exposure of the teeth and
gums, not very flattering to one desirous of cultivating his ac-
quaintance. Few words passed between them, tmlil, on reaching
the vestil)ule. Sir Charles closed the iloor, so as to prevent the
hound from entering.

" In Fiigland, Marian, dogs are not advanced to the rank oi eom-
paniouA, particularly when tlu-y gr<»w ofTi-n.Hive l>y ng»". '

It wan on Marian'n lip to inquire if all thingn grew disagreeable
OS they giew old; but she rememlMT«'d that "grievous word>. •ilir up
anger," and held her pence. Sir Charles continued.

1 10 woman's trials.

" I do not think that Busca will ever bear a sea voyage "

" I think not," was her forced reply to him, whom, under the
influence of her strongly excited feelings, she regarded as little
better tlian a premeditated murderer. That he should meditate
the destruction of an animal he knew she so fondly loved, was
cruel ; but to take his valet, a low-bred, insulting foreigner into
his confidence, and plan with him the death of that poor blind fa-
vourite, was mean, low, pitiful. How, in defiance of all her reso-
lutions to the contrary, did she despise this man of worldly wealth
and narrow soul! With this feeling came another — he was her
husband !

Despite all that has been said to the contrary, there is something
singularly brilliant and invigorating in a London season. The
weather, from April to June, is, generally speaking, on its best
behaviour ; the animation spreading itself, either as a bane or a
Idessing, over all classes of society during the sitting of Parliament,
is in full force : it gives gentlemen something to talk about in the
park, in the streets, at the clubs ; and excites something bordering on
interesting conversation during the ten or twenty minutes pause be-
fore dinner, at which time the said gentlemen "bunch" together in
whatever portion of the room fronts the largest looking-glass, or
lounge on the softest sofas, to the exclusion of the ladies, and are
thus enabled to criticise, quite at their ease, the merits of the last
new speaker. — Despite, then, the mauvais ton of almost every man
of "ton" you meet, still there is much to charm and bewilder the
senses in the London Season. The parks teem with beauty and
elegance. The opera, the finest and most glorious of sensual en-
joyments, is in full force. The exhibitions, such as tliey are, are open,
and there are always more than two or three subjects at each to repay
you for the loss of time consequent on looking at all. There is
bustle in the streets, — not the ill-bred city bustle that forces you
off the pavement, and covers you with mud ! — but the bustle con-
sequent on the crowding of the better classes of society in search of
amusement. Noble horses parade the squares ; carriages, unrivalled

THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. Ill

in beauty of design and execution, meet each other at every comer.
There is a rich and «rorgeous blaze of all that is bright and curious in
the magazines and shops ; the best books are reserved by the wary
publishers for " the season ;" the most exquisite exotics flourish in
the conservatories of the great and gay ; and the air of the favoured
" West End" is redolent of the purest perfumes. Any foreigner,
passing casually through London during " the season" would pro-
nounce us the wealtiiiest and happiest of nations, and imagine that
distress had never set its seal of want, and sin, and death, upon
any of the children of Britain. Those who seek truth must dive
amid the turbulent and disordered waters of sorrow, as well as
ramble through the smiling groves and laughing pastures of joy !

It was Marian's third season in brilliant London, and many thought
it was never truly brilliant until she appeared. Both in Ireland, and
on her husband's estatis in England, she had been as far as she was
permitted, an angel of charity ; she had founded schools, clothed
the naked, fed the hungry ; and the deep-felt and grateful blessing
followed the "pale lady" wherever she went. The first season
pa.ssed off as her husband expected ; to use the cant phrase, she
was splendidly successful. Though Barnett is an iigly and common
sounding name, there were " Barnett hats ;" and the hair was " Crrpe
ti la Ilarncttc ;" and Lady Barnett's nit was often (pioted, as the wit
par czcclU-ncc. Those who called her witty, knew not what wit was.
Wit may lie likened to a silver arrow, \n\Tv, glittering, and pointed;
hem was of a more severe (pialily : — it was satire; not the nipp.uu
and ill-temjH-red smartness that descends to mere jn-rsonality — but
that finer and more enobling (piality, whirh fearetl not to tell Philip
feasting that it w«iuld only comimuie with IMiilip fasting. W ilty inmds
arc- neldoni great, but a just quantity <»f natire sharpens the intellect
unto |)orfertion ; it in tin- whetstone of many virtues, and is respected
when itH playful counterfeit is run d(»wn by temp«'r and gixwl sense.
Sir Charles Barnt-tt had taken a wit'r to help him to support his
waning state; but he had not calculai< <l nn (rlipse: .uid liv no means

112 woman's trials.

relished the universal homage rendered to her marvellous wisdom and
sound judgment.

The President of the Royal Academy painted her portrait during her
second season, and with his usual skill completed a picture that might
have made Titian jealous. Lady Barnett looked at it for some time in
silence ; and then turning to the polished artist, she observed, " It is
beautiful, but you know what it needs to make it like me."

" Lady," he replied with admirable tact, " it wants a sigh upon

THE LIP."

And he was right.

" My dear Lady Barnett, I have a little request to make of
you, this evening," said Sir Charles, " it is that you will not enter into
any conversation with the Russian envoy about the plans we (the
mean creature had nothing to do with them) adopted for the edu-
cation of the poor in Leicestershire ; if he speaks again upon the sub-
ject, refer him to vie. And I really wish you would not agree with
Lord Somerton's notions about literature ; he invariably contradicts
me, and therefore, oblige me by not conversing with him."

" I will do as you desire."

" I think we shall confine our parties this season, to dinners,
concerts, and card-assemblies. Balls (Sir Charles had lately been
afflicted with gout) are really incorrect, since the introduction of
waltzes."

" I am glad to find that your ideas of correctness are improving,"
replied his lady. Sir Charles winced.

Will it be believed that the very man who was lecturing and
directing this high-souled woman on such trifling points, was con-
tinm'ng (almost openly) in the practice of what the uninitiated would
call "gross immorality," but what the well-bred delicately classify
as a liaison. Oh, this twisting and mooting of terms ! this cloaking
of all that is abominable under the banner of "human frailty!" this
glossing and polishing of vice ! this burning of incense in liigh places,
and bending the knee to Baal ! How does the free-born soul
sicken at, and loathe, such homage ! God forbid that we should for
a moment wish to see the levelling of rank, or the decent barriers

of society overthrown. We honour the one, and respect the other ;
but vice is vice, though a coronet bind the brow ; and virtue is as
holy in a peasant's cottage as in a ducal palace. How many are
worshipped, hterally, during tlie season in London, because of their
fetes, and splendour, who would not be tolerated in what is termed
decent society, were it not for " station." Lady Barnctt felt this deeply :
and while she was idolized, loathed the idolatry. Not that she was
insensible to praise or applause — what woman is, what woman ought to
be? but she longed for a devotion, which she knew, as a wife, there
was but one who could render. She wished to be the object of a
warm and fervid affection, as she had once been. She was constantly
the victim of her penetration, and sometimes wished tliat God liad, in
his mercy, bestowed upon her less feeling and more folly. There was
one thing, and one only, that yielded her pleasure ; she had an
extended sphere of doing good ; and the manner in which she threw
her entire soul into relieving the necessities of others, often excited in
her worldly-minded husband cjn astonishment ho did not deem it neces-
sary to conceal.

" I cannot think, ^L'lrian, why you are so anxious about the dead
curate of Lyme's daughters : one is deaf, and the other blind ; more-
over, nobody knows them."

•' Simj)ly, Sir Charles, because their father is dead, one deaf,
the other blind, and nobody knows them."

Sir Charles muttered something about "bad habits, contracted
through a defective education, and wild Iri^h views of manners and
society ;" and the once free-hearted ^L'lrian listened, as she had often
lintcned, patiently ; for *' patience is the badge of all her tribe."

Would those who crowded her splendid saloons, and were as-
toniiihrd nt her ta.stc and calui majestic beauty, — wouhl tliey have
believed that the cinker was busy at a heart, whore sorrow ha«l made
its sepulchre ?

" Lady Ilarnrit," inquired one of her visitern, casually taking up n
morning paper from amid the heap of prrio«liral literature with which

it is customary to heap a library-table, " do you ever read our political
journals ?"

" Hardly ever."

*' We continue gaining victory on victory ; indeed, Napoleon must
soon evacuate Spain and Portugal."

Marian could never hear any allusion to the Peninsular campaign
without emotion ; her heart beat violently as the gentleman continued.

" So, I see an exchange of prisoners has lately been effected ;
some Irish names, too, among the number. You must surely be
interested in them, Lady Barnett ? Calvert O'Connell, lieutenant
in the 3rd dragoons; Barry St. Leger — ay, all the St. Legers were
brave fellows ; Henry O'Donnell, captain in the royal Irish.

Marian seized the journal from the grasp of the astonished lotmger,
and in another moment — the paper clasped within her hands, her eyes
starting from their sockets — she had fallen back on the sofa, not in a
fainting fit, but in strong and terrific convulsions.

"And so, Marian, — you are a wedded wife ! and though now,
three seasons, the star of the ascendant, I hear you are still triumphant.
Long may you continue so — if it makes you happy ! I have been
more than three years a miserable prisoner, without one friend,
who remembered Harry O'Donnell sufficiently to be interested in his
exchange, which only chance has effected. I do not, lady, blame you ;
— you doubtless fancied I was dead ; for you could not have been
so altered, as not to have felt some anxiety for your cousin's liberty.

" I intend paying my respects, in the course of the morning, to you
and Sir Ciiarles ; — to whom I beg my respects. You will not be sur-
prised at my strange hand-writing, when you hear that I lost an arm at
Albuera I — Henry O'Donneli-."

It was more than a month since Lady Barnett had learned that
Harry — her first — her only love — was in existence. When questioned
by her husband as to the cause of her sudden illness, she told him

THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 115

all the truth. " If," she said, within her own bosom—" If Sir Charles
suspects me— at all events I shall have the satisfaction of not (!eservmg
his suspicion."

" Was it joy or sorrow ?'' inquired her tormentor — " that occa-
sioned your Ladyship's agitation ?"

" Sir Charles," she replied, " do not trifle with feelings that have
ever been laid bare before you. I do not deny your right to ask
that question ; and I reply frankly— that it was a mingling of both."

" Ht r husband gazed steadily upon her ; and her dark deep eye, —
her broad high forehead,— and her fine pale features,— neither quailed
nor shrank from the scrutiny ; — even Sir Charles was moved.

" Marian," he said, " you are a noble woman, but not suited either
for me or for the present times; — you should have remained among the
stars, imtil a holier sun shone upon England. I never nu-t wom;in
with truth like yours."

The involimlary tribute of such applause, ])aid by Vice to Virtue,
is great indet-d ! Marian wept long and bittt-rly ; in the silenct- of lur
cliamber, she prayed; — and they who know ho.v hard it is to wish that
those we love may not love in return, will appreciate her jietition.
Slie prayed that Harry would only remember her as his cousin. When
she thought of the many changes she had seen nun make, without
an eHbrt, she indulged in what may be termed the poinful hope, that he
might find it, perhaps had already found it, easy to look upon and love
another. There was something in the tone of Captain O'DonneH's
letter that repressed this conviction. I have heard many women a>sert,
after receiving a declaration of love, that — " indeed they had no idea ot
such a thing ; they never thought tlu- gentleman entertiined the slight-
est aflection f«»r them :" — it might be true : but 1 lU'ver believed a word
they said. .Men ar*-, doul)tlesH, clever enough; but cU-ver as they are,
women, <»n ihis hul)ject, are seldom — never at faidt ; — tluy have an
intuitive knowledge of man's nfli-ction ; — they generally know it before
he is aware of it hiniself; .md though man can easily nssiimc an
afleclion he docs not feel, he must l)e a belter ad( pt in concealment
than I can imagine possible, to hide a prefereticc. The one phrase, —
*' if It makes \i>u happy,"— showed at once his anxiety, and his belief

116 woman's trials.

that she was miserable. The precious letter was more than half-way
to her lips, yet she stayed its course, with a firmness those who have
loved her will estimate, and laid it on her desk. In a few moments she
arose, and, with the letter in her hand, proceeded to Sir Charles's
study.

" Lost an arm ! Sad thing, sad thing," repeated Sir Charles, after he
had finished its perusal. " Well. I shall be glad to see him. He
is your relative ; and we owe it to ourselves to treat our relatives with
propriety."

" I think I must spend the day at Richmond, with Mrs. Brown-
lowe."

" No, no. Lady Barnett, it would be exceedingly wrong ; you can
receive your cousin here. I dare say we shall find him sadly changed."

Sir Charles, well skilled in human nature, was at fault : — the truth
was, that, with the exception of his wife, his intimate female acquaint-
ances had been of a very indifferent stamp : and he fancied that a worn-
out mutilated soldier could possess no attractions for one so feted and
admired as his charming wife ! Lady Barnett, well as she knew his
littleness of mind, almost hoped that something like generosity had
illumined his dark soul. She, too, was mistaken.

" He loves me still," she said, while tears of bitter agony coursed
each other down her pallid cheeks, — " his love has been unchanging as
my own— Oh, what am I, to own it! and he talked of my father, and
of Castle Raymond, and the dead lark, and poor Busca ! and my
husband has been either mad or cruel enough to ask him to stay within
these walls. What then? Am 1 fallen so low as to fear myself?"
And the young and proud beauty paced her chamber with unequal
steps.

Woman is never in so much danger as when she confides in her
own strength. The meek-hearted and trembling find security in weak-
ness, for they look for protection where it is always found, — they seek
advice from the Most High, and implicitly employ his precepts as their
laws : there is always safety for the humble Christian. According to

THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 117

the correct and established laws of English society, if a mnrried female
find not a friend in her husband, she is perfectly and completely cut off
from every thing approaching to friendship with the more wise and
superior sex. If trusting to the pure and uncontaminated counsels
of her own heart and motives, she seek advice or protection, in any
way, directly or indirectly, from any man, no matter how exalted iiis
character, or pure his motives, her reputation is tainted, irrevocably
tainted, and therefore nothing worth — she sinks in the moral scale, and
can never retrieve what she has lost. I am willing to allow the hard-
ship of this state; and yet, valuing as I do the reputation of my high-
souled and beautiful countrywomen, more than their individual happi-
ness, I can hardly wish it altered. 'J'o this very strictness, to this
hardship in peculiar cases, we owe much of our domestic happiness,
and all our good fame, — a fame that was never laiiited, until an as-
sumption of foreign manners (that sit as ill upon us as foreign fashions)
rendered many, too many of those in high places, open to the scorn of
the right-minded. " Wliat,'' it may be asked, " is a woman to do who
is married to a brute or a fool ? — Is she to have no friend, no com-
panion ?" I answer, None ; she either made her election, or it was
forced u\u)u her ; but in either case, she owes it to her God, to her sex,
and to her country, to bear her cross, and prove that slie rises superior
to the ills that are heaped on her devoted head. No matter iiow pure
may be her motives, the world reads actions, and not hearts.

Lady Harnett l)elii-ve<l that her cousin was as high-souled as
herself; she rememl)ered how strict his notions had been, and how
often lu" had chid and rt-proved the volatility of disposition that had, at
one period of her existence, rendered lu r so gay and ihouglitless.
She had road, deepiv too, the records of human life, vet it never
occurred to lur to bring her observationH to l)ear upon her cousin : —
" He taught me ever what was best and wisest, and to whom can I look
with greater ii.ifety for advice if I should need it i" With this feeling
jilie Hcrupled not to con.nult her cousin upon n)any points unconnected
with her hu.iband, or the domentic dirt'erenceH, that, despite her care
and real attention to prevent, »prang up !»<-tween them. Her iimate
prr»priety, nior«' than her judgment, eoiuiHelled her not to suffer any

118 woman's trials.

interference upon sucli points ; and, on all other matters, her vanity
was gratified to find that her monitor agreed with her in all things.

It must also be confessed, that though at first she had shrunk from
meeting her cousin, yet, after that meeting was over, she experienced a
tranquillity, a security in his presence, to which she had long been a
stranger. She had never enjoyed the sweet privilege of appealing, with
all her feelings, to her husband. Though she had never used conceal-
ment, she could not be said to have reposed confidence, — that full,
perfect, and happy confidence, which is the out-pouring of an affec-
tionate heart, and forms a true earthly paradise. Her vivid imagina-
tion, that had so long communed with heaven, had again found an
earthly object upon whom to lean, — and " Cousin Harry," as before,
was even more the mind's idol than he had been at Castle Raymond.
There he had been her guiding star : — the idea, the possibility of
his being changed, had never once occurred to Marian ; she looked to
him to strengthen her good resolves, not to overturn them.

Of all things likely to suffer change, nothing changes like man !
"With women the case is different ; events with them are things of rare
occurrence, and there is little chance of one rubbing out the record
of another. The impression has time, not only to be made, but conse-
quently, is not easily effaced. Men fall rapidly into various societies,
and hear various opinions ; this occasions them to be less firm, or,
to use a harsher terra, less obstinate. It may be for good ; — it may be
for evil. We shall see.

Captain O'Donnell was almost domesticated in Sir Charles Barnett's
house, and people did begin to say, that " they wondered," — " were
surprised,"— "astonished," — "suspected," — "hoped not."—" Lady Bar-
nett, so beautiful." — " What could she see in him" !— " Husband care-
less," — "used iier harshly;" — and, at last, some of these whispers
absolutely reached the ear of Sir Charles. With a violence totally
uncalled for, he assailed and reproached his wife. She replied with
her usual truth and dignity, — for one criminal idea, — one feeling that
angels could pronounce impure, — had never stained her soul. Yet she
had stood on the brink of a precipice, and blessed, a thousand times
blessed, was the power that told her of her danger !

THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 119

"I will tuU Harry that he must depart," she said; "and his sense
of propriety will point out to him the necessity for doing so."

It was more easily said than done. The time came, and brought
its trial. With the instinctive propriety and delicacy of a virtuous
woman, she avoided the reason why, and told him only of tlie fact.
Little was she prepared for his comment ; — little did she dream of his
moving from the high and honourable pedestal, on which her
imagination, more than his own merits, had placed him. The
idea of Henry ODonnell having become "a man of the world,"
as the phrase goes; — of those bland and fascinating manners being
only the polished surface; — and the certainty that Continental ex-
ample and habit had sullied that true and noble spirit which she
imagined was more than proof against contamination, fell slowly,
bnt heavily, upon her feeling heart.

" I see how it is," he said ; " Sir Charles is jtialous. I thought
the world wouhl whisj)er."

" Vou thought the world would whisper!" repeated Lady Har-
nett. " You thought it, antl yet you remained near nu'!"

".Marian," he replied mournfidly; "you have not now to learn
how dearer far than life you are to me ; the only living creature
of my kin; the only being who binds me to existence. You are not
happy, and yet you would separate those whose lives depend upon
being near each other. .Ml I have asked is your society, and that
you would not surely refuse your cousin!"

Marian could not repeat all that Sir Charles had said ; she could
only entreat, command O'Doimell's departure; and to her honour be
it recordinl, she did so firmly — she neither (piail«-d nor wavered in
her mandate, — yet could she not utter the reproaches iluit grew upon
her lip al his acknowledging he had expected the woihl would no-
lice and uuHcouHtruc his atleiitions ; while anticipating this result,
he had yet remained.

It wa.H unw in vain for him to seek her pity, by a repre»entati<»n «)f
hi.H utter lonelinriw, and by drawing n true but nu lancholy p«)rlrait
of what her itilualion would be win ii ihprived of her «)nly fr'inul.
Her resolution was taken ; .hIic saw and parted from her cousin.

120 woman's trials.

Letter after letter were delivered to her, but she returned them
unopened. '• I might read all he could say," she would repeat to
herself, " but I will not. I might read without danger, for he is not
now what he once was." Tiiis was true ; but when she imagined, in
her hours of indignation, that he had become a being of no im-
portance in her eyes, she erred in judgment.

The season drew towards its termination, Sir Charles became
worse, and was more morose than ever. He had been a good deal
disappointed lately ; — had not produced as good an effect in " the
House" as he had anticipated ; and, somehow or other. Lady Barnett
was not as attractive as usual. Hints were followed by direct
charges, and the usual recriminations succeeded. It was in vain
that Marian recalled to his remembrance her ingenuous disclosures,
her aversion to meet her cousin, and the promptness with which,
on Sir Charles's first intimation, she sacrified all her feelings to
his wishes. He saw that she was heart-broken, and, with the
characteristic of a perfect tyrant, he persisted in his torture ; coolly
communicating, as the termination of his discourse, that she should
immediately accompany him to Castle Raymond; "the most out-
of-the-way place," as he observed, "and of course the best to
hide his disgrace." How her proud heart beat within her bosom !
And when, long after midnight, she reasoned herself into the sub-
mission which, as a wife, she felt was her first duty, she knelt,
and pressed her throbbing brow within her small white palms, and
prayed fervently to the Almiglity to strengthen her in all good things.
She thanked Him too, in that He had mercifully taught her, ere it was
too late, the painful, the agonizing truth, that he on whom she had
bestowed a love, far nearer to devotion than to any earthly passion,
was all too tainted to dwell in her remembrance, save as a vision of
the past ; which, like the lark of her young days, had soared towards
heaven, yet found its death on earth.

" Troth, Nurse Grady, and it must be yerself that's glad to get
the young mislhress back," said our former acquaintance, Nelly Riley,

THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 121

to the nurse of Castle Raymoiul ; "and she's looking very poorly;
and not, by no manner of means, as handsome, to my thinking, as
before she wint away."

*' She can't be blind to poor Sir Charles's fate," replied the sapient
nurse; — "he's had the gout in his stomach twinty times; and it'll
choak him some of these days ; — and thin we'll have a new masther,
I'm thinking."

"Is't the captain ye mean? Arrah ! be asey, now; — I wish her
better luck. The captain, my lannan's more changed nor any of 'em ;
— Sir Charles is the ould tiling, that, as I've often said, would make
broth of his father's bones ; my Lady's heart, God bless it I is the
same as ever, — a beautiful heart she has ! It's useless trying to turn
May butter into a flint stone ; — but the captain has got foreign hurling
in his head — and don't trll nio — it" he had true rejiard for his
cousin, he wouldn't visit the gamekeeper's daughter so often "

" My Lady, replied the nurse, bridling, " knows nothing of his even
being in the counthny ; — llow shotdd slu- ? And as to the game-
keeper's daughter — Did Master Harry tell you it iccis the daughter he
visited .' — mightn't he have a regard for the father, .Mrs. Kiley ?"

"Mrs. Grady, Ma'am," replied the slirewd Irishwoman; "you
have a mighty grate regard for line Frinch handkerchiefs, and a fine
decket o' corrall bades. I tould you my njind ;i-fore ; and I'll till it
you agin, if you like, .iiid make a clanc breast at onc't ; — but, may
be, betther not ; — time tells all things."

In a frw weeks, the death <il Sir Charles Harnett was duly an-
nounced in all the fasliionable journals ; — and though, from what we
know, Lady Harnett could not be called inconsolable, yet she behaved
an wan right and fitting her to do; — nay, sin- did more, — she watched
her hunband t<i the last ; — »he tried to turn his thoughlH towards
that iiource from whence she had derived consolation ; and .<>he both
prayed and wrpt wIum ill was indeed over. Among all her trials,
.ihc had one consolation ;^ — he blrssed her with his dying br«-ath, and
requested her forgiveness.

122 woman's tiuals

Her y^'ir of mourning was expired; — perhaps the most tranquil
year of her existence. Still young, with renovated beauty, and a
large fortune, Lady Barnett was talked of, and toasted, far more than
when her young heart beat, and her gleesome laugh sounded, amid the
groves and hills of Castle Raymond.

Much was she tempted to revisit London ; — she had become a
mark for all speculating fortune-hunters, whether male or female ;
and, if her intimacy with her cousin had ever cast a cloud over her
fame, it had passed as shadows from a brilliant landscape.

But though others ceased to remember, she had not forgotten. I
have said that Henry O'Donnell was a man of the world, and as
such, it will be readily believed, he did not relinquish the idea that he
might still be master of Castle Raymond and its fair mistress. He
had wisely withdrawn from the country on Sir Charles's death, well
knowing that Marian's delicacy would shrink from his intruding at
such a time; and when he did return, he managed to be introduced
so as to avoid alarming her prejudices or creating any unpleasant
sensations.

It must not be imagined that O'Donnell was what would be con-
sidered either a bad or a heartless man ; when he reasoned, he was
invariably right; when under the influence of his passions, fearfully
wrong ; his mind had become imbued with a false philosophy, and it
was convenient to Ije the disciple of a school that granted much
licence. He loved Marian ; but he loved her as a woman, without
caring for, or comprehending her true nobleness of soul. He had
seen much of life, and the life of a soldier-prisoner had little in it to
strengthen what might have been good. After he left London he
visited the scenes of his childhood, and the turf-raised mound to the
dead lark ; and the attention paid by the old gardener to Busca, by
his lady's express command, confirmed Henry in the belief that she
was unchanged. She was a living instance of the romance of life lin-
gering and dwelling with advancing years. O'Donnell admired virtue
and glory in the abstract, without possessing either the firmness,
which is the groundwork of the one, or the enterprise necessary for
the other. There is an undying essence in woman's love, which.

like the costly perfume, endures after the vase that contained it is
broken, and clings even to the hand of its destroyer. How Marian
had loved is already shown ; it now remains only to prove — what life
proves daily — though books, often at variance with human nature, are
too prone to set forth love in the conclusion as requited, and an end of
triumph crowning a life of pain — that perfect happiness is as much a
fable as unbroken sunshine, and would be as wearisome, and as
destructive. He who knows and orders best has willed it otherwise,
and has suffered that the wickedness of some shoidd draw iorth the
virtues of others; but those who trust in Him in heart and spirit will
feel that all is good.

It was a clear, calm evening, and the mistress of Castle Raymond
was alone in her own halls. She had discarded the robes of mourning,
anil reclined in jewulled state in a room redolent of perfume.

Her thoughts were of a second marriage, and one up»)n whicii she
had not determined without some fears and misgivings ; but woman's
unassisted wi>>dom is little worth, when set against the strength of an
atFection which had grown with her growth, and outlived both time and
sorrow. Her eye rested upon the wedding-ring, which still encircled
her taper finger — it appeared to her an mihallowed badge — she slowly
removed it, and witli a trembling hand, and a l)lushing cheek, tried on
another, which she took from a small red case. 'I'he sound of a distant
footstep smote upon her ear, and, blushing still more' detply, she
replaced the mystic bauble in iis rest, and the other emblem of her
weddetl stale uiMtn Iut finger. — As the evening deepened, ajid she
continued still alone, she thought upon her cousin's faults ; an«l what
had app<'are«l so criminal when it would have b»'en sinful lo have lovetl,
had dwindled into a marvellously short catalogue of errors — failings
rnllier — which she could hardly tell over: her imagination wandered to
tJic scenes of her early and of her present hajipiness — and she scouted
from her memory the remembrance of her married life, as one w«)uld
cist forth a loathsome object from what w.xh odierwise cheerful and
smding. il.nry's natural generosity of disposition h.id prompted him

124 woman's trials.

to enter into all her plans for tlie good of her tenantry. The village of
Castle Cloyne was now clean and cheerful ; its inhabitants felt them-
selves raised in the scale of society — and that is the true way of
ensuring an Irishman's gratitude ; the hills within sight of Castle
Raymond were covered with cattle, the property of zealous and
industrious farmers, who, if they did not manage quite as well as their
English neighbours, yet promised to be all, within a little time, that
their best friends could desire.

Marian revolved and re-revolved all her plans and projects for
future happiness ; and if a doubt did arise, as to what her former
fashionable friends might say, rather than analyze her feelings, she
contented herself with the consideration, that she should not mix with
them again — that she should be far away from their sneers, and tlieir
comments — that she should be happy in her own dear country — happy
amid the unsophisticated peasantry, who looked to her for all their
comforts — happy with the chosen of her heart! in her youth's first and
only affection. Generous, and free-hearted in action as well as thought,
Marian settled upon O'Donnell all tlie Raymond property. " He
must be perfectly independent of me," argued the noble creature, " to
render his happiness equal to my own." Her lover was all gratitude
and thankfulness, and remonstrated much against that of which he
secretly approved : but I must not do him injustice : his cousin's
generosity touched his heart more than her other virtues — he could
comprehend the one, but not the other.

They were married.

Those who truly and devotedly love, will understand me when I
say, that Marian was as happy as woman could be for some months
after her marriage — I had almost written that she was tumultuously
happy ; — but it pleased God that her health grew feeble in a little time,
and though she did not suffer pain, she could not wander about with
her beloved, as in former days. She hardly felt the privation while he
was with her ; but, though invariably kind, and even affectionate,
Marian had discovered what, had she not loved too well, she might have
known before — that upon the most important of all subjects they
greatly disagreed. She had learned to trace the wisdom and the bounty

THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 125

of the Almighty in his works — she could read " good in every thing;"
she saw Hisglory in the firmament, His wonders in tlie flood; she had
grown practically pious, from a deep sense and knowledge that in the
belief and liope, springing oidy from true religion, was there refuge for
the broken-hearted, or an unerring guide through the mazes of the
world : her religion had been the result of experience — she had seen its
good, and felt its advantage— and while she longed for the time when
her husband would join with her in prayer and praise, she yet dreaded
lest her very efforts to make him what she wished, might fail, and drive
him further from the belief in which she trusted.

Another year had passed ; and again the mistress of Castle
Raymond was seated alone in the same apartment in uhicli we once saw
her try on the token of a new contract. Colonel O'Donncll (for money
achieves rank) had bit-n absent on business, and his wife, more
impatiently than usual, awaited his return. As she threw open the
casement windows, shaded by a ricli drapery of pink and silver, and
steppi-d forth upon the niarble terraoe that ovt-rlookrd the lawn — the
beams of the harvest mo«)n shed a flood of light and glory upon her
head ; yet her step was somewhat feebh", and she threw her arm round
one of the pillars of the colonnade to support her in a spot where she
could hear the appoaching trt-ad of his horse's hoofs, long before they
entered the avi-nue of fragrant lime leading to the castle. Suddenly, a
female sprang upon the terrace, and stood beside thr l.idy so silently,
that Marian, unaccustomed as she was to fear, would have called to her
servants, Ii.id m>i the stranger, by an energetic movement, entreated
her to forbear. JShc looked upon the pale, attenuale<l figure, enveloped
in a ileep scarlet cloak; and as the hood, which had been drawn over
the woman'n face, fell back, Marian thought she rec<»gnized the
features.

" You've forgotten nu", la<ly, .ind no wonder," said tlu* stranger,
" I «le»erve that you Hhould — .uid I «»idy pray the blenHed Virgin that
I wasn't myself -(io<l break h.inl forfiuie b«fore «"very honest man's
child ! •'

126 woman's trials.

" I remember you now, Mary Deane," said Marian, " but it is
impossible for me to remember one I have been so long without seeing
— can I do anything for you, poor girl?"

The woman fell at her feet, and, while she kept her cloak closely
clasped around her, sobbed forth a petition " that she would'nt turn
agin her entirely, and use her worse than a dog."

She had, in truth, little reason to expect such treatment from the
mistress of Castle Raymond, who, raising her from the earth, would
have led her into the room she had so recently quitted, had not the girl
refused to enter.

" Sure I've made an oath never to cross his door, and don't ask me,
lady, darlint, for I'm a poor unworthy sinner — God-stricken and dying,
and vvillin and happy to die, if I was fit, — though I am young, and the
only child of my fatlier — and yet, to my sorrow, I've heard the white-
headed ould man pray that I'd never been born — and worse, lady —
worse nor that — I saw him" (and here her words came short and
broken) — " I saw him kneel down on his own hearth-stone, and curse
me and mine, lady ; me and mine ! — Oh ! why indeed was I born — why
indeed was I born! — Yet I call the God who sees into my very heart
this minute to witness for me, that, lady, darlint, I meant you no
wrong ; but he had the winning way with him, and if he could win you,
no wonder he bewildered me."

" Of whom speak you, Mary Deane ? " inquired Marian, in a voice
of agonising emotion, dreading she knew not what or whom — " Of
whom speak you ? "

'* Of your husband, lady — of the father of — my child."

As she answered, her head sank upon her bosom, and throwing
open the cloak that had hitherto shrouded her, discovered a slee})ing
boy upon her bosom.

" 'Tis all a falsehood — a fraud got up to — to — drive me mad!"
exclaimed Marian, " a base lie — Woman, how dare you slander him?"

" Look at him," replied Mary Deane — holding the child forward to
where the light from a glowing lamp was streaming on the glittering
pavement. Marian did look — long and anxiously look — she pushed
the small round yellow curls from the boy's forehead ; and as the

THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 1^7

movement fully roused iiim from the deep sweet sleep of infancy, he
smiled in lier face, and clasped his little hands in admiration of some
of the rich jewels that glittered on her dress. The smile confirmed tlie
tale ; and taught the lady of that noble house, that her most bitter trial
was indeed arrived. Sir Charles's gallantries slie had borne with
fortitude; they had grievously wounded her deep sense of religion and
morality — they had, moreover, luirt her woman's pride, but they had
never seared her heart — they had never entered, and lacerated, and
destroyed !

" Tell — tell me one thing," she demanded of the betrayed girl, who
still cowered at her feet, " tliis child was born before our marriage ;
have you been sinless since?"

A deep and bitter groan was the only answer she received.

It was enough.

Marian would have paced the terrace, but she felt as if rooted to
the spot whereon she stood. She was iron-bound — spell-bound to the
very earth. The child, still in admiration of the brilliant jewels, crept
towards her. Her first feeling was to spurn — to thrust it from her;
ill the madness of the moment her foot was lifted to the act, but she
could not, it was iiis child!

The eye of the wretched mother had l)i'en lixid upon her infant's
movements, and her sad heart beat more quickly when she saw he was
not repulsed.

"What would you with me?" incpiired Marian, when she could
find utterance. " Speak, and cpuckly."

"Lady, I .'iiii dying — dying of the same decline that tdok my
mother away so soon after I was l>orn. See liere." She held forth iier
arms, white and flcshless ; they «piivered in the moon-beams. " I am
gone, entirely," contiiuu-d the unfortunate, " and so F oii^lit to \>i- ; for
the Inrauty he talked about, wmt, and mis lovt- wmt witli it. and I've
been almost ntarvin in a strange parisli ; nnd mv father's curse, and
your gf>o«lne«is, and all fugi-ther hanging over me like a ban ; nml I

couldn't die a^y till I asked y«T pardon, nnd askcjl " The motlur's

eye, which, still bright, gleamed like a lamp within n sepulchre, rested
on her child. The glorious crratun- to whom she spoke, tmderstnod

128 woman's trials.

the appeal, and, immolating all common feeling, she stooped, and kissed
the forehead of the unoffending infant ; her silent offering ascended to
the throne of the Almighty, a record of a virtuous woman's triumph.
Mary Dcane knelt, as if to pray, but she could not speak ; she could
only weep, — weep bitterly. At last she murmured —

" The stamp of the Lord was always on you ; and you'll be good
to the poor innocent babby, and forget its miserable mother? And
now, lady, darlint, if I had only my father's forgiveness ; — if I could
only hear him take back the curse, I should die thankful ; and, may be,
the Lord would forgive me."

James Deane was the gamekeeper to whom Nelly Riley had
alluded ; and little had poor Marian thought, when interrogating him as
to where his daughter had gone, that he had so much cause for sorrow,
and yet kept it within his bosom, lest it might poison his lady's
happiness.

" I will see your father myself to-morrow, and entreat him
for you."

" God in heaven bless you for that thought ; but to-morrow, lady!
to-morrow will be too late ! I am dying now I "

" Follow me, then," replied Marian, " he must not refuse pardon
when / ask it."

" And my child ? " Mary Deane trembled violently, as she looked
upon him for the last time.

" Leave him here. Have I not promised?" said Marian.

" You have, you have, lady. Och, lady dear ! forgive me ; I am a
poor, miserable, wicked wretch, but och hone ! och hone ! am I not a
mother ? Sure an' I brought ye into the world, a lannan," she
continued, apostrophising the child, whom she held closely to her
bosom, " I brought ye into the world, a perfect and beautiful boy ;
and I exulted over you ; and when your little lip smiled on me, and
your daushy fingers twisted in my hair, — God and the Virgin forgive
me ! but I felt as if I could bear all the sufferings that war ever
suffered, and all the sin that ever was sinned, for yer sake ; and I
thought, that though he might change to me, he never could change to
you, for warn't you his own, own child?"

THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 129

" Come, conic," said Marian, hoarsely — for every word the woman
spoke was as a dagger to her heart, — " the child is safe ; are you not
satisfied with my word ?"

" Ay, ay, lady ; God bless — bless you, lady, but you arc not his
mother. My heart's darlint ! it isn't my eyes will watch you agin in
the night ; it isn't my car w ill listen for yer breatliin' ; and, may be —
may be, my own a coushla ! you'll never know that poor Mary Deanc
was yer mother ; and so best — so best ; for when he turned, who knows
but you might turn as well ! " She imprinted a long, long kiss upon the
child's lips, who, accustomed to her caresses, had fallen asleep.

" You will see him again," murmured Marian.

"Never! never! never!" she replied, wildly, "and now I have
looked my last ! " She suffered the long red cloak to drop from her
shoulders, and rolling the child in it, laid him on the marble step that
skirted the entrance ; kneeling over him, she mutteretl a few short
words, and then, slowly rising, she crossed her colourless arms upon
her bosom, and said, " Now, God willin', I am ready."

Marian removed with her own hands the sleeping infant to a place
of greater security, and, followed by Mary Deane (whose (leshless
form seemed moved and urged forward by supernatural strength), she
took her way to the gamekeeper's cottage. As they crossed the park,
the tread of Colonel O'Donnell's horses came suddenly upon them:
both stood behind a group of sapling oaks, as he and his ser-
vant passed ; they clung to the boughs of the young trees for support ;
but as O'Donnell rode onwards, Mary Deane stretched forward so
as to catch a glance at his departing shadow, while his wife, who not an
hour before had so anxiously waited his return, remained erect on the
•pot, more like a statue of carved marble tli.ui a thing of life, for many
minutes after the Hound h.nd eeaseil.

The old ganic'kerp«'r op«-ncd the door of his cottage himself to
Marian's knock, and .ipixartd almost lerrifu-d at seeing his mistress.
1 1 in tlauglilt-r had crouched l)chind her as she entered, and coiild neither
stand nor speak.

" I am come, Deane," said his mislrens, ** to ask vou to forgive
your penitent girl. .lames Deane, / have forgiven her. I have taken

130 woman's trials.

her child into my house, and you must not refuse her, at such a time as
this, her father's blessing."

The old white-headed man clasped his hands, and remained for
some time silent ; his wretched cliild crawled to his knees, and her
long yellow hair entwined around his feet ; she dared not look into her
father's face.

" Deane, Deane, I entreat — I command you to forgive her!"
reiterated the lady.

The old man looked as if he could scarcely comprehend her words.

" Father, father ! oh, quickly, for I am dying ! " Mary Deane at
length exclaimed. He raised lier to his bosom, and as he parted the
long hair that shadowed her face, her head fell upon his shoulder, — her
eyes wandered, — her lips, white and livid, separated from over her
teeth, — her fingers moved convulsively, — and he had just time to say,
"God bless you, darling Mary!" — when she again sunk upon the
earthen floor ; — her spirit seemed indeed departed, and Marian, with a
true feeling of humanity, knelt to support her head. The dying
creature opened her eyes, and fixing their glare upon the lady's face,
three or four times repeated, " Not cursed, not cursed — my boy — my
child — " and expired.

Such a sad event as this elevated Marian's nature to the highest
point ; always warm and enthusiastic, she felt keenly and acted with
promptness and decision — the father, who, while his daughter lived,
imagined he had altogether lost her from his heart — now gave way to
the agony of his feelings, and wept over the silent clay — still beautiful
in the form of his child. He sate for a long time in the same spot —
folding back her hair from features that were rapidly becoming cold and
hard to his touch — and weeping reproaches to himself for every harsh
word spoken in reproof of her crime — " My child !" he would exclaim —
" I forgot your youth — you were so young — not twenty yet — and
so innocent, and I left you to yourself, as if you had the wisdom of
age — I was proud of you — and your praise, though I did not seem to
hear it — was pleasant in my ears. So like her mother as she is —
if she had lived I would have cared for her — I only kept her off to
make her penitent — God knows that was all — 1 thought it right and

THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 131

honest — she was the child of honest parents — hoth — honest — My young
and pleasant child — the does would not hide their fawns from her
— and the robins would bring her their young — that she might feed
them. I was too proud of her" — old Deane seemed quite unconscious
of Marian's presence ; it was as though he had sight but for one object —
and that object his dead child — Marian saw — and felt — and knew that
this was all her husband's work — and yet neither that, nor the know-
ledge of her own wrongs — roused her indignation to unwomanly or
unmatronly wrath.

That same night, Marian O'Donnell conducted her husband to
a quiet chamber, not very distant from her own ; and drawing the
curtains of a small bed, showed him his sleeping child. She stood for
a moment so as to cast the full light of the candle upon his beautiful
face, and then stooping down, she calmly kissed his forelioad.

"The gamekeeper's daughter died, not three hours since, I knry,
and I promised her to watch over tjuur child. Vou have not known me,
I think, as I deserved : may (Jod forgive you for the poor heart you
have broken, and the heart " — she turned proudly away, for tears were
coming, and she would not let him sec them fall.

What followed? No reproaches — no scenes — no storms. She
knew and felt that she was still his wife, and that no matter how \\v
performed his duty, she must not swerve from hers. Tiiose who knew
her best saw, indeed, that her eye grew dim, her step languid, ;in(i
noted that her voice, ever sweetly musical, had grown like the sighing
of a wounded bird; but she mvcr told lur fctlings ; she buried tluin
wiihin lit r l)osoiii ; and, after a few years, they produced ns their
fruitage — <lealh. The iron had entered her soul, .iiid not all the efforts
made by a liutb.ind, who at last i)rcame convinced «»f her inestimable
worth, could withdraw it. ('«tuld she have loved him less, her
nulTering!* might have In en iiiitigate«l ; but, though conscious of his faults,
the afTeclioii of her childluKMl remained pure, spotleis, and devoted to
the l.nst ; and all that rould lie said was, what is said every day of many
n di vottd wnmnn, " How grievous was the sacriftcel" Yet how great

was her example ! how glorious her triumph ! Long before her death,
she was blessed by the conviction that at last O'Donnell trusted as fully,
as perfectly as herself, to his Redeemer's merits. The delightful
certainty of meeting him, a holy and purified spirit, " where sorrow and
sighing shall be no more," was a bliss she would not have exchanged
for worlds ; the pomps and pageantries of life were poor and worthless
compared to her spiritual glory ; and she left this, only to be perfected
in another, world. Her motto had been " Deeds, not words." Her
grateful feeling to the Most High was proved by acts of love, of for-
bearance, and of charity to her fellow-beings ; and while the hearts of
many will wonder at her forbearance, I feel inclined to assure those
who are thus tried — and, alas ! I grieve to know that many are so
situated — that, hard as it may appear, they can only fulfil their duty to
heaven and earth by — " Doing likewise."

*''^^-..

THE FORCED I'.EOO.MS.

PART THE FIRST.

MORE (lilij^litful villajTc than East-court it would

\)v (lifliciilt to picture ; its fini> old maiior-lioust',

(oinbiiiin^ the arcliitcctiirc of half-a-do/i-n roij^ns,

bound logclhiT by ivy, tlu' growth of at K-ast

two ((iiiiiric-s ; its stra>:glinj; j;rotc8t|iU' lionscs, with

In^b ^abh'H and tall rhimneys, fcnci-d ahtng

thr road by broad yilli>w licdgrs, rut hero

and there into varioui* pntirrns — wli<r<- small

bir«U had nested time out of mind

^ es ; Kaxt-court trat a plenAant village. There was in

134 woman's trials.

the centre of a sort of common green, a pond, large enougli to entitle it
to the dignity of being termed " a lake : " but the people of East-court
having been originally an unambitious race, were satisfied that the pond
should be simply called a pond — and a beautiful pond it was. Two noble
willows extended their branches nearly to the water's midst, and a
clump of mingled holly, and tapering feathery birch, was so beautiful
in its growth and colour, that an artist once came ten miles to sketch
it ; a fact which the aged landlord of the " Three Bee-Hives " repeated
several times each day of his life, forgetting altogether, good old soul
that every one in East-court was aware of a circumstance so flattering
to the beauty of their long-loved home. The cottages at East-court
were so disposed, as to add to the effect of the larger dwellings — pretty
white and brown erections they were — the walls as white as lime and
labour could make them, and the dark-brown thatch nearly covered by
those sweet and beautiful climbers which belong of right to the cottage
homes of England. On the very summit of an abrupt conical hill, that
sprung up suddenly at the back of the manor-house, was a windmill,
with wide extended arms and snow-white sails ; and at the foot of the
hill on the other side, guarded by some venerable trees, stood East-
court church with the adjoining parsonage-house. There were but few
sliops at East-court, for the village was only three miles from the
county town. But the very shops partook of the picturesque cha-
racter of this truly English hamlet ; and many declared there never
was so quiet, so venerable, and yet, withal, so cheerful a village as
East-court, or, as the very old people call it, " East-court o' the Hill."
It might well be a cheerful village ; the gentleman who resided in
the manor-house was a magistrate, and landlord of every adjacent
dwelling. He was, in all acts of love and charity, a second Sir Roger
de Coverley ; and had a brother, a physician, who had one wing of the
old building fitted up as a surgery and dispensary ; but he never
received fee for advice or payment for medicine, from any human being ;
feeling — at least so it would appear, from the alacrity with which he
dispensed both — that he was under particular obligation to all who look
his prescriptions, and was never happy after a baby was born in the
parish until it was vaccinated. It was rare, indeed, to meet with such

THE FORCED BLOOMS. 135

men as the squire and his good brother. Well might East-court be
the very paradise of English villages. I have said nothing of the
rector; but certainly, unless he had carefully laboured in, and pruned
and trimmed, his vineyard, the old would not have descended to their
graves with such hope and humility, nor would the young have lived
together in such peace and good-will. For the rest, a dancing, a music,
and a species of drawing, master, who combined drawing and writing,
made each the round of the neighbourhood once a-week ; thus the
simple-minded people imagined that the means of " a polite education "
were safely secured to their children ; while the village school was
under the immediate rule of the parish-clerk and his wife, and endowed
in every way by the lord of the manor, so that the peasant class were
considered well provided for as to sources of information. I could say
a great deal more in favour of East-court and its inhabitants as they
were about fifteen years ago, but perhaps have stated enough to create
an interest for them, and may be permitted to pass on to the day
on which a story connected with the village may be considered
to open.

" A new family, a rich and respectable family, did you say, Isaac,
wanting the Dcerstone house, where Mr. Howky died?" inquired
Squire Russel of East-court, of his land-steward, Isaac Ileywood.

"Yes, your honour," replied Isaac, bowing; "a lady and gentle-
man, .Mr. and Mrs. Diggons by name, three young masters, two
young .Misses (doll-looking young things), seven servants, a tutor,
and a governess."

" Diggons," repeated the squire, who had a hltle leaning towards
aristocratic names ; " Diggons ; it is not an old name, Isaac, though
it may belong to respectable people."

" Certainly, sir ; he's :i line genth-man, and wears chains and
rings ; a fme gentleman, and lias (his man says) a great lilirary, for
hi.H lady is very clever; indeed, his man says, ihey at*' an extraor-
dinary rlrrcr family."

" We never, I think, h.id a family of that description, Isiiac, in the
village," atiHwered Mr. Hiissel, alter a pau.ne. " I cannot say I like
people who .-ippe.ir more ehver th.iii ilieir neighbours. However,

136 woman's trials.

this is perhaps a prejudice, and we should guard against prejudices.
We will look into the references."

The references were looked into, and Mr. Diggons was found an
eligible tenant for Deerstone. The arrival of the " clever family"
occasioned more than the ordinary commotion, for they brought with
them various things that the good people of the village had only
heard of — chemical apparatus, electrifying machines, various astro-
nomical instruments ; in short, some of the older and simpler people
regarded Mr. Diggons very much in the light of a necromancer, and
the small, pale, acute-faced tutor as his familiar — something or other
which they did not like to name.

When every thing was settled, and every one got used to every-
thing, Mr. Russel and his brother, Mr. Graham Russel, agreed that
the Diggonses were a good sort of people, although eaten up by a
desire to be celebrated ; leaving the town where they were nobodies
to reside in the country, where they hoped to be "somebodies;"
labouring to acquire conversable knowledge of abstruse sciences ; not
being particular who approved, so long as they received approbation,
unable to persevere to the extent of being informed, and yet having
a smattering of every thing. Bating this eager thirsting after ad-
miration — not after science for its own noble sake, but for the gaping
admiration of the many — the family were kindly, cheerful, and hos-
pitable ; not selfish, either, in their pursuits, but willing to inform
others. Three or four self-thinking inhabitants of East-court agreed
with Mr. Russel and his brother in their rational estimate of the new
family ; but the many opened wide their mouths, and gave their " most
sweet voices" in applause. The Diggonses were pronounced to be
the most " talented people in England !" Science has many triflers
in her train; and certainly among them she numbered every member
of the Diggons family ; from Mr. Diggons, who trifled with all the
sciences, down to pretty little pale Elizabeth, who sighed and smiled
over a miniature galvanic battery.

On the left-hand side of the village, commanding a view of the
green, the huge pond, and the picturesque cottages beyond, was a
pretty cheerful-looking house ; " happy," you would have called it,

THE FORCED BLOOMS. 137

for inanimate things can be so placed, so garnished, as to look happy.
The draperies within the windows were of white nnislin trimmed witli
blue silk lace and fringe ; and the trellis-work outside was almost
concealed by the wreaths of flowers that owed their luxuriance and
beauty to much care and a warm southern aspect. There was an
ample bow window, with several long narrow ones, which seemed
playing hide and seek among the roses and myrtles that were
always in blow ; and the chimneys were tall and square, and the
gables very high. Tlicre was also a conservatory, and you could see
that, besides plants, it contained several birds of splendid plumage.
In short, the outward appearance of the dwelling combined so much
that was tasteful and expensive, the looker-on was assured there
were both wealth and taste within — the latter keeping the former in
subjection.

This house had the quaint name of East-in-Rest — why I know not ;
yet no one at East-court seemed to think it strange. It was almost as
large, and of the same date as the manor-house, and had been, time out
of mind, inhabited by the same family, once as numerous as honour-
able, but now dwindled down to a widow and two children — a boy and
girl. The lady was still lovely ; her children were beautiful ; the boy was
tall, fair, and handsome, but his movements partook of the irregularity
and langour of ill, or at least weakly, health ; the girl was also fair and
delicate, but with :im i mrgy and decision of character marking every
movement, that deceived even her lUDtiier as to lur bodily strength.
When the "clever faniily" came to reside at Deerstone, .Mfred Erris
was nearly seven, and Lucy between tight and nine ; and as the two
chililren clung together, gazing at the evolutions of a good-natured
macaw, who invariably exercised himself to amuse them, .Mrs, Ditrgnns
niiglit almost be exeuHcd, when returning Mrs. Erris'H visit, f<»r the
cncomiimiH she injudicioii<«ly passed <in their beauty.

" \V« II, Mrn. ErriH, you may certainly be proud of their beauty,"
she ex« hiimeil ; " I never saw two Rucb darlingH — loves — quite. I
should so like my Ron I{ol)er( to paint them ; he docN such charming
things. There in no doubt but, if he rhoHC, lie roiilcl be nn H.A.
in three month"."

138 woman's trials.

" Alfred draws a little," said Mrs. Erris.

" A little !" repeated Mrs. Diggons. " My dear lady, at his age
Robert copied the cartoons ; but I do not wonder at your spoiling such
angels. I assure yon I had plenty of struggles with myself ere I could
make my boys and girls work. I lost the flower of the flock about five
years ago — died, sweet child, in six days, of brain fever! A wonderful
memory he had, poor darling ; could repeat poetry for two hours by
my watch, when only eight years old." It never occurred to Mrs.
Erris that this had killed him ; but she said that though Alfred could
not do that, he too, had an excellent memory.

" Which," said the lady, you must work. Memory, of all things,
must be cultivated ; but I do not wonder at your spoiling svich an
angel."

Mrs. Erris assured her she did not " spoil" him, and in proof
thereof, asserted that he could repeat a great number of Watts' hymns.

" Watts' hymns!" answered Mrs. Diggons with an irreverent sneer
at the purest child-poetry of any language, living or dead ; " such
a creature as that should be able to repeat orations from Shakspeare
and Milton."

"In time," said Mrs. Erris, making a secret resolve that he
should do so immediately, and beginning to think she had really ne-
glected his education.

" Is he fond of the languages ?" continued the lady.

" He has commenced Latin, and learned French and English
together orally, I may say," replied the abashed mother.

" Only commenced Latin !" exclaimed Mrs. Diggons in a compas-
sionate tone. " Well, to be sure, he will never want it, as they say ;
but I should have an ambition to see such a noble creature as that
' far on' in everything ; but, perhaps, if he is not much advanced
in languages, he is ' well up' in the sciences."

Mrs. Erris was a timid gentle woman, very anxious for her children,
and fearful lest they should grow to think she had not done her duty.

"Indeed," she replied, blushing, "he hardly knows the meaning of
the word. His taste leads him to study ; but my good friend, Doctor
Graham Russel says his brain is already too large, and insists so much

THE FORCED BLOOMS. 139

on air and exercise, and out-door amusements, that my dear boy is
backward, rather, in absolute study ; not tliat he is ignorant ; he knows
the names of all the trees and flowers, the "

"Botanical names?" mildly suggested Mrs. Diggons.

" No ; the homely English names and their uses," replied the
widow ; remember, he is only seven years old."

" Well, well, ejaculated the lady ; *' I can perfectly understand Dr.
Russel's prejudice ; he has arrived at that time of life when men look
at improvements suspiciously, because they are not of their time. He
is an old man ; and if I had minded our family physician even in poor
Elizabeth's case, ma'am, she'd have been a disgrace to me ; that
unhappy curve in her spine, he declared arose from sitting so closely to
the harp, and she was obliged to recline ; but during the three years she
laid upon a slightly inclined plane, she never uiisscd a single lesson, nor
did I yield her any inilulgence — never suffered her to have an amusing
book. ' No,' I said to the physician ; 'since she cannot go on with the
harp, she shall be remarkable at something else ;' that was my and)ition —
to have remarkable children. Her nature was soft and gentle, but we
hardened it with mathematics and algebra."

This at the moment, startled .Mrs. Erris. .*>he thought of the
deformed girl, and her pale, anxious, thoughtl'id face, from which every
ray of joy seemed banished. She had struck her, at first, as being the
only one of this "clever family " who was not superficial. Such had
been her first iu)pression. I'mt Mrs. Diggons's n)anner was imposing in
more senses than one ; and the timid, retiring mother, who had really
done her duty by not overtasking, and yet suiliciently exercising, the
infant intellect of her children, felt bitter self-reproach whih- her new
neighl)nur eniunerated the ;u'(|uirements of her offspring, without calling
to mind that one of them h.id fallen a victim to brain fever, while
another was deformed for life.

.MtVed and Lucy I'.rriH were invited to fipend a il.iy with the family
nt DeerHlone ; and — instead of the canter on the pony, the race «»n the
upland lawn, the hoop and merry pl-iv, which are the healthy
relaxation!) of healthful children, and \\hich they had expected with an
interest that wni a pleasure in itself — (here was a grand Khow-ofT of

140 woman's trials.

science, a parade of hard names, a display of precocious understanding,
or rather its distorted shadow, which made Alfred and Lucy uncom-
fortable, and Alfred for the first time in his life thoughtful of display,
and straining after effect which rendered him unnatural. Mrs. Erris,
who dined there, felt thoroughly ashamed of her children. One young
Diggons painted, another excelled in languages, another made crude
poetry, which, though correct in numbers, was without idea ; and as to
the " ologies," hard words, and parroted sentences, there was no end of
them ! Poor Mrs. Erris wondered why she had suffered her beautiful
boy — who looked like a Grecian statue amid plaster and rough stone
images — to display his ignorance, and internally resolved to adopt Mr.
Diggons's plan, and abridge his hours of play and exercise, that he
might " make the most of time " — a duty doubtless ; but let the how to
make the most of this gold from God be well considered before the
vainest and most injurious of all vain-glories, that of making " show-
children," is attempted.

In accordance with her determination, Mrs. Erris dismissed her
son's tutor (whom Mr. Diggons had pronounced " merely a classic ")
for one who was " classical and scientific " — a hard stern man, with an
iron constitution ; and directed Lucy's governess to " keep her at
work " under the tutor's direction. There was no diflSculty in making
these children study — no difficulty in getting them to rise in the
morning ; tlieir docile and intelligent minds were open to receive, and
fertile to produce. In natural capabilities, they were far superior to
their showy neighbours ; and their moral and thinking qualities were
far beyond those of Mr. Diggons's offspring. Alfred was indeed a
boy of tlie noblest qualities, entering into the spirit of history,
comprehending and analysing, idealising, too, until his dry hot hand,
flushed cheek, and throbbing brow, would have warned any teacher of
feeling and observation that it was time to lay by the book and the pen,
and away into the bright fields, and among the joy-creating and health-
giving beauties of nature. And yet this tutor loved the boy ; he
delighted in him, because he delighted in learning, and because he
felt no express fatigue in poring over the world of knowledge, which
delighted him more and more every day. He knew that he was the

THE FORCED BLOOMS. Ill

only son of an ancient house, and that much depended on him ; and he
thought how fine it wouhl be to see him carry the higlicst lionours at
Oxford — to feel that he would be more distinguished by his talents and
his learning than by the ordinary position he would hold in society by
virtue of family and wealth.

Lucy was with her brother in all his tasks, taming down her
wildness of spirit to assist his labours, and stimulating his exertions,
which were anything but childish. The ** clever family " were a fair
example of the fashion and display of information ; tliey imitated rather
than laboured. This was particularly the case with the healthier
portion, who, like their parents, were superficial ; but Alfred and Lucy
had hearts, feelings, and intellect of the finest texture, an intense love
of study, an appreciation of the beautiful, a desire to excel, which,
being once awakened, never again slept. They were precisely the
children whose minds should have been strengthened rather than taxed,
and whose bodies should have been invigorated by air, exercise, and
much rest. Mrs. Erris, astonished at their progress, which she was
vain enough to exhibit to the Diggonscs, partly from gratitude that
they had roused her to urge forward her children, was so delighted at
the rapidity with which Alfred mastered every difficulty, that she
desired to make Dr. Russel confess she was right and he was wrong as
to the management of her son especially. Since the conmiencement of
her new system, she had had with him but one conversation on the
subject, and that had certainly left a painful impression on both their
minds. She framed, however, some trilling excuse for calling at the
manor-house; and after a brief interview with the scpiire, who had bien
8<) much annoyed at her obliging her son to forego his pony exercise to
devote more tinu' to study, that he w.ns cold and even stately to \\\v
widow of one he had loved like his own child, she sought the doctor in
his favourite conservatory.

The doctor was cold enough also, but one of his |>cculiaritieii was his
being unable to pemcverc in anything like cohlness towards a lady.

** I wanted you to dine with me to-morrow, niy good friend," she
said; " indee«l I wi<i|icd our lord of the manor to ronu- also, but he has
received nu- so Htrangely, that I had n<»t rourage to ask him."

142 woman's trials.

" We arc two old-fashioned old men, my dear Mrs. Erris," replied
the doctor ; " but somehow you have got new-fangled of late, and we
should not be able to avoid finding fault — one of the bad habits
common to old friends ; so that, perhaps, under these circumstances, it
is better for us to stay away."

" I know what you mean," answered Mrs. Erris, gently ; " you
allude to Alfred and Lucy. I want you to come and judge for your-
self; I want you to see how they are improved ; that, in fact, is all I
desire. I want you to examine the children of your old friend, and I
think you will be satisfied that 1 have done my duty."

" I am quite satisfied you have intended to do your duty, my dear
lady ; quite satisfied of that ; and if it had not been for the stimulus
given to your maternal vanity by the arrival of this ' clever family,' I
am certain you would have continued blessing and being blessed ; not
overtasking, but permitting your children's minds as well as their
bodies to strengthen while they grow ; but we shall not agree upon the
matter, my dear Mrs. Erris, so perhaps we had better not talk of it ;
we shall certainly not agree upon the subject."

" You were the friend my poor husband valued most on earth,"
said Mrs. Erris, after a pause ; " and I cannot bear that you should
labour under any false impression. I assure you neither Lucy nor
Alfred are ever driven to their tasks."

" So much the worse for children of their rapid yet delicate natures.
If they had a disinclination to study, it would prove that their minds
were not of a quality to injure their bodies ; but the zeal for study
requires to be regulated."

" And Mr. Salon does regulate it," said the mother.

" By increasing it," replied the doctor. " Tlie structure of these
precocious minds is easily disorganised. It has always seemed to me
as extraordinary as unjust, tliat parents and teachers bestow double the
pains upon what are termed clever children than they do upon those
who are dull of comprehension ; whereas the heavier minds could
be wrought upon with far greater safety, and in nine cases out of
ten would produce, if not a richer, a more abundant fruitage."

" But," urged Mrs. Erris, " you are arguing as if my children were

THE FORCED BLOOMS. 143

suffering from too mucli mental exertion. I assure you the contrary
is the case. Mrs. Dij^jrons said slie never saw anything in her children
like the energy with which my children apply."

" I daresay she did not," replied the doctor. " In the first place,
your tutor imparts knowledge, not its semblance; and in the next, your
children have really a panting after information, a gasping for the
beautiful and the ideal — a naturally poetic temperament, which destroys
ten for the one it crowns. I remember Alfred restless in his cradle,
and weeping at melancholy music; and as to Lucy, the dilBculty with
her was always to keep her tranquil. You have applied excitement
where you should, in my humble opinion, have removed it."
" But would you have had them grow up in ignorance?"
" That is so like a woman," said the old bachelor, smiling sadly.
The children were doing well ; learning as much as at their age they
ought to learn without forcinji — that is all that children should do."
" But some learn more quickly than others, my dear sir."
" .So they do ; some rccpiire keeping back, others bringing forward ;
but, with both, time is the only safe derrloprr and strenrrtluncr. I
never knew an instance where a precocious child was not the better for
being kept back. It is positively oftensive to come in contact with
those forced children. Will, my dear lady," he added, ashamed
of his pettishness, *' I have, at least, to thank you for your patience ;
you have listened to me, and I thank you. I will go, if you please,
to-morrow, if it were only to prove how I value your forbearance;
but just look at our flowers and this new forcing-house, which. I
think, you Ikivc not seen, and which our gardener would have, because
the clever family have one." Mrs. Mrris looked at the flowers. On
leaving the conservatory for tin- fcircing-house, they found the gardener
busied with some plants that had been placed u|)on a st.nnd ; an)<»ng
tliem was a white moss rose, its grr«-n leaves fading ; the bu«ls, through
whose soft n)os!« the faint streak of white was more or less visibh-,
hung their liencU, from their fi-eble and sieeiiiingly twisted stems.

" It wont do, Tom— all your case wont do now," said Dr. Kussel to
tin- gartlener ; " if you had Ixen content to urge, not force the plant,
it might have livcti ami fluuri-shed. No»v it is gone— gone for ever."

144

WOMAN S TRIALS.

" It was SO beautiful, sir," said the man ; " I never saw anything
more beautiful. I didn't like to be outdone in early flowering by
Mr. Diggons's gardener, and got more heat on ; and I'm sorry to say
this is not the first plant that has served me so ; the blossoms have
dropped off many ; so that, after all my care, and though willing to
sacrifice the plant for one good Jloivering, it wont always give that, hut
die awarj — right away."

" The rose would have been healthy enough in the conservatory,
I suppose ? " said the doctor.

" Bless you, sir, it would have lived long enough to make a timber
tree if I wanted it ; but such fierce forcing cuts them off even before
they blossom. It's a principle in nature, sir ; my old governor never
would have anything forced beyond nature. ' Thomas ' he used to say
to me, ' let us help nature ; let us assist the old gentlewoman as well as
we can — she deserves it of us ; and it is our duty, as well as our interest,
to keep friends with her, for there's one thing certain, she wont stand
no nonsense.' He was a plain spoken Scotchman, sir ; but, like all of
his country, he had a great acquaintance with Nature."

The doctor made no further observation ; but a glance at Mrs.
Erris showed him tliat her face was bathed in tears.

I f.

>^^:^3g3^

I'AKT THK SECOND.

^jj>-«^a5^:^iji<jij^^ iiREK years had elapsctl sincf tlir master of

^/ |L ri \^Ji^\h. East-court manor Kt Deerslone house to the

"^ ' ' ^ " clever faniily ; " and he Iiad more than once

hinted to his confidential servant, Isaac Heywood,

his helief that he did not think a pair of lawyers

coidd liave proved more injurious than its inhahitants

to the repose of the neighhourhocxl ; for, without

improvinj^, they had tliorou^hly unsettU-d, the course of

instruction. As Dr. Kussel oljserved, " they had ino-

culated tlje whole coiuUry with a mental nettle-rash."

Mr. I)ij<non»'s daughter Klizaheth, who had so Utu^ siruf{j(le«l with,

or rather submitted to, the Hpinal nfleclion, which her mother declare<l

should never interfere with her education, died ei^ht<'cn months after

their residence at Derrstone. Yet did not this young woman's fate net

as a ivnrnin^ to Mrs. Krris.

146 woman's trials.

Alfred had become one of those extraordinary boys who dazzle yet
satisfy — a creature so bright, so glorious, in noting whom, you
instinctively pray that a life may be spared to those wlio live upon its
continuance. All observed, except his mother and her new friends,
that he outgrew his strength ; his eyes beamed with a deep yet brilliant
intelligence ; they were eyes that flashed and burned ; and the delicate
tint upon his cheek occasionally flushed into a concentrated crimson
spot. It is true he took exercise. He would spring upon a beautiful
little Arabian horse that had succeeded his pony, and away ; using more
violent exertion in one hour than he ouglit to have done in four; and
then return over-fatigued, to persuade himself and his mother that
" exercise was not good for him."

Fortune smiled on this favourite of nature. A baronetcy, held by
a distant branch of the family, became l>is by inheritance ; and a large
amount in money and estate came with it. Most exceeding joy
followed. Alfred was now the last of his race — the very last male of
the family who bore the name of Erris — and those who looked upon
liim, and those who more particularly knew him, thought all that was
high and glorious centred in him. Some time after the news was
spread, and when the fever of congratulations and ai-rangements had
somewhat subsided, Lucy and her brother were together in a little
temple, called especially " their own." Alfred was fourteen, unusually
tall, and formed for his age ; and Lucy might have passed for younger
than she was, except that she had quite tamed down her wild spirit, and
sometimes looked more thoughtful than girls who have numbered many
more than her years. They were seated side by side, reading from the
same book silently. There was this difference in their way of reading:
when Alfred met with anything that particularly struck him, his cheek
reddened, his eye dilated, Irhimphcd, I might say, in the glory of
the writer, and he would silently point it out to Lucy. She, on
the contrary, read aloud to him whatever pleased her, and did not
seem to enjoy anything unless he enjoyed it with her.

He had the same feeling towards her, though, as I have said,
it was differently expressed, and would lay his finger on the page, and
their eyes would meet — his full of light, hers hardly venturing an

THE FORCED BLOOMS. Ii7

expression of their own, until she had scanned his. Sometimes he could
not bear even the whisper of her silver voice ; he seemed to think that
sound disturbs feeling, and that it is only the eye which should drink
in the written words of mighty men ; and then, without another word,
she would remain hushed, rewarded by a smile or a pressure of her
brother's hand for her desire to give him pleasure, by sympathising in
his delights — the greatest pleasure youth knows. The attachment of
tliese two young creatures was perfect. He was full of dreams of
ambition — ambition of the most lofty yet generous character. The
youth joyed exceedingly in his new position, but he joyed still more in
what was far beyond his years — in philosophy, in poetry, which he
delighted in translating from one language to another, and in all things
aljstruse as well as beautiful. His disposition was sweet and generous;
and when an irritability, which had increased of late so as to give even
his mother much concern, caused him to say or do anything that was
painful or unjust to the humblest servant, he apologised at once with
so much warnah and regret, as to win affection even by his very
fault. Like those beautiful Howers which, born of the sun, die by the
sun, his very soul opened to the heat and fever of the light of knowledge,
and the more expanded the flower became, the nearer it approached its
end. ICvery one saw this nnw, except those whom it most concerned.
The occasional fits of lassitude which succeeded much mental or bodily
exertion, his mother attributed to his overgrowth, not to ;niv other
cause — to be cured by soups and jellies, and the old-fashioned tonic of
" bark and port-wine," which Mrs. Diggons prevailed upon her to
exchange for claret. His tutor felt towards this wondrous boy as a
skilful mechanist would towards an automaton, upon the construction of
which he had expended an existence. Lucy was certainly tin- only one
who/elt that the youth was not well ; but she never thought of him and
death together. There had been much t.ilk i>f .sending him to Oxford
with hit tutor, and even that separation his <levoted sister could not
bear to think of. Ik-fore those chddren had been given up to such
intense sluily, I<ucy had laid m a greater store of strength than her
brotluT, consequently she h.id not stitTcred so severely. Her anxiety
for him wore tier more than her studies, though much that he learned

148 woman's trials.

she learned with him ; still, particularly during the last fifteen months,
she had ceased to be the object of even divided attention. Mrs. Erris's
whole soul seemed wound up in the young baronet. If he had been
wild, and wilful, and careless of his studies, he might most likely not
have continued so ; for he was certain of being distinguished ; and that
was too surely her ambition. But though she ceased to urge forward,
she had not endeavoured to hold back, and the influence of the
" clever family "' was undiminished.

" Close the book, dearest brother," said Lucy, as she wiped his
damp brow with her hankherchief. " Do close it ; the sun lias set, and
you came from the library for relaxation." A gesture of impatience
was his answer, and she continued by his side now smiling to his smile,
and sometimes watching the glorious hues of the clouds — the good
night of the sun to his attendant vapours.

Alfred closed his book with a heavy sigh ; and leaning back on
his sister's shoulder, so that he looked up into her face, he exclaimed,
" There, Lucy ! I have done, at least until the lamps are lit in the
study. Shall we walk now ? I ought to have thought of your walk
before, you who have been working with me all day ; and girls cannot
work like men ! "

Lucy smiled. " Well, hoys, then," added her brother, understanding
the smile. " Boys, if you call me so. Boy as I am, Mr. Salon says
I shall do myself credit at Oxford ; I will not be a mere bookworm
there either, dear Lucy. I hope to be a statesman, one who will
govern the future. I must, as my dear mother, says, for the

honour of But, oh dear, there is that pain in my side again, as

if the very idea of anything but books brought it there." They
stood up.

" Is it better now, Alfred?" inquired Lucy, gazing earnestly into
her brother's face; " is it, dearest?"

"Yes — no," answered the boy. "Let us walk." In another
moment they were on the terrace.

" What a beautiful evening is this, dear Lucy ; and what a glorious
world to live in ; with power, and wealth, and rank, all handmaids to
do my bidding. You know we are to build the alms-houses down

THE FORCED BLOOMS. 119

there; they are to be ijonrs, Lucy; and I think I sliall found a college,
only I wish the great estate was not so far from East-in-Rest, I love
this place so dearly. Ay ! there are the stars coming out one by one.
When I am of age I will build an observatory on the top of the hill ! "

" What ! the squire's hill ? " said his sister.

" Ah, ah, I forgot that. Do you know, Lucy, that all this new
wealth so bewilders me, that I feel as if every thing 1 looked on must
be mine; and oh! if it were, would I not make a happy, happy world?
Now, dear Lucy, while I think of it, do go and ask old Charles to
carry the telescope to the hill-top; there is hardly a cloud to hide a
single star, and we will spend a couple of delightful hours in com-
puting transits and distances." Away flew Lucy ; but ere she had
gone a dozen yards, she paused and turned back.

" Alfred, you were in the study many hours to-day ; you complain
of pain in your side ; your dear hands are hot and moist, and your lips
dry; it will tire you to climb tiie hill-side — the dew is falling."

" You are unkind, Lucy," answered the impatient boy. " Von
know that those stars are to me worlds of delight, NVill, I will rail
Charles myself." This his sister would not permit, and in a lew
.minutes she returned with his cloak on her arm ; as if to atone for
his little pettishness, he put on the cloak immediately, and leaving
the garden by a wicket-gate, they crossed the road, and ascended
the hill by one of those winding paths which they had often traversed
wIm'u very young. The servants preceded them ; and accustomed as they
were to the grace and beauty of these two children, who had grown
up under their eyes, Charles, the old white headi-d butler, could not
avoid turning back frecjuently to look at them as they wound up the
hill, arm twined in arm ; Lucy, like the spirit of a zephyr, so slight
and vvan<l-like, round which the sofl nuislin drapery floated like a
cloud, yet still able to support her brother, upon whose fair brow the
cool moonbeamt gliHtened as ii|Nm an alabaster orb.

'* lie's like liiH father," naitl iheohl nian; " like what he was, James
— not in life, but on his death-bed ; just so his forehead shone in the
lamp-light, when he'd try to read."

" It's seven years before ln"'ll be of ape," answered the groi^ii,

150 woman's trials.

who was almost as old as the butler ; but he'll gain strength ; horse
exercise is the thing for him."

" And claret," added the butler, laying down the heavy stand of
the telescope to rest a little. " Well, both ; but lie has a fine spirit
our young master ; see now, when he looks down upon the valley,
how nobly he turns his head ! Sir Alfred Erris, baronet, that will
sound well when he stands for the county."

" Ay, very grand," replied Charles ; " there is a deal in a grand
sound." And without further converse, the pair gained the plain on
the top of the hill where the telescope was to be placed.

The telescope was fixed where Alfred desired ; the old servants
had mastered the rising ground, and made all ready for those they so
dearly loved, and yet the youth and maiden, in the very spring and
bound of life, had not reached the mossy platform.

" Dear me, Sir Alfred," said the old coachman, " you are quite
out of breath ; lean on me, sir."

" It is all the fault of this cloak that Lucy would make me wear,"
exclaimed the boy, unfastening it from his gasping throat, and dashing
it down ; then he rushed upwards, and sprang upon the mount. His
triumph was short-lived : before they could say he stood there a
moment, he fell flat upon the sward. It was almost as light as day,
so clear was the sky, so bright the stars, and the moon shedding its
clear white light over all the country. Lucy knelt, supporting his
head on her bosom, and calling on him who heard her not; blood
gushed freely from a wound in his temple, which a sharp pebble had
inflicted. In their desire for assistance, both the old servants rushed
down the hill, leaving the sister alone with her brother; he soon
became conscious of her presence, complaining that he could hardly
see, and that his head " turned round."

About seven hours after this accident, which agitated the whole
of East-court, Dr. Russel retired from the bed-side of the boy upon
whom so many hopes rested, anrl for whom so many prayers were
offered ; for, independent of the rich inheritance of blessings which
descends from noble and righteous ancestry, Alfred was loved and
honoured by all who came within the influence of his smile and the

THE FORCED BLOOMS. 151

bounty of his generous hand. The good old doctor did not leave
his favourite until the arrival of two eminent physicians told him it
was time to do so. It was determined they should all meet in the
morning, and the light gray twilight was already spreading over the
horizon, yet still th»> kind old man lingered in his study. He was
writing when a tap at the window, which opened on the lawn, arrested
his attention ; he unfastened it, and there was Lucy.

"Mamma would have me go to bed," she said, "but I could not;
she will not rest herself, yet she has sent me from him. I thought
you could not sleep when Afred was so ill, and I flew across the
lawn, and came to you, dear friend, for truth, if not for consolation.
Is he very ill? Will he be better soon? Will he, my brother, will
he soon recover ? Von turn away your head ; there are tears upon
your cheek ; I see, I understand all that ;" and she stood before the
old man, whose very heart shook within him, like a statue struek dumb
l)y his agonizing silence.

At last he succeeded in placing her in a cliair; and having con-
cpierod his own emotion, l)y speaking to her of her brother, induced
a violent burst of tears. He mentioned Alfred's youth, change of
scene, mild air, and talked of care, and a total freedom from study,
of rest, of there being decidedly no immediate danger; tlie former
words fell fn)m his lips unnoticed ; but the saving from api)rehension
of iriimrdialr danger was what effectually recalled I-ncy to lursilf.
She fell u|)on her knees, and blessed her venerable friend with a burst
of grateful feeling. She then became more calm, clinging to the
assurance that there was " no present danger," as if there was a
world of hope beyond it : and so there was t<» In r. The dre.id of
losing her brother at the time was so appalling, that it,s terror l)eing
removed, the hope of lier young he.irt resumed its pulsations ; and the
cnhnneitM liaving pannrd away, she alarnird Di. Kussel by the energy
nnd wildness of her n)anner. "How foolish wr have been to fever
our"nlve» %n," n]\v exclaimed, t:dkiiig rapidlv. " N(» unmediale danger!
Oh, how I rejoice I camel It was only that which I feared ; ii is such
n fearfid thing to nvc life stopped at nnee. liut I fctiric that could
not he. Doctor, when he was boundiuLT bv mv side, and then fell

152 woman's trials.

flat upon tlie grass, and I could not feel his heart beat, I thought,
wlien I kissed his hps, there was no breath. Oh, how the heavens
whirled round while I was alone with him on the hill ! But there is no
immediate danger ; and we shall only want time, with God's blessing,
doctor, to strengthen him. How we will watch him, and pray for him,
and cradle him in luxuries ; create an atmosphere for him to live in.
Noiv do I rejoice more than ever at his new station and wealth ; for
you know, no matter what it is, he can command all."

" All but the will of Heaven," observed the old doctor ; for he
feared, from Lucy's flashing eyes and burning cheeks, which seemed to
scorch up the tears she had shed, that her reason reeled. " All but
the will of Heaven ! " This short sentence supplied Lucy with a new
and painful thought. " Tell me," she said eagerly, " did you ever
know such as he is — mind, such as he is — struck down before the
fulfilment of any of the glorious promises of his youth?"

The doctor paused : he knew that in his life he had never seen
a youth who would bear comparison with Alfred Erris, and so he
told her " he had not." This seemed to afford her great consolation ;
and arguing, as do untutored spirits that have not been tempered
by sorrow, she felt assured, at least for a time, that God would
spare him.

One of the physicians, a man of such standing in his profession that
he was able to tell the truth without incurring the danger of losing his
practice, said, in reply to Mrs. Erris's inquiries, " The illness imder
which your son is now suffering may be called what we please, but it
has originated in over-mental excitement ; the brain has been over-
worked, over stimulated."

The poor lady shuddered. " But it is not too late ! " she exclaimed
eagerly ; " oh, in mercy, do not say it is too late ! "

" I hope it is not," he answered, with more feeling than was usual
with him. " I trust it is not. I wish I had seen him before."

Mrs. Erris assured him that in every respect she would attend to
his instructions, that she would not suffer him to study, that she would
send Mr. Salon away for a time, that his books should be put far from
him, that he should not think !

THE FORCED BLOOMS. 153

The physician arrested her. " You promise what you have not
the power to perform," he said ; " and parents— all who have influence
over the education of youth — would do well to understand and to study
the characters and dispositions of their children, before they submit
all to the same discipline, the same excitement. The slothful — the
slow, who are not slothful; the heavy-headed; the light and trifling,
who have no intellectual subsoil — may be safely urged forward ; and
if their cheeks are pale, and grow anxious, withdraw or lighten the
stinuilus, and the creature becomes fat and ruddy in a week ; not,
perhaps, much the better for the forced exertion, though none the
worse. But with the ardent, tlie spiritualised — those who draw inspi-
ration from everything around them ; who see and achieve ; who are
all eye, all car, whose nerves and hearts do double duty, whose
sharpened senses urge them forward — to stimulate tliem as you do the
slow or the merry-minded, is sheer madness."

The physician had forgotten to whom he was speaking ; but a
pressure of his arm from Dr. Russel's hand recalled him. He saw
that .Mrs. Erris was trembling, her hands clasped, her lips compressed,
the damp dews standing on her brow ; and stern as he was, he had
pity on her.

In pursuance of his advice, it was at length arranged that
the young baronet should go to Italy. 'Jhe whole of the neigh-
bourhood was moved to one general prayer for his recovery ; for if he
died, all woulil pass to one of another name, and of a depravid and
dishonoured character. The venerable master of East-court begged
to acconi|)any his sorrowing friends.

•• My children always climg to you," said tlw broken-hearted luit
grateful mother ; " but folly grew with me, and I must b«-ar the
puni<tliM)ent, (hough, God knows, I actetl for the i)est." Tlie wan-
dtrerii had but one objict, the restoration of this preciotis youth.
At fiTHt he wn.H much better. His travelling physici.in aiul Dr Hu>sel
botij agreed there were ntrong rea.H<»n.s for hop*- ; lujd Eury's face would
brightrn, and her eyes fill with (ears of joy, when her brother's voice
wa.H stronger, or lii.s step lighter, or Iuh appetite improved. .Mthough
keenly appreciating the great and iH-autifui, (his devoted sister saw

154 woman's trials.

nothing, heard nothing, but her brother. If it were possible for two
creatures to have but one soul, it might have been their case. By
day and night she was by his side, warding off tlie breeze, shading
the sun, reading, or singing, or reciting ; doing everything he desired ;
and thinking before one enjoyment was at an end what the next should
be; — utterly careless of the sensation created by her own unearthly
beauty.

Alfred was better for a few weeks of travel, but no change had
the power of restoring the tone and strength destroyed by over-mental
exertion. If his mind could have slumbered, so that his body might
have continued undisturbed, the youth would have achieved manhood ;
but his body wasted beneath the scourge of his untiring soul. His
nerves were overstrained ; he could not sleep ; he was consumed by a low
wasting fever. His restlessness would have worn out any one but Lucy.

" If," said the travelling physician to his friend — " if lie endure
mucli longer, she will go first." And yet, whether it was that the
certainty Alfred always expressed as to his own recovery, or the
belief Lucy hourly repeated to herself, that " God would not take
him from the world," occasioned her blindness, she did not see what
her motlier dared not speak of. The youth had grown much worse,
and yet was telling his mother of his future plans, all tending to the
advancement of others, and mingling the beautiful, the prosperous,
and the good together, in a most unworldly way, when their good
friend of East-court entered with an open letter in his hand, his face
brightened by one of his old looks of happiness : " Good news," he
said " a letter from Master Isaac, stating that Mr. Diggons wishes
to have Deerstone taken off his hands."

" Tliey were very kind to me," said Alfred ; " and yet I am glad.
Oh, send them away at once ! and then, mamma, let us go home.
Do, mother, take me home !" This appeal was answered by a burst
of tears from his mother, for, while speaking, he stretched forth his
hands towards her, and the light being rather strong upon them,
shone almost through them. Oh, how attenuated ! Tliey were trans-
parent ! yet firmly clasped together, while the boy again entreated,
" Oh, mother, take me home !"

THE FORCED BLOOMS. 155

" How you all look ! " exclaimed Lucy, twining her ready arm
around his neck, and gazing in his flushed face. " Yes, dearest Alfred,
there is no need for this excitement ; we will go home immediately, if
you like, if the doctors say you are strong enough for the journey."

I am strong enough," he said, half rising from the sofa. " I want
to be at home; that is all I want now. I have had rest and change;
and now I wish to get to work again. Time is passing. I want my
books. If you let me have my books, I can sleep. Look how strong
I am. Stand with me, Lucy, that they may see me walk. There!"

He stood for a nionunt by his sister's side, she still gazing in liis
face ; and the brightness of the sunbeams, that came through the half-
open window, played like a glory round their heads.

" Now, dearest mother, will you not take me Iiome ; home to
England ?" Lucy felt the arm of her brother relax its hold ; she
clasped him more closely — closer still. " Alfred !" she whispered :
"Alfred!" He was on the sofa, but she still clasped him. Her
lips moved, but no sound escaped them. She heard not her mother's
screams, nor the more collected words of her friends. Still, Lucy
gazed into those "windows of the soul;" iluy were open still, but
their light, their might, was gone !

Some time passed, and though every day it was said at Nice tiiat
the English lady and suite, whose beautiful son died, as she thought,
suddenly, would leave the following day, they were still there. Since
her brother's death, Lucy shed no tear, spoke no word. The last
sound she uttered was " .Alfred." She knew no one. Move her, she
did not resist. Gentle and pa.ssivc, she made neither sign nor com-
plaint ; did not return her mother's tearfid caresses, nor observe when
at last, she was placed in the carriage to return home. This "living
death" roused her mother; but nothing seemed to awaken her, until,
wlien the day after they returned to Kast-in-Rest, Doctor Hussel took
her to the pavilion in the garden, where her childhood passed so
happily with her brother. She shed a few tears from this time. Her
consciousness returned in some degree, though ^lle never mentioned
licr brother's name. Slu- would occnsionally murmur over snatches
of the poemt they read together, and listen when the Bible waji read

156

WOMAN S TRIALS.

to her. She sank, however, daily — imperceptibly; smiling, as her
end drew nigh, in a sweet, unearthly way, on those around her, all
gentleness and love. Once, drawing Doctor Russel's head close to
her, so close, that his long white hair mingled with the rich brown
tresses that wreathed her throat and shoulders, she whispered, " I can
say now, thy will be done !" and thus she departed.

Those who visit the sweet village of East-court now, will find it
changed. The old manor house, though still inhabited by a family of
the name of Russel, who are greatly respected, talk of their good
uncle, whose monument has been lately placed in the church. But
what chiefly attracts the eye, is the gloomy aspect of the house called
Easl-in-Rest. Every window is closed ; and the escutcheon above
the entrance has remained there so long, that it is garlanded, as if
in mockery, by roses and other climbing plants, wild, and untrimmed
for years. The lady of the house, the people say, a childless widow,
resides there, and is sometimes seen wandering amid the tangled
walks, for nothing has been trimmed since her children died ; passing
silently along, or, if she speaks to any, it is to some mother with children
around her, whom she entreats her earnestly, as if pleading for her
own life, " not to force the flower — not to force the flower prematurely."

Til K MOiSS V ITS.

N one of the most hi^lily cultivalrd counties of Kngland,

near a town, the nniiu' of wliicli I sli.tll coiural umhr

that i>r Mondrich, th(« following circunisiancrs orrurrrd.

\ My tall- in hut a siniplr narration, and has littlt- to

J recoinuH'nd it hut it.n reality. To th(»se who yearn after

exnj^gerated j»ielur«-H of life, in any sitnaiion, it niay he

dull and te«liou«» ; hut those who can appn-ciate the suiler-

^ inj;* and »iru;',rl<- <>r virtue, under trials of a more than

158 woman's trials.

ordinary nature, will, I doubt not, feel interested in the story I am
about to relate.

" Well, good night, Mr. Hinton, good night ; we are neighbours
now, and shall often meet," said Edward Hoskins, as he closed the
cottage-door after his retreating guest. " A very pleasant fellow,
Agnes," he continued, addressing his wife : " though you were not
particularly civil to him, I know who was ; " and his bright blue eye
rested for a moment on his sister-in-law — a merry-looking maiden,
busied in assisting Agnes Hoskins in placing aside the remains of their
frugal supper.

" For shame, Ned ! " retorted the blushing Jessy ; " but you are
ever teasing me in some way or other ; and here's my sister says it is
very wrong to be putting such things into my head."

Agnes turned her handsome, cheerful countenance towards her
sister, and observ^ed, in a low and more serious tone of voice than
was her wont, " Jessy, I should be indeed sorry if anything got
into either your head or your heart which it would be necessary to
root out again."

" Well," laughed Edward, " I don't see what harm Harry Hinton's
getting into her head, or heart either, could do ; he is a good-tempered,
free, frank, industrious "

" Stop there, Edward," interrupted his wife, laying her hand on his
arm, " not industrious — surely, not industrious!"

"No; perhaps not that exactly," replied Ned, "not what you
would call industrious. But, really, Agnes, I think we both work too
hard ; — we ought, as Harry says, to take a little pleasure now and then,
and we should return to our daily labour with more earnestness, and
do all the better for it."

" I don't think we need do better : your situation at the manor,
the produce of your own little farm — all contribute to render us inde-
pendent. And as to pleasure — as to happiness, Ned, look here!"

She drew aside a large linen cloth that fell from the upper part of
her baby's cradle, so as to shade it from the light. Although the
little thing had not cried, it was awake ; and, as the father stooped to
kiss it, the hands were stretched forward to meet him, and the rosy

THE MOSSI'lTS. 159

lips parted by the liglit noiseless lauglitcr of earliest infancy ! It was
a blessed moment : both parents gazed upon their child, and, as the
mother placed it to her bosom, the father said, in a subdued tone,
" You are right, Agnes ; thank God, we are happy ; and though, love,
as you were better brought up than I was, I should like to be richer
for your sake, yet somehow I tliink it sho«s you to more advantage,
and draws you more into my heart, to be as you are. What the
minister said of you was true, though I did not mean to tell it you,
lest it might make you conceited : — ' Your wife, Iloskins,' said he, ' is
never without a jar of honey, and a flask of oil, to sweeten and soften
your path through life.'"

" Reach down the Bible, Jessy ; although it is past ten, we must
not go to bed without our chapter," observed Agnes, after a long pause.
" But what books are placed upon it, Jessy .'"

" A volume of songs and a novel, sister."

Agnes continued, in a reproving tone, " I tliought I liad no need to
tell you that that shelf was appropriated to the Bible, Prayer, and
Hymn-book only ; profane and sacred things should never mingle."

" It was not Jessy, but Ilinton, who j)iit tluiii there," said
Edward. Agnes sighed. " Why do you sigh so heavily .'" inquired
the husband, as he turned over the leaves to find one of his wife's
favourite chapters.

" Because it confirms my opinion of our new neighbour ; the word
of God will ever be treated by a true Christian with outward respect —
the proof of inward reverence. One who venerates Scripture could not
rest a 80iig-book even upon its binding."

Kdward made no reply, an<l soon afterwards the party retired
to rest.

This litllc passag*- in the liv<'s of these hiiuible individuals
occured about the latter end of the month of April, a few \ears ago,
in n reliretl H|>ot, near the town of .Mondrich, to which I shall give
the name of .Mosspitii. It was a sweet and ipiiet nesting of five
cottages, inhabiiid, with one exception, by happy industrious p«i»ple.
Four of these dwelluigs were joined together ; the fifth, tin abode- of
lloskms, sto<Ml apart, nurroundtd l)y a blossoming garden, and was

IGO woman's trials.

of a larger size than any of the others. The scene might be
aptly described as —

" A gentle, lonely place ; the path o'ergrown
With primroses, and broad-leaved violets.
Arched by laburnums and the sweet woodbine.

******

Across the green a silver streamlet ran,
Hidden and silent, as it feared to wake
The deep tranquillity that dwelt and slept
Even on the full-leaved trees."

It was far away from the public road, and one large oak spread
its huge branches over the green in front of the Mosspit cottages ; the
trunk was surrounded by a rustic seat, where the inhabitants met
every fine evening, and discussed affairs of state or business with the
affected sagacity of wiser heads. Hoskins possessed, as his wife had
said, a lucrative situation — one that gave them abundant comforts, and
would, if carefully husbanded, enable them to lay by a provision
for after years.

Agnes and Jessy were the orphan daughters of a Presbyterian
clergyman. Mrs. Hoskins was some years older than her giddy sister,
and had enjoyed, during her father's lifetime, many advantages which
he did not remain long enough in the world to bestow upon his youngest-
bom. Agnes had been chosen by the lady of the manor, Mrs. Cecil
Wallingford, as a humble, very humble, companion for her daughter, —
an only child, and an heiress : she was, tlierefore, to use the accepted
phrase, " comfortably situated ; "' which, being interpreted, means, that
she had her board, wasliing, and lodging, and the young lady's society
when she was ill or without company — dined with the housekeeper —
rode either inside the carriage when her friend pleased, or outside on
the dicky when ditto — curled the lap-dog's hair — and sometimes
suffered, under the practical jokes of her young tormentor, such
mortifications as nought but her enduring spirit could have supported
— was stared at, whenever seen, by the young men, who already
scented the heiress's gold afar off*— and received divers lessons from
Mrs. Cecil Wallingford, not on errors she had committed, but on those

TH£ MOSSPITS. 161

which the lady supposed she might commit. The dependent on this
purse-proud family could not have been strictly called beautiful ; but
there was that about her which surpassed beauty — a kind, yet animated
countenance, illumined by mild and frequently upturned eyes, which
lent a sort of holy expression to her delicate features. Under her after-
trials it seemed almost as if a heavenly communion supported her; for,
while the tear trembled in her eye, the smile sprang to her lip, and she
regained her serenity apparently without an eflort.

Agnes was fortunate enough to make one real friend in this mighty
family. The housekeeper, Mrs. Middleton, was a curate's widow, and
felt much and kindly for the situation of one so young and unprotected;
she did all she could to soften the innumerable mortifications that
awaited the pure and delicately-minded girl ; and often, when the
household had retired to rest, they would seek each other's chamber,
and hold sweet counsel together — thus imparting cheerfidnoss to the
aged, and instruction to the young. Wlien Agnes had been about
twelve months at the manor, Edward Iloskins was strongly recom-
mended, on account of his great skill in horticuhurc and floriculture, to
the situation of gardener in Mrs. Cecil Wallingford's establishment,
vacant by the death of the old man wiio had exercised unbounded
dominion over graj)ery, pinery, and green-house, for nearly half a
century. Hoskins wisely brought with him a new carnation of his own
growing, whicii had gained the first pri/.e of the Horticultural
Society. i he splendid flower decided the matter, and he was iumie-
diately engaged, at a salary of a hundred and ten guineas per annum,
(a» the lady found he could not only act as gardener, but as steward),
and the very prettiest cottage at Mosspit was appointed for his
residence.

All was bustle in the servants' hall as the handsome young gardener
talked for n moment with the head butler. The lady's-mniil and chief
houHe-duHler |>o9itively (|uarrelled n.s to (he right of first setting eapH
at him ; though they both agreed that he Ix-haveil very rudely in pass-
ing into the hou.ickeeper'H room without bentowing (he Hlighle<<t notice
upon their pretty perHons. .Mri. .Middleton anil her young friend were
((uictly Rented at ten, when the butler respectfully naked permission to

162 woman's trials.

introduce the new resident. Long after Agnes had departed, he
lingered, and lingered, and at last asked who the young lady was.
Her history was at once told; and, to dismiss all matters of courtship
briefly, they were soon married. To do Mrs. Cecil Wallingford justice,
she behaved very generously to her protegee on the occasion, presented
to the young couple some neat and appropriate furniture, stood god-
mother to their first infant, and Miss Cecil Wallingford (when senti-
mentally inclined) always talked of love in the Mosspit cottage, and her
sweet humble friend Agnes Hoskins.

Much had been, of course, said, at the commencement of their union,
as to the probability of Agnes being too dainty a damsel to make a
useful wife ; but a little time proved the incorrectness of such surmises.
Hoskins insisted on Agnes domesticating her only sister with them,
and went for her to Scotland, where she had previously resided with a
distant relative. No further help than Jessy's was necessary to keep
all things in order, and no dwelling, even at the Mosspits, was half so
neat or half so cheerful as their cottage. Indeed, cheerfulness was
Agnes' peculiar attribute — that sweet, gentle, and unobtrusive cheer-
fulness, which is felt rather than seen. Her very voice told of happi-
ness ; her eyes beamed with faith and love ; and the minister's
description of one of the favourites of his flock was no less beautiful
than true. The disposition of Jessy was not so valuable as that of her
sister ; she was more mirthful, more gay, and, alas ! both giddy and in-
considerate ; but then, as Edward kindly observed, " she was only
seventeen, and every body coidd not be perfect like Agnes, who
certainly was different from every one else."

It is a happy thing when married folk believe perfection enthroned
in each other ; but it is a wise thing when they see each other's faults, and
yet endeavour to conceal them. It is a stern test of a woman's judg-
ment, if she discover her mental superiority to the lord of her affections,
and yet, while she secretly manages all things for the best, makes
the world believe she is only the instrument of his will. A wise
woman will do this, but it is only a wise woman who can.

Edward was certainly inferior to Agnes in intellect ; and yet, woman
though she was, she never allowed her mind to rest upon the

THE MOSSPITS. 1G3

circumstance she could not avoid perceiving. She was a superior
woman — he was only an ordinary man, but one in whom all kind
elements were so happily blended, that his faults were forgotten in the
contemplation of his better qualities. The great difference in their
characters was, that Edward acted invariably from impulse — Agnes
from principle.

My friends will rcuKmber that my little tale commenced in the
gentle month of April, the kindly season sung of by the elegant
Surrey, as —

" The sootc season, that bud and blomc forth brings,
With grcne hath clad the hill, and eke the vale ;
The nightingale wth feathers new she sings.
The turtle to her mate hath told her tale."

And, passing over the two first months of summer, we reach the latter
end of Jidy. Although nothing had occund of a nature to destroy the
actual (juiet of the Mosspit family, many trilling incidents had filled the
mind of Agnes with an apprehension for which she could not account,
and dreaded to encourage. Harry Ilinton was always so coolly
received by her that he spent very little time at their cottage ; and
Agnes was continually on the watch to prevent any intimacy between
Jessy and their idle neighbour. Still it was almost certain that the
thoughtless girl regarded Harry with anything but indiU'erencc ; and
the proximity of their dwellings rendered it impossible to j)revent their
meeting. It" .lessy took her little nephew into the garden, Hinton was
most likely in his; if she Hto<Ml at the door, Hinton passed it; if she
went for water to the well, Hinton would carrv the pitcher, at all
events, as far as the great tr»e that shaded them from ol)servation ;
nn<l, above all, Agnes could not ujake either her husband or her sister
think otherwise than well of Harry Hinton. ICdward did not spend
his evenings as constantly at home as liefore his accpiaintancc with his
neighbour ; .Mrs. Cecil Wallmgfcird romplained that her grapes were
n«»t so fine ns they had lK»en ; ami the clergyman calh'<l on«- morning to
reprimand her hn<ibniui for being absent from Sabbath worship. Agnes
witnes.sed the reproof, ami hoanl aUo — what nhocketl her still more —

164 woman's trials.

her Edward utter a decided falsehood as the cause. She knew that he
had gone with Hinton, under some pretext or other, two successive
Sundays to the next market-town ; and when he stated he had been
compelled, through the negligence of the under-gardener, to remain at
the Manor wliile he should have been at church, his wife's face was
suffused with the blush of shame, and she left their little sitting-room
with a sense of degradation both new and unsupportable to a mind like
hers. The bed-room to wliich she retired was at the back of the house,
and her child, who hourly improved in strength and beauty, was
sleeping calmly on the snowy coverlet. The open window was literally
curtained with roses and woodbine, through which the sunbeams could
not penetrate ; her fingers wandered amid their foliage, while her
tearful gaze was fixed upon her boy ; and she started as from a dream
when the clear merry laugh of Jessy rang upon her ear : it did
not harmonize with her feelings, and it was followed by words still
more painful.

" You need not be afraid to speak to me, Jessy ; your sister
is too much occupied with the parson to heed you just now ; and
I long for the time that will make you mine, and remove you from
her tyranny."

" Agnes is no tyrant, Harry," replied the maiden, " only a little
strict; and I wish you would let me tell her "

" What?" inquired Hinton, after waiting for some time the conclu-
sion of Jessy's speech — " What do you want to tell her? — that I'm
your lover? — why, silly lass, she knows that already !"

" Not that exactly, but—"

"But, what?"

*' I should like to tell her what you think of our laws, and of the
rights of men and women ; and about that good gentleman in London,
who proves we are all equal, and — "

" That you have as good a right to wear satin and gold, and ride in
a coach, as Mrs. Cecil Wallingford Iierself; but Agnes would not believe
you, Jessy ; her mind is not comprehensive like yours."

" O, Harry — Harry!" exclaimed the thoughtless girl, at the con-
clusion of her lover's speech ; " how nice I should look in white satin

THE MOSSriTS. 1G5

and French curls ! It is very hard tliat Agnes will persist in making
me band my hair like a Methodist ; but I cannot think I have as good
a right to ride in a coach as Mrs. Wallingford ; because, you know, all
her relations keep carriages — and — mine — "

The sentence was left unfinished; but Hinton soon satisfied her
scruples, as to Mrs. Cecil Wallingford and the carriage, by an encomium
on her beauty, a reiterated assurance of wiiat he termed love, and a
present, which, first having received — secondly, having admired —
thirdly, and lastly, she did not know what to do with.

" I don't think Agnes would let me wear such a beautiful brooch ;
and I am sure she would not permit me to take a present from
you, Harry."

•' You need not say anything about it."

" But Agnes might see it."

♦' Then tell her you found it ! "

Breathlessly did Agnes Iloskins wait for the reply, but she heard
it not — the lovers had passed the window and walked on. Almost
on the instant her husband entered the room, with an air of boisterous
gaiety, and, as if he had quite forgotten the clergyman's visit, rallied
his wife ujwn the seriousness of her looks. She felt too much, and
too deeply, to reply even with her usual smile. lie took no notice
of her change of manner — probably from a wish to avoid a recurrence
In what he knew must have given her much pain — but fondled and
kissed his child, and, taking it in his arms, was leaving the apartment,
when Jessy quickly passed the door. " Stay, I'.dward ; sisier, come
here!" exclaimed .Agnes. Jessy did come, with a flushed clii-tk and
a downcast eye.

" NN hat have you this moment put into your bosom'" in<piired
AgncH ! adding, without waiting for a ripiv, " I will not induce you
to utter the falsehood y«)U have been directed to — where is the l)ro«ch
that young llinton gave you but now under this window ? You
trembli — you turn pale : Ji-ssy, my sister Jessy I — when you crouchecl
iN'sidu the heniher nnd the hnrebell at our father's feet, while the sun
was sinking amiil the hills of our own Scotland — there, at the cottage
door, when our nerd parent taught you to lift up your then innm'ent

166 vvoman's trials.

hands to the Ahnighty in prayer and praise — 1 little thought you would
liave so soon forgotten his precepts ! "

The thoughtless girl burst into tears, and Edward, whose good
nature was an active not a passive quality, kindly took her hand, and
looking at his wife — " Do not be so angry, Agnes, at her receiving
a love-token ; Harry meant no harm— that I'll answer for ; surely
if he is to be her husband — "

" Her husband ? " repeated Agnes, with an energy that startled
both Edward and Jessy ; — " the husband of Jessy Grey ! I would
rather shroud her for her coffin than see her married to a man devoid
of religious and moral principle."

" You are strangely prejudiced against poor Harry, and a thousand
times more Methodistical than ever, Agnes," observed her husband.

" I am not Methodistical, Edward — 1 am not changed — it is you
who think differently ; and, as the change has marred our happiness,
you cannot wonder at ray disliking him who has wrought it. You
were independent, industrious, and happy: you now talk of the wealth
of your superiors ; you say it is wrong for them to possess so much,
and yet you covet more; Edward, now you seldom smile — or smile
so that I would almost rather see you weep ; if you attend the village
church your eyes and mind wander from your devotions, and you
rejoice at the conclusion of the service. The flowers in our gar-
den are neglected — "

"Stop, Agnes!" interrupted Hoskins, "you have lectured me
pretty sharply, I think, for nothing ; have I ever suffered you to
want? — have I ever treated you unkindly ?"

" O, no ! — no, Edward, not unkindly — not that yet."

" And never will, my own Agnes ! I will be more with you, and
sliow you how much you have wronged me, and Jessy too, by these
misunderstandings."

" I will speak to my sister apart, Edward ; give her the infant —
there, Jessy, do not weep."

Jessy left the room in tears. " Now, in truth, Agnes," said
Hoskins, when the door was closed, " your prejudices are amazing
to me ; there is not a better-hearted fellow in the world than Harry,

THK MOSSPITS. 167

or a more clever — I own that he thinks a little too freely, and you
women don't understand that: the people are improving."

" Would," ejaculated Agnes, "that they felt Christianity to be their
best legacy, and iniierited the virtue of their ancestors !"

" The very thing Harry says : he vows the landlords grow worse
and worse ; and unless the people take them in hand there'll be no
end to their tyranny."

" Did you ever experience any tyranny, Edward ?"

" Never, Agnes."

•' Did Hinton?"

" No — but yes he did, poor fellow, and that no later than last
week. 'Sfpiire Nicol's fox-hounds and the whole hunt went right
through his barley ; but tliat is not the worst of it — when he lived
near Chester, his sister ran off, witli and was deserted by, his landlord's
eldest son."

" I am not surprised at that," replied Agnes, coolly, " if he in-
structed his sister in the principles of ^(piality and rights of wonuii.
She only practised what hr preached."

Agnes then proceeded to state to inr luishand the conversation
that iiad passed between Jessy and Harry Ilinton; in natural but
forcible colours she portrayed the ilanger of his jirinciples, aided l)y
hiH insinuating manners, and concluded with a retpiest that I'.dward
would at once relinquish so djngert>us an ac(piaintance. Iloskins was
much shocked at the idea that Ilinton should have i)reathed such
notions into the ear of the innocent girl, wliom he loved with all the
wannth of brotherly affection ; lie promised his wife that In- woidd
Hpe.'ik Hcriously to him on the sul>ject, .ind unite with her in endeavour-
ing to lireak off bis connexion with Jessy C>rey, wlxuu Agiu>s tleclared
•he wnuhl nend on n visit to an ageil relative of her friend Mrs. .Middle-
ton, who «lwelt near the Scottish lM)rder.

" I think your |>lan in best ; absence and tunc will soon put hue
out of brr bead," obnerved Kd^nrd.

" It may do so, nnd I hope it most fervently," was the wifc'!«
repiv -and ng.Tiii "•In- entnali il Iht Imsbaiiil, i\rii «itli tears, to avoid
I linton.

168 woman's trials.

" I promise you faithfully so much, Agnes ; but circumstances,
wliich I cannot explain, will oblige me to see him occasionally ; in
fact, I am in his secrets, and it would be ungenerous to desert him
when I know my friendship is of value to him ; he may judge wrongly,
at times ; but I know him to be both as clever, and as good-hearted
a fellow as ever lived."

Agnes shook her head, unbelievingly ; but pleased at having, as
she hoped, lessened his influence over her husband, and resolved upon
a plan of action with her sister, she for a time forebore any allusion to
what at first so bitterly grieved her — Edward's deviation from truth.

Heavy were the tears of Jessy when told that she must leave
Mosspils for a season, and her sister refused to tell her destination.
Once, and once only, did Harry Hinton speak on the subject to
Edward Hoskins ! But Edward firmly told him in that matter he
would not interfere ; Jessy was his wife's sister, and consequently
Agnes had the best right to determine how she was to be situated.
" My wife says," he continued, " that when Jessy comes of age she
may do as she pleases, but till then she will act towards her as her
father would have done had he lived till now."

Hinton made no reply, and turned moodily away, muttering curses,
not loud, but deep. Agnes, almost immediately after, journeyed to
London, and placed Jessy under the care of a respectable female of
her acquaintance who was going to Berwick. It was not without
many tears that the sisters parted; tears of reproachfulness and sorrow
on the one side, and of affection and anxiety on the other. When
Agnes returned, in the evening, to her cottage, she felt it very desolate ;
a strange girl, whom she had hired for the purpose, was nursing her
little boy. No Jessy's light step and gay smile welcomed her as in
former times ; and Edward was not at home — not come in — had not
been heme to dinner, nor to tea. She took the child in her arms, and
seated herself on a little mound in the meadow that overlooked the
high road; it was early in autumn, and troops of merry reapers passed
from time to time, beguiling the way with song and noisy laughter ;
her boy sat on her knee, twisting the tough stems of the corn-flowers
into what he lispingly called " posy," and, ever and anon, pointing,

THE MOSSPITS. 169

with infant wonder, at the happy groups hasteninrr to tlieir quiet homes.
Gradually, the passengers became fewer in number, the voices died
away upon the hill, one by one the stars came forth in the bhie
heavens, and no note, save the creaking of the rail, disturbed the
tranquilhly that was covering tlie earth as with a mantle. The
Mosspit cottages, nesting in their little dell, looked the very abode
of cheerfulness ; the lights twinkled from two or three of the small-
paned windows, showing that the dames within were busy with their
small housewifery. The eyes of Agnes had rested for some moments
upon the scene, when her boy's gestures drew her attention towards
the road. She was somewhat surprised at observing a woman, whose
tattered dress and red cloak gave her the appearance of a gipsy,
forcing her way through the hedge, and approaching her at an uneven
but hurried pace. If she had been struck by her boldness, her atten-
tion vvas riveted by the expression of her wild and restless eye, which
both watched and wandered. She appeared young, and, perhaps,
under other circumstances, might have been called pretty; her figure
was slight, and her hair, of a light auburn, fell in profuse but im-
arranged tresses over her face. She was without shoes, and the
blood streamed from a wound in her foot so as to attract the notice
of the little boy, who pointed to it with one hand, while he wound his
arm tightly round his mother's neck.

" You did wrong to trespass, young woman," said Agnes, mildly,
while the stranger stood gazing upon her with a peculiar and bewil-
dered look — *' you did wrong to trespass — but you have been sufliciently
punished: wrap this handkerchief round your foot, and if you will follow
me to the cottage I will give you a pair of old shoes to protect you."

The woman did not accept the oflTered handkerchief; but, still
staring at .Mm. Iloskins, who had risen from her grassy seat, at last
taid, " Do you want your fortune told ?"

"No;" replied Agnes, "and, false- an the art is, you liavi- no
pntrnsion to it — you are not oven a gipsy."

" You nay truly," replied the girl ; I am not a gipsy ; and yet I
could tell much that will happen to you — you must be the married one
— where'* the other ?"

170 woman's trials.

** If you mean my sister," replied Agnes, " she has left England."

*' Left England ! — left England ! " repeated the young woman,
jumping and clapping her hands — "gone away from" — then suddenly
changing the joyful tone in which she had spoken, added — " But not
of her own accord — not of her own accord — no girl would leave hbn
of her own accord."

Agnes looked upon her with astonishment, and the suspicion that
the poor wanderer was a maniac occurred so forcibly to her mind, that
she held her child closely to her bosom, and commenced returning to
the Mosspits.

" Stop, Agnes Hoskins, stop ! — you sent her away, and T would
bless you if I knew how — but I cannot remember the words." She
paused, pressed her soiled but delicate fingers to her brow, and sighed
so deeply that Mrs. Hoskins could not have said an unkind word to
her for worlds.

"He will be returning soon!" exclaimed the girl, at last, in a
hurried tone ; " but do you look to your husband — may-be you love
him ; and it is very sad, as the song says —

' To love — and love for ever,'

and then to find your lover go away just like the down off the thistle —
and may-be for as light a breath ! Well, keep him from Harry, or the
curse will overshadow you ; for I was as blithe and as happy as a
nightingale till I kept his company — not but what I'm gay enough
still — only 1 don't ever feel peacefid here (laying her hand on her
heart) — yes, Jane is gay enough still, and does his bidding, too, as
well as if he loved her ; only T must not tell, because it would get
Harry into trouble, that I dance round the burning ricks." Slie
approached closely to Mrs. Hoskins while uttering the last sentence,
which she pronounced slowly, and in .in mider-tone.

An allusion to a circumstance that had excited so much terror
throughout tlie country, and made every one look with alarm to his
own homestead, caused an involuntary shudder to pass over the frame
of Agnes. The wild girl shrieked, and clapped her hands on her
mouth ; then, without uttering another sentence, retreated rapidly

across the meadow. She had not, however, reached tlie spot where
she entered, ere she retraced her steps witli visible agitation.

" They are coming," said she, " and if he sees me here he will
murder me outright ; do — do, just let me hide in your house till he
goes to his own, and then I can go — for it will be dark, dark night,
then."

The poor creature trembled from head to foot, and, before Agnes
had time to reply, had not only established herself in the cottage, but
coiled herself into an inconceivably small space in a cupboard that
opened into the little passage. Edward Hoskins and Harry Ilinton
were soon upon the green that fronted the cottage, and the Hushed
cheek and loud laughter of her husband told Agnes, but too plainly,
he was intoxicated. Her first feeling was that of anger and disgust —
her second brought the excuse, " it is not often thus with him ;"
though she could not but acknowledge, what every woman so circum-
stanced must fctl, that each time she so beholds her husband must
lessen her respect — and, without that, woman's love for man is of little
worth.

"Will, Agnes — pale, pensive, as usual!" he exclaimed, as, not-
withstanding his situation, she liad advanced to the door to meet him :
" Won't you wish Harry good-night.

" I am always to suffer in Mrs. Hoskins's opinion, I fear, although
I hurried her Inisband home. Wc saw some gipsies about, and I said
they might frighten you" — he added, drawing nearly to tlu' threshold
•)f (lie door, and peering into her face with his small grey eyr, which
she used to characterize as " cold," but which now appeared illumined
by some secret fire — *' did not you si-e any ?"

"No;" replied Agnes, without shrinking from his ga/e ; "many
ptTHuns passed on their way, but I did not recognise any as gipsies."
Her s<-ir-pos.ne>i!(i(>n, doubtlcHs, disarmed the querist — for, wishing her
courteou!«ly goo«l night, he entered his cottage, and Heemed determined
to NJuit out intrudem, by carefully barring doom and windows.

"So you navr poor Jetwy <»fr, my love?" exclaimt-d Hoskins,
throwing himself on the chairs that sIcmmI near the table. " l)<m'l,
for Heaven's sake, look «o calm and quiet — I know what you think —

172 woman's trials.

but I ain sober — not quite cool, perhaps — but sober — sober as a judge.
Why shoulthi't I be a judge? Well, if I'm not wise enough for a judge,
you are for a judgess — though you are not always right; now you
were wrong about Hinton, for he'd have made a good husband for
Jessy — only, as I said, she's your sister, not mine ; so you've had your
own way — banished your sister, and smashed that poor fellow's heart
all to pieces. But the coach must have come very quickly ; I did not
think you could have been home these two hours. Give me the boy,
Agnes, I have not had a kiss from either of you since I returned."

Agnes held the child towards him, but — whether it was that the
little fellow retained a remembrance of the bleeding foot and the red
cloak, or that he felt the natural antipathy of childhood to the smell of
spirits, cannot be determined — he shrunk from his father and hid his
face on his mother's bosom. Edward grew angry, and forcibly disen-
gaged the boy, who screamed more loudly, " mamma — mamma !"

" Take the brat 1" ejaculated the father, with an oath, at the same
moment throwing him with violence to Agnes — " take the brat ; but I
tell you that, whatever you may do, my own child sha'n't thwart me ;
this is what comes of its having an aristocratic god-mother ; it already
thinks my hands too rough to hold it, I suppose !"

A silly woman — nay, a woman with a moderate share of good
sense, as it is called — would have replied to this, and high words
would have ensued, and seeds of bitterness therewith been sown :
but Agnes was a superior woman ; so, without uttering a syllable,
without suffering an unkind word or gesture to escape, she took the
screaming infant out of the room, gave it into the arms of the little
serving-maiden, and, having wiped those eyes to which unbidden tears
had started, and offered up a silent but fervent prayer to the throne
of God for wisdom to form and strength to persist in her good
resolves, she returned to prepare her husband's supper with her
own hands.

When Agnes had seen Edward to bed, she went to seek the poor
wanderer, who had slieltered in the cupboard ; but the girl was gone —
how, it was difficult to conjecture, unless she had let herself down
from the bed-room window, which appeared partially open. It must

THE MOSSPITS. 173

not l)e supposed that Agnes was one of those women who "humour"
a husband in his faults, asserting, with a mock amiability (the sincerity
of which may be always doubted) that they '* have no right to oppose
him in his little ways." A woman possessing a great and well-culti-
vated mind will be anxious that her husband shall both be, and appear,
perfection, and she will watch lor a fitting ojjportunity to point out,
wit!) gentleness and humility, whatever his better judgment, if exer-
cised, woidd also declare wrong. Agnes knew it was not wlun he
was intoxicated, that she ought to say a word calculated to add fuel to
the flame, but her resolution was not less decidedly taken to combat,
with all her gentle strength, the growing evil.

The next morning Edward was very penitent ; and for an entire

week there was no recurrence of the same fault ; but the evil did

continue ; and, with anguish which only a wife so circumstanced can

feel or understand, Agnes saw that her influence and happiness were

both decaying ; the serpent-coil was round her husband, and each

day added to its closeness and to its strength ; she prayed, she wept,

she entreated ; and sometimes Edward himself would seem bitterly

to feel Iiis weakness and vow tojamend it; but Hinton had attained

that connnand over him which the powerful mind possesses over the

weaker ; and his duty, his business, wvrv neglected, for tiie society of

him he termed his friend. Mrs. Cecil Wallingford called herself upon

Agnes, and told in r that unless ICdward paid more attention to lur

aflairs, however miwillingly, she should be obliged to procure some

one else to act as steward and gardener. The sulliring \Nife assured

the lady she would do her utmost to correct his habits, of which she

refrained from compl.iining. Mrs. Wallingford, to say the truth, felt

■incorc sorrow for the looks of her proteg«'e, and said many kind an«l

complimentary things to Agnes on the extreme beauty of the bud,

which Heeme«l to increase in size ami l<»vrliness in jiroportioii to tlie

fading of the parent flowrr.

.Mr». Wnllingford had hartlly dcparteil whrn .\gius received the

folloMring letter: —

•' Berwick. Not. 23.

" My dkar Eriknd, — It i.n with very nincerc »orr<»w I inform you,

174 woman's trials.

that last night, without any reason that I can discover, your sister left
my house ; and all attempts to trace her, during the day, have been
inefFectual. Lately, she manifested great uneasiness and restlessness
of disposition, which I tried in vain to combat. Perhaps she has
returned to you ; let me hear immediately ; and, praying to the
Almighty to preserve you and yours in peace and happiness,

'* Believe me your truly affectionate,

"T. MiDDLETON."

Agnes sat, with the open letter in her hand, more like a thing of marble
than a breathing creature ; and when her husband came in she pre-
sented it to him, and covering her face with her hands, wept long and
bitterly.

" Hinton knows of this, Edward," she said at last, " and must be
spoken to on the subject."

" Hinton knows no more of it than you do ; how could he ? To
my certain knowledge he has never been one day or night from home
since she left, and how could he get to Berwick and back in that time,
think you ? Poor Jessy ! it would have been better she had married
Hinton than ran off with no one knows who; indeed, Agnes, you were
wrong in sending her from us ; but troubles never come alone — the
last frost has got into the pinery, and Mrs. Cecil Wallingford says
it's my fault ; tliat proud lady must alter her tone, or she'll get served
out like her neighbours — there are ways of bringing fine people down
— Mr. Flyliill's barns and kennel were burned last night.

"What awful times!" ejaculated Agnes; "but I know you better,
Edward, than to believe you would ever approve of such dreadful
doings ; you know your duty to your God, your country, and your
neighbour ; and nothing, I am sure, would ever induce you to act
contrary to it. But as to Hinton, I believe he is engaged in these
horrid acts — nay, Edward, you cannot deceive me ; 1 have combated
your extraordinary infatuation in his favour by every means in my
power — you will not hear me, Edward ; you are deaf and blind as
regards that evil man ; and nothing now is left for me, but to weep
and pray in solitude and silence — to pray for you, my own dear and

THE MOSSPITS. 175

beloved husband, that God may lead you to see the error of your ways,
and conduct you ajjain into the right path!"

Edward kissed her brow, as it rested on her hands, in silence, and
almost with the love of by-gone days. That religion which he had
once considered her brightest ornament, he now called " the weak
point of her character," and thought he was doing what was very
praiseworthy in bearing with it so quietly. lie immediately wrote to
some friends in Scotland, about Jessy, and applied to the nearest
magistrate to know what means it would be necessary to adopt to
trace out the lost and unfortunate girl. Iliiiton protested he knew
nothing of the matter — swore by all that was sacred he had never
heard from lier since she left the Mosspits — l)ut faikd in convincing
Agnes of the truth of one word he uttered.

" You have studied the character of St. Thomas, at all events,"
said her husband, in a sneering tone, "and taken a lesson in unbelief"
" If I could find out what it is that Hinton believes in, and he
would swear by it, then I might believe him," replied Agnes, mildly.

Day after day, week after week, passed, and no tidings came of
the lost Jessy. .Much did .Agnes wish that the wandering girl, whose
mystrrious prophecy seemed rapidly fulfilling, would again flit across
her path ; and often did she watch the highway, hoping yet dreading
that the tattered cloak and light form of the strange being might i.ssue
from it towards the Mosspits. Although Edward was more and more
cstrangejl from his home, he thought it necessary to apologize occa-
sionally to Agnes for his ab.sence : ill at ease with himself, he could
not be expected to be kindly towards others; and she felt how very
bitter it is to b*- ol)ligcd to take the cold leaden coin of civility, in
lieu of the pure and glowing gold of warm alfection. It is utterly
impoHitible to describe liow the alteration in a rherishrd and b»doved
object affiTt-i her who loves more fon«lly and fervently, arter years of
iiiiifm, than she did when, like the most admirable of Sliakspe.-ire's
luTciincji, she bestowed hcrnelf at the holy altar »■> ilw- mw being almost
of 111 r idol.itrv, winliing —

" Thm oN/y lo aland hiffh on hit arrniint
•SAo miRht in tirliir*, bcnutica, UTingn, fririid*,
Elcvrd account."

176 woman's trials.

How quickly does the ear note if the voice be not as tender as in
former days! To father — mother — friends — all may seem unchanged;
but the wife, who has dwelt upon every look — who knows, as it were,
even the number of rays which the beloved eye throws forth — painfully
sees and feels the difference. The words, perchance, may be as kind ;
but their tone is altered. What boots it to her if the universe views
her with admiration — if the wealth of nations be piled at her feet! He
is changed! That consciousness is the sword which, hanging by a
single hair, threatens, sooner or later, her destruction, and prevents her
enjoying any earthly happiness or repose. Not only Edward, however,
but circumstances, were also altering at the Mosspits. The disturbed
state of the country made each person suspicious of the other ; and, as
the winter advanced, so did distress progress. In the neighbouring
districts workmen of all trades had refused to take employment
witliout increased wages : not a night passed but cattle were destroyed,
or outhouses, and in some instances dwellings, burned to the ground.
Landlords knew not which of their tenants to confide in ; and the
misery was increased by soldiers being frequently distributed and
stationed where the people absolutely lacked the means of supporting
themselves. It was pretty generally rumoured tliat Hinton was
concerned in these transactions, thougli no one exactly knew how.
He was the principal leader of a debating-society in Mondrich, which
had the misfortune to attract the attention of the magistrate, who
sought to put it down perhaps by measures that might have been called
violent. He succeeded ; and it formed a most desirable theme for the
disaffected to dwell upon. Hoskins grumbled incessantly at the
" illegal " proceedings ; and Agnes combated his arguments, or rather
his opinions, in vain. Christmas, that trysting-time which generally
brings an interchange of kindness and social feeling among all classes
of society, had come ; and a little episode, that occurred at Mosspits,
will at once show the state of feeling of both husband and wife. They
had been in the habit of exchanging presents, during preceding years,
on Christmas-day, each anxious to surprise the other with some
peculiar gift. Christmas eve, Edward did not return until the village
clock had chimed eleven, and then he w^nt sullenly to bed, without

THE MOSSPITS. 177

heeding the httle preparations that Agnes was making for the ap-
proaching festival. Slie was alone ; for, finding that her husband's
iiabits prevented him from bringing home tlie produce of his earnings,
she had wisely parted with her little servant, considering it was better
to labour with her own hands than to incur debt. " And," said she,
meekly, when communinj; with her own thoughts, " if he will be
extravagant, the more necessity is there for my being economical."

Iloskins was awakened the next morning by the sweet kisses of his
boy, while his wife, leaning over his bedside, prayed that he might
enjoy many happy returns of that holy day.

" Say ne, Agnes," interrupted Edward, " say we. God knows,
whatever happiness I enjoy, ijun ought to share ; for I make you
miserable enough at times. Will you forgive me?''

The words were spoken in the tone that Agnes so loved, and,
unable to sustain her feelings, she flung herself upon her husband's
bosom, and burst into tears.

When Edward, dressed in his best suit, was preparing to go to the
Manor, his wife laid her hand on liis arm, and, encouraged by his
kindness, in the gentlest manner requested him to read one, only one,
chapter to her, before he went out — it would not take him five
minutes. He complied with a tolerable grace ; and, wiien he finished,
she look a small heart-shaped brooch from her bosom, and, telling
him that it contained their child's hair, fastened it in his shirt.

" You did not forget, Agnes, though I did," said he; " Itut I will
bring you something from .Mondrich, wlii-re I must go after I leave
the .Manor; and I will be liack to diimer at two, and remain with you
all tiie evening."

Edward returned at the appointed time, but a cloud was on his
brow ; hr hartlly partook of the diniUT she had prepared, and had
forgotten the customary token. .Xs the evening w.is closing over a
cold and iinowy l.-iridsca]H>, " Agnes," he saiti, " I mtist go : I thought I
could have »p«nt all this «lay with yoii, liut something has occurred
which must present it. I wdl, however, return early. an«l do more
justice to your excellent cheer at supper, than I have been able to do
at dinner."

178 woman's trials.

Never had his wife felt it so difficult to part from him. She
requested, entreated ; and for a long time his child clasped its hands
round his neck, and hung by his knees even as he approached the door.
His departing footsteps smote heavily on the heart of the affectionate
Agnes, and, as the last echo died upon her ear, she wept.

When eight o'clock came she looked from the window ; but the fosr
was so intense that she could see nothing save the fantastic boughs of
the old oak, looking more like deepened shadows of darkness than
separate or distinct objects. The song and cheerful laugh rang from
two of the neighbouring cottages ; and at a third there was an assembly
of dancing rustics. Agnes thought it was the first time the happiness
of others had increased her misery, and she blamed herself for the
selfish feeling. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve! — Christmas-day had ended,
the revellers had sought their homes, and no sound was heard save the
rushing of the storm amid the branches, whose outlines were now lost
in midnight obscurity. It would seem that the ancient of days sturdily
withstood the tempest, and groaned heavily from the exertion ; the old
rooks, who had made it their habitation for ages, cawed their complain-
ings whenever the sweeping of the mighty blast passed on, as if to
remonstrate with the mysterious power that disturbed their repose.
She stood at the little window, and pressed her forehead against the
glass, that its coolness might be imparted to her burning brow.
Suddenly she thought she perceived streaks of light, or rather (so
deeply coloured were they) of flame, intersecting the darkness, and
gradually illuminating the distant sky. Before she had time to draw
any conclusion from so singular an appearance, she started back with
horror on observing, so close that she almost fancied it touched her
clieek, a thin, shadowy hand, with tlie forefinger curved, as if
beckoning her forward. Despite her self-possession, she trembled
violently, and could hardly prevent herself from shrieking aloud, when
she saw distinctly a white, ghastly face pressed to the glass that
separated her from this untimely visiter. A sort of hissing and
exulting wl)isper now came upon her ear. " Don't you know me,
Agnes Hoskins ? — don't you remember Lady Jane? Come, come with
me, and see how bright the Manor is this gay Christmas night ! "

THE MOSSPITS. 179

A horrid suspicion — too horrid to be entertained — flashed across her
mind, as Agnes undid tlie door ; and, before the half-crazed girl entered,
slie had sunk upon a chair, and with difficulty retained her seat. For
a few inoinents she couhl not think ; and the half-maniac, with that
feeling of sympathy wliich rarely deserts a woman, looked mournfully
into her face. At length her eye rested on a flagon of elderberry-wine
that stood upon a table with the untasted supper ; she poured out a
large glass of it, and, curtseying with mock solemnity to the trembling
Agnes, said, before she drank it off, " Health to you, my lady, and a
merry Christmas! — a cellar full, a byre full, and plenty of faggots!
See, see ! they blaze — tliey blaze ! " she continued, pointing to the sky,
that was reddening higher and higher. " Come witli me, and I'll till
you as we go how that will be the last fire Harry will light for many a
day! He must have other darlings indeed! — but notv he can have
only me, for none of his dainty dames will follow him into strange
lands — none but poor Jane I The police have him by this time,
and Hoskins too; so you'd better go and bring them ail home
to supper! "

** Woman ! " exclaimed Agnes, springing as in mortal agony from
her chair, "what do you say? — Hoskins — my Edward — my husband
there — at the burning of Wallingford Manor!" She seized the girl
fiercely by the arm, but suddtnly her grasp relaxed, and she fell still'
and cold to the earth. How long she remained there she knew not;
but, when she recovered, her frame filt paralyzed, the air was bitter
and piercing, the light was extinguished, and all nround was utterly,
utterly desolate. It was some time ere she was restored to the recol-
lection of what she had heard, and it was still longer before slie
recovered sufliciently to be able to move, or settle upon any plan of
action. The very ticking of the clock — that gi-ntle, donustie souiul —
ntnick heavily and painfidly upon her l)rain ; and, wh«-n it gave warning
that another hour had pasxed into eternity, she could hardly believe the
sense wan correct which counted four. She endeavouretl to compose
her mind by nupplicntion, and the Lord's I'raycr occurred to Iter at
once. She repented the wor*!;*, untd »he arrived nt the sentence —
" Deliver us from evil," when the full consciousness of the evil

180 woman's trials.

tliat was suspended over them prevented her finishing the holy and
beautiful intercession. She arose from her knees, and groped about
until she procured a light. She then endeavoured to arrange her
plans. Her very soul recoiled from the dreadful idea that Hoskins
had anything to do at the burning which had but a little while
past streaked the sky with tokens of the wickedness of man. The
heavens were still as intensely black as when first she had pressed
her burning brow against the small panes of the cottage-window,
and looked earnestly and hopefully for him with whom her heart
perpetually dwelt.

While she paused, and paused, she heard the sound of distant
voices ; footsteps approached — not her husband's. Her breadi came
short and thick, and, instead of passing from between her imclosed
lips, seemed to encrust itself upon her tongue, and forbid the power of
utterance. Men — strangers, entered ; one she had seen — known — the
sergeant of police. He respectfully removed his hat, " hoped that
Mrs. Hoskins would forgive him for doing his duty." If her life
had depended on it, she could not speak ; but she looked into his face
with so despairing, so imploring a gaze, that the man turned from her,
with more emotion than could be expected from one who had often
witnessed distress in many forms. When at last she was enabled to
ask a few questions, the answers she received confirmed her worst
fears. " The out-offices of Wallingford Manor had been set on fire ;
Hoskins, Hinton, and a pedlar of the name of Paul Dodder, had been
found on the spot; and," added the man, " the Manor itself must
have been consumed had we not received intimation immediately after
the fire was kindled — long before there was any appearance to indicate
such rapid destruction."

The party then proceeded to search the cottage, but found nothing
which they considered necessary to remove. " Matters may turn out
better than you think for," said the man kindly. " Can I take any
message to your husband ? — it may comfort him, for he seemed sadly
put out — stupified like."

" I will go ! — no — my child — I will — I must wait till morning \
Tell him — my blessing — and I will be with him to-morrow. I shall

THE MOSSPITS. 181

find him, I suppose, in the — " Goal, she would have said, but cuuld
not utter the hateful word.

The man understood her, and replied " Yes," — the monosyllable of
hope, but, in this instance, the herald of despair. They then departed,
and went to Hinton's dwelling, where they remained much longer.
The sergeant, with real good feeling, knocked at the door of a
respectable resident at Mosspits, whom hi' kn< w was esteemed by
Agnes — told her the circumstances — and the woman needed no further
intimation to hasten to one whom she both loved and respected.

When she entered the cottage, Agnes was weeping bitterly over
her unconscious boy, who, despite her loud sobbings, slept as calmly
as if the very breath of happiness had hushed his slun)bers. She
extended her hand to Mrs. Lee, and said, in broken and hardly
audible tones, "They will point at tliat innocent child whin we are
both dead, and call him, in bitter mockery, the orphan of the house-
burner! And who has brought this bitterness upon us? Pray for me,
Mrs, Lei', pray for me! — I cannot pray for myself now! Oh, that
God in his mercy had left us childless, and then I might have borne it!
Wicked that I anj ! Will he not Iw, ]>erhaps, the only thing on earth
left me to love, wlu-n — when — " She pressed her hands firmly on
hrr temples, and her friend almost feared that the violence of her
grief would destroy her reason. Tlie feelings that had long l)een pent
tip within hrr Ixjsoin Iiad at last foun<l vent both in words and tears,
and before nine o'clock she had Apparently regained much of her
usual serenity. She dressed lur child, who addid tmconsciously to
her misery by perpetually inquiring for " paj)n," .nnd placing a ctip
and chair for liiin l)ifore tlu- untastcd breakfast, she then siim-
inoned resolution to change her dress; and, tving a cottage-bonnet
closely over her fare, j)rocee(le(! with a sorrowing heart towards
Miindrirh.

•Mrs. Lee kindly t«H)k chargi' of the iitlh- l)i>y ; and, to do justice
to the inhal)ilant.H of the cottages, not one Ixit Habitnl In r kiinllv .-ttid
renpcctfully an iihe pasvd.

" I*(K)r thing!" naiil Mrs. I^-e. " she ban borne a great deal lately;
■he l(M)ki ten yearn older than »be did this time twelvemonths."

** I am truly sorry for her," responded Miss Nancy Carter, famous
for clear-starching and scandal, who had come on purpose to Mosspits
to find out, as she expressed it, "the truth of every thing." "I'm
truly sorry for her ; but she always carried her head very high, as if
she were better than a servant, forsooth ! I'm very sorry for her, for
all that ! "

" So you ought to be, Miss Nancy, for she sent you plenty of
black-currant jelly when you had a sore throat, last winter," observed
Mrs. Lee.

"Do you think poor Hoskins will get off with transportation?"
persisted Nancy.

" I could never think him guilty of setting fire to Wallingford
Manor, for one," replied the kind-hearted Mrs. Lee. " He was on
the spot, I suppose, or they could not have taken him there ; but I am
certain it was to save, not to destroy."

" Well, time will tell," said the gossip, who, finding that Mrs. Lee
was charitably given, thought she would seek some " kindred soul "
with which to communicate : "Time will tell; — only what did he want
with seven fire brands, tied in red tape, a cask of powder, and three
mould candles? You may smile if you please, Mrs. Lee, but it's true,
every word of it ! Three mould candles, with the ends scorched, and
a quarter of a pound of wax-ends ! I had it from the very best
authority, for I'd scorn to say anything without a good foundation ! "
and off walked Miss Nancy Carter.

It would be impossible to describe the feelings with which Agnes
entered that abode of misery — a county gaol. Snow and ice had
accumulated in a little court she had to cross, to such a degree, that
she could hardly extricate her feet from the humid mass. As the
rusty key turned in its lock, she clung to the slimy walls for support ;
and, when the door was thrown open, she had scarcely power to crawl
into the dismal cell wliere her husband was confined. Hoskins sat
upon a low bed, which evidently had not been discomposed, his elbows
resting upon his knees, and his face buried in his hands. Agnes could
not speak, but she sat down by his side, and, passing her arm round
his neck, endeavoured to draw his head so as to rest it on her bosom.

THE MOSSPITS. 183

He slirank iVom the toudi, and a low and bitter groan was tlie only
reply to her caresses.

*' Keep a good heart, measter," said the gaoler, " keep a good
heart, and it may all go well. Bless ye ! Measter Hinton doesn't get
on so, but has taken something to keep life in him."

No answer was returned to this consolatory speech, and the man
left them, observing that they must not remain more than two hours
together.

Not many, but kind and tranquillizing, were the words which this
admirable woman breathed into her husband's car. Slie kissed his
cold and clammy hands, and tried, though in vain, to prevail upon
him to taste of the refreshments she had not for<iotten to bring with
her. For a length of time she obtained no word from his lips ; and
at last she sat silently gazing on him — as the mariner who looks upon
a rock close to his native home, where he sported in infancy, and
formed his plans of future greatness, but which, on his return from a
long and prosperous voyage, with the harbour in view, had wrecked
his vessel, and consigned his all to destruction! Silence is the nurse
of sorrow ; Agnes would have given worlds to have heard the sound
of his voice ; and, when at last he did speak, its tone was so fearfully
changed — so hollow, so agonized — that she could hardly believe it to
be that of her own Edward.

" I deserve this, anil worse, Agnes," he said, " for I have cast the
blessing of the Alniighiy far from me. And you, who ought to curse
me, to find you thus I Do not touch me, Agnes I I could bear vour
reproaches; but your kindness scorches my very heart. ^ t t, Agnes,
I solemnly call (mmI to witness, that I am innocent of any participation
in the burning at Wjillingford .Manor. I f.innot now «lw«ll upon it ;
but, n» you have borne much, bear yet a little more — bear with my
•ilence ; but believe me innocent of any j)articipation in that crime.
However I niny Jw otherwi?«e guilty — however dcsjjicable — I repeat
that I had nothing to do with tin- l)urMing nt Wallingford."

Ilow swri't and how n.ilurni it ih to believe in the innocence of
those we love! Although Agnes well rememberecl the fearful habit
of faNelKKMl which her liUHbnnd had contracted — although he had so

181 woman's trials.

often deceived her — yet she clung to tlie belief that he was guiltless,
and blessed God for it, as though it were an establislied fact in the
eyes of those judges before wl)om he was shortly to appear as a fet-
tered culprit, whose life only might appease the offended laws of his
country.

" Would to God it were come — that dreaded, dreadful day !" she
murmured, in her cottage-solitude.

It was now nearly three weeks since her first interview with her
husband ; a slow, consuming fever had been preying upon her strength,
and utterly prevented her using the smallest exertion, or crawling to
his prison. The kind neighbour, Mrs. Lee, undertook to visit him
daily, and to see that his wants were cared for ; the little boy was
often her companion.

" Thank God !" said his poor mother, kissing his rosy cheek,
" thank God he is too young to remember his father in a prison !
Were he even a year older, its memory might dwell upon his mind
and wither his young spirit within him."

It was early in the month of February, and still she had been
unable to reach Mondrich, although nearly every day the physician
described her as growing better. The clergyman's visits afforded
much consolation, particularly as he told her how completely and truly
penitent her husband was : this, with the assurance, repeated in every
communication she received from him, of his perfect innocence, made
her hope for the best, though how that innocence was to be proved
remained a mystery!

Mrs. Lee had taken her boy out one day, earlier than usual, to see
Mrs. Middleton ; and, as Agnes looked forth on the clear cold morn-
ing, slie fancied she felt stronger than she had been for a long time.
The crisp hoar-frost hung in fantastic forms on the young shoots of
the early budding trees. The robin hopped among the lower branches
of the oak, and, seeing the hand resting on the window where it had
been so often fed, flew to the sill, and fearlessly pecked the crumbs
she threw to her little dependent. The air, she thought, was almost
fragrant ; and, ere the casement was closed, she had resolved to exert
her strength, and walk as far as the stile that divided the Mondrich

THE MOSSPITS. ] 85

meadows. She sat for a few moments on the step; and, urged by the
eager desire again to see her liusband, after a little consideration,
determined to reach the town. She walked better than she antici-
pated ; and ftdt much pleasure at perceiving that now but one field
separated her from the turn that led directly to the prison. Suddenly
she became rooted to the earth ; her features assumed the rigidity and
colour of death ; and she cast off the bonnet, which had been tied on
so firmly, to catch every note of the awakening soimd that passed over
the town. .Again! — was it a dream? — or could it be really the
trumpet — the awful trumpet that heralds the approach of him who
is to sit in judgment on the crimes of his feiluw-beings !

" It is cornel — it is come!" she exclaimed, "the day — the very
hour of his trial, and they told me not of it ! Father of mercy ! " —
and as she spoke she sank on the ice-bound and crackling grass, and
stretched forth her attenuated arms towards heaven — " Father of
Mercy, remember mercy for the sake of thy blessed Son ! Mercy ! —
mercy ! — mercy ! Lord, this cup may not pass away ; but crush me
not utterly at this dreadful moment! Mercy ! — mercy! — O my God !"

The trumpet-sound had ceased, and tiie bustle of the county-court
subsided, when Agnes lioskins — her mantle shrouding her entire figure,
and its hood held closely round her face, glided, almost like a spectre,
into a corner nearest the dock, where the three prisoners stood arraigned
for trial. With tender care for the feelings of him she loved, she con-
cealed herself effectually from his sight; knowing that it woulil increase
his misery to see lier there. To the indictment they all pleaded " not
guilty ;" but Kdward lioskins laid his hand on his heart, and, looking
firmly in the judge's face, added, in a low, inipressive tone, " so help
me, (fo<l!" Tiie bearing of tiu- uuforttmatc culprits was strongly
contrnntrd : Paid Dodder's chin had sunk on his l)r('asl, nud he looked
down with the Nullin i-xpression of one who knew the w«)rst was come,
and cared not fur it. Ilnrry Iluiton had thrown back the light and
glowing rurU that crowded over bis brow, .ind his eye MeenuMi enlarged
by the bold front hr carried ; hia features wore high and regidar ; and
the unobserving wouhl have imagined that the firnuiess with which he
rei,'nrdod, an<l even nnalyzj'd, the rountcnances of his judges, little

2li

186 woman's trials.

betokened the hardihood of guilt. Edward Hoskins stood as a sor-
rowful and heart-stricken man — ashamed of his offences, yet confident
that he was not gnilty of this particular crime. His suit of solemn
black seemed still more dismal beside the smart blue coat and light
waistcoat in which his unabashed companion was arrayed. The first
person examined was the police-sergeant by whom the prisoners had
been taken into custody. The counsel for the crown, who, as usual,
scented the blood afar off, lost no opportunity, in his opening speech,
of stating the worst, and dwelt particularly on Hoskins's ingratitude to
Mrs. Cecil Wallingford ; while the counsel for the prisoners seemed
equally anxious to foil his brother, and, if possible, make a way for his
clients to escape.

The sergeant deposed to his finding Dodder and Hinton close to
the burning barn : the latter, when first he saw him, was on his knees,
in the very act of blowing the flame ; the other held a quantity of
combustibles (which he described), and was laying a train to commu-
nicate with the stables. Hoskins, he said, was near the spot, but
made no attempt to escape. This statement went so clearly against
the prisoners that the jury looked at each other, as much as to say,
" What need we of further witness ?" One of the police confirmed all
the other had stated ; and at every word they uttered Agnes felt her
heart beat slowly, and still more slowly, until, at last, she scarcely
breathed or lived.

" The case, my lord, against these unhappy men seems so fully
made out," said the counsel for the crown, addressing the bench, *' that
I need hardly trouble the court with the examination of other wit-
nesses ; unless, indeed, the jury require it."

" My lord," observed the prisoners' counsel, " I particularly wish
that a girl of the name of Jane Hoole be called up : much depends
upon her evidence."

" My learned brother has chosen a strange witness," replied the
senior barrister ; " I was anxious to spare the feelings of his clients ;
but, by all means, let Jane Hoole be brought forward."

All eyes were turned upon the wild fantastic girl who now ascended
the witness-box. Her rich golden hair had been curled and arranged

THE MOSSI'ITS. 187

with much attention ; her paHid checks were tinted by that fearful,
but beautiful, hue which too truly indicates consumption, and her deep
blue eyes were of a dazzling and wandering brightness ; her dress was
of faded silk, and a wide red sash girdled a figure of light and elegant
proportions. She seemed much terrified, and trembled violently.

" The prisoner, Ilinton, intimidates our witness, my lord," observed
the counsel ; and a shudder passed over those who saw the expression
with which he regarded the unfortunate victim of his wickedness.

" Let Henry Hinton stand down," said the judge. After a little
time the poor creature seemed at ease, and collected ; Agnes, who had
been roused by her appearance, thought she was a much more rational
being than she had imagined durin<j their former brief meetings.

*' You know the prisoners at the bar," commenced the counsel.

•' I do, sir."

After a little more questioning, the rod was presented to her, and
she was directed to place it on the heads of those who were present at
the burning of Wallingford Manor. With a trembling hand she let it
descend on the heads of Hinton and Dodder, then held it for a moment
or two suspended over Hoskins, and, after some consideration, was
about to return it to the officer.

" Were only these two men present?" inquired the counsel, while
a thrill and murmur of mingled (juality passed through the court-
house.

" Though I am only a poor, half-witted creature," said the girl,
looking roimd with ;in inq)I<»ring air, " I want to ti 11 the trutli, whirh
I will if you let me do it in my own way. He was there in body but
not in spirit; don't you see the dillerence ? He didn't mean to l)e
there for harm ; — he was there for good. IJut let me go on in n»y own
way, and you'll understand me."

She then, iii wandering l)ut simple Linguage, stated that Harry
Hinton IlkI often employrd her to procure materialn for various
burnings, and that she did ns he desired, " for the love that wanned
her heart towards him." That he often promised to marry her, but
that the fancy he took to Jessy, had, she knew, prevent«-d it ; and so
ahe thought, if he was once to be sent beyond the seas, she would

188 woman's trials.

follow him, and have him all her own. He always promised to give
Jessy up ; but she found that he had got her back from Scotland,
after her sister had sent her there, and resolved to punisli him for his
infidelity by telling the police, which she had done ; and she hoped,
now she had told their lordships the truth, they would send Jessy far,
far away, and make Harry marry her at once ; she would go with
him any wliere — that she would — for she loved him with all her
heart.

A great portion of this was unintelligible to both judge and jury ;
but tlie witness evidently interested them ; and though the counsel
frequently interrupted her, saying that what she stated had nothing to
do with the transaction, yet they were obliged to let her go on her own
way, as the only chance of getting at the truth. As to Hoskins, " he
certainly was," she said, " at Wallingford, but not to burn it." It
was in vain that the counsel for the crown declared that hearsay evi-
dence should not be received ; — the judge was of opinion that she
ought to be permitted to go on ; and the counsel for the crown
resigned her to the cross-examination of the counsel for the prisoner.

" You have stated, young woman, that Edward Hoskins did not
aid and abet in the burning which took place on the night of the
twenty-fifth of December."

" I have, sir. I was up in the loft where they met, and when he
found out what they were after he prayed and begged them not to go
on ; and then my Harry made like to give it up — and Hoskins went
home, as we thought, for my Harry sent me down to the Manor with
the chips for burning, and promised to come after ; but, at the Manor,
dark as it was, I saw Hoskins, who let himself in with a private key
to the out-places, examining and looking about as if to see all safe.
And I wondered what kept Harry away, and went back ; and on the
road 1 met Dodder, and a little behind I saw Harry — my Harry,
talking to the girl 1 hated; and I made up my mind to tell that minute
and bring the police to them ; and, meeting one, I gave him a hint,
and returned to the out-house, at Wallingford ; and there was Hoskins
and Harry quarrelling, and one reproached the other — and Edward
Hoskins thought to put out the fire — and I was sorry when Harry

THE MOSSPITS. 189

struck liini ; and then Paul Dodder went on ligliting the lire that
Edward tried to put out — and was like one frantic, and Harry and he
struggled hard, and came so near the spot where I was crouching,
that I ran off to tell Agnes Hoskins of it, and saw the police coming —
and she can tell you," continued the girl, turning round to the spot
where Agnes had fancied herself perfectly concealed — " there is Mrs.
Hoskins. I dare say she remembers what I said."

Edward Hoskins sprang to the side of the dock, and, for a moment
forgetting the propriety he had hitherto maintained, sliook the bars
violently, and, finding that he could not escape to her side, exclaimed,
" Support, support her ! — will no one look to her ! — she is fainting ! "
Hut she- did not faint — she approached the bar with a blanched
cheek, but a step of almost supernatural firmness, and, passing
her thin, cold iiand tiiroui^h tlie aperture, rested her clear blue
eyes upon the jury ; and in a low voice, which, notwithstanding
its weakness, was so earnest as to l)e heard in every corner of the
court —

*' Forgive, gentlemen," she said, " a wife's j)resumiiig to remind
you that more than one life hangs upon your verdict; and — " she was
interrupted by a scream, so wild and piercing that every eye was again
turned to the witnes-box, from whence it came.

" There — there — there she is ! " exclaimed Jane Hoole. " She has
followed him evtii here to take him from nu-. I5ut you will not let
her!" She leaped down the steps, and, in an instant, belbre the
oflicent had tinie to interpose, she had torn olf a rloak and hat, in
which the unfortunate Jessy Cirey iiad endeavoured to enshroud
herself; l»ut which could not deceive her lynx-eyed rival. " Here she
is, my Lord I — here she is! Agnes Hoskins, I will trust her to you,"
she continued, dragging her forward. Agnes did not see the deceiving
and degraded mntrr ; hIic only beluld the chdd of her father's old ;igc —
the girl she had lov«-<l with n motluT's tenderness, and cherished with a
njother's care. Turning from the <lork, she opemil her arms, but
Jessy fell at her feet and hid lu-r fare. It was in vain that order
was sought to be restored. Agnes Hoskins and her virtues were
known to every individual in the court. Husbands had often pointed

190 woman's trials.

lier out to their wives as a model of virtue and propriety — fathers had
wished for such a daughter, and young men for such a partner. And
as she stood struggling with emotion, and caressing the poor lost
creature, who twined around her with all tlie contrite feeling of a
humbled sinner, the judge waited patiently till the feelings that had
thus agitated every member of the assembly should subside.

" I have made one effort, Agnes, to repair my many crimes,"
whispered Jessy to her sister : " I have no evidence to offer in favour
of him ; but I believe I can confirm the statement just made by that
unhappy girl, as to your Edward's innocence." This information was
conveyed to the counsel for the prisoners ; and, as the poor changed
creature was about to ascend the box, Agnes threw her own cloak over
her shoulders, to conceal a form that called a crimson blush to her faded
cheek. Her quiet and distinct account of the transaction fully corrobo-
rated what the wild girl had sworn to. Unknown to her deceiver, she
had witnessed the quarrel which took place between them on that awful
night ; and had wandered over the country ever since, " seeking rest,
but finding none " — not daring to pollute her sister's cottage with her
presence, and resolved not to visit the author of her misery, lest he
miglit alter the fixed purpose of her soul — that of appearing at her
brother-in-law's trial to testify his innocence. She was supported
down the steps, and clung to her sister's shoulder during the jury's
deliberation. ^Vit]lout leaving the box, they returned a verdict of
guilty against Hinton and Dodder, and acquitted Edward Hoskins.
Agnes might well be excused for forgetting Jessy's feelings in the
overwhelming gratitude she experienced for the preservation of her
husband's life. So completely were her ears closed by a new sensation
of joyfulness and hope, which overflowed as it were all her senses, that
she hardly understood, when the judge had absolutely pronounced
sentence of death on his wretched companions, the meaning of his
words. One of Jane Iloole's frightful shrieks aroused her from those
visions of returning happiness which flitted around her.

" Death ! — not death — not death for Harry!" vociferated the mad-
dened creature : " it is transportation — not death ! — you won't kill
him ! " At the same instant Agnes felt the grasp, that her sister had so

T1I£ MOSSPITS. 191

firmly fixed on her arm, relax ; sl>e looked upon her — her hands were
stretched towards the dock ; and, as her gaze rested upon Hinton's face,
wliich was turned towards her, those beautiful eyes grew yet more dim;
her livid lips parted over her white and glistening teeth ; and, with a
frightful convulsion, tin- ardent, misguided spirit of Jessy Grey, passed
from its earthly dwelling !

Months and years have gone by — the Mosspits are quiet and
beautiful as ever — but the curate of the parish, a mild and benevolent
young man, dwells in the cottage that had once been gladdened by the
presence of the excellent Agnes. She had passed with her small
household to anotlier land, where we will fur a moment follow ; it is
even in the new world ; and there, in a well-built dwelling, on the
borders of a green savannah, is the final resting-place of Kdward
Iloskins and his now numerous family.

The Sim is setting behind the dense and magnificient woods that
seem to mount even to the heavens; and its parting rays linger, as if
loath to part from the richly-cultivated corn and meadow-land that
surrounds his house. There, literally, under the shadow of their own
vine and fig-tree, — " none making them afraid," — arc this once more
happy family assembled.

"And will you never rettirn to Ijigl.ind, father?" demanded the
first-hom, a.H he carefully examined the contents of a huge chest which
had juil arrived from Kurope ; .uul which contained a variety of tools
and arliclm for use.

Hi* mother replied, " Could wv be happi«-r there than wr
arc hero ?"

Her husband thanked her witli a hwik that told of gratitude
unnp<-aknble ; and when tin* group had separated, and only ICdward and
his cheri.thed wife remained to enjoy the deep tranquillity of the balmy
twilight, he <listurbed the meditation, whirli the qtu-stion had occasioned,

192

WOMAN S TRIALS.

by the utterance of a natural, but painful idea. " If our children should
ever go to England, Agnes, they would hear a sad story of their fatlier ;
but they would hear also of their mother's virtue : had you been
unkind — had you even been what the world calls just to yourself;
and what you might have been without offence, — I should have been a
banned and a blighted man, but you did — "

" Only what every woman, who truly loves her husband, would do,"
interrupted the unchanging Agnes. " And, behold, the Lord has been
not only merciful, but bountiful ; — the treasures bestowed upon us on
earth (she pointed to their children, who were assembling for evening
worship within the porch) can only be exceeded by those appointed
for humble believers in heaven."

"Mfciv/.

TIIK OIJ) MAID.

^PJjl hi; lady who accompanied the children I had so

often admired, uas a slij^ht, lliin, narr«)\v-

i '^—-^ M \ "^^^ ) lookin;^ person, of what is termed " a certain

IV ' /^ '*K*^ » " ''"*^'' certain age being of all ages the

V V^ v3 '""St decidedly uncertain. When an unmarried
_ female passes thirty, until she is incontrovertildy

■yl I r (|p old, she remains, in the estimation of all well-hrcd
\£y /JL persons, " of a certain age ; " and has to undergo the
varie<l taunts, sneers, and suspicions, which are
urdirsitatinglv lavisheil upon the sixterhoml : — "As particular as nn
old maid," — "as fidgety aa an old maid," — "as cranky as an old
njaid," — " clisagreeahle «il«l maici,"- -and " ugly old maid," — ar«' only a
few of the epithetn which are unsparingly lavished upon this much ill-
u.Hcd |)ortion of the comnumity. For my own part, I have had, ever
since mv earliest childlxKKl, an aflection for old maids, arising prohahly

2 c

194 woman's trials.

from the kindness invariably bestowed upon me by two, who were
ancient when I was born, and, despite the wear and tear of life, remain
of — " an miccrtain age " at this present moment. Their capacious
pockets were ever crammed with sweetmeats and story-books ; and
their beautiful sequestered cottage was the rendezvous of all the young
persons who loved to do as they liked, and enjoy an undisturbed game
of romps. God bless them ! they increased my happiness even in my
happiest days !

It was at the quiet bathing-place called Bognor that I first saw my
heroine ; and I hope the bright eyes now fixed upon this page, will join
me in my predilection, by the time they are withdrawn from it — for,
in all its leading features, it is a true portrait. If I fail in exciting the
attention of my readers, it will be mij fault, and not that of Miss Milly.

I had often admired three beautiful children, who were attended by
a good-looking woman of colour in their excursions along the strand,
— a boy and two girls, healthy, and singularly handsome. Loving the
society of young people, when they do not disturb the time allotted to
reading or writing, I soon became acquainted with my favourites. To
one at all involved in the necessary ceremonies of English society, there
is something bright and reviving in tlie frank and unconstrained
manners of an animated child: the brilliant smile, the joyous laugh, the
gay voice, the bounding step, are like the freshening breezes of the
ocean after suffering beneath a burning sky ; they come, bearing the
memories of our own early joys. A playful child can always beguile
sorrow of its bitterness. I endeavour not to think of what my young
playmates may be — I am content with what they are. Those I met at
Bognor were all I could desire ; and many an hour we spent together
on the sea-shore, watching for the treasures which the vasty deep threw
up upon the beach ; collecting sea-weeds, and corallines, and shells
— talking of shipwrecks and desolate islands — and, above all, repeating
to them that exquisite poem of Mrs. Hemans on the Ocean : —

"The sea! the sea; the glorious sea,
What has the earth so fair,
Of hill, or valley, grove, or lea,
"Which with it may compare ?

" O ! I coirtd sit for hours to look
Upon its wide cxp.ansc ;
And read in its unwritten book,
Fresh charms in every glance."

The only su])ject upon which we differed was motion. They used
to tire me to death, and expected one, who is not only sedentary from
habit, but of necessity, to run and race, and climb and tmnble, as much
as themselves. This was more than I could well endure ; and about
four days after the commencement of our friendship (for children do not
acknowledge, by either act or deed, the term acquaintance), Horace,
looking very gravely at me, said, " I wish Milly was come, for though
she is not as great a romp, or as fond of fun as you, she could sit and
talk to you when you are tired." " She teaches me French and
drawing," said Julia. *' And she knit me these pretty cuffs," lisped
Harriet. "And she makes my kites, and teaches me Latin," chimed
it) Horace I

" Indeed," I replied, "she muit be very clever, and very good; —
who is -slie?" " What, dorj't you know who Milly is? in Scotland she
is callfd .Mdly of the .Manse, because once she lived at the Manse."
Having given me this piece of satisfactory information, he bounded off'
to secure a star-fish, which the wave had deserted on the strand. I
turned to .lulia— " Is Milly your aunt T' "No." "Your cousin?"
"No." "Your governess?" "No." I hate close questioning of
children; it often teaches them both tattling and falsehood, and !
inquired no more, — only little Harriet added, " She is our dear fiii iid ;
not fine, like the grand ladies here, i)Ut the best, dearest body in the
world, and I won't have Nurse .Maurice call lur ;ui old maid." " O !
O !" Kaid I, " y<iung as you arc, you have learmil to consider ifinl term
a badge of dingrace." No wondir girls shoultl so earnestly go " a
luMband-hurUing " with the dread of the cry ringing in their cars, wluii
they woidd niiich rather hear the joy-b«lls of their jKirish church.
or even the vulgar nnuic of niarrow-lK>nes and cleavers. [My the
way, I cannot avoid saying, that I agree with (Irant Thorbuni in
considering an ohl l>aclu-lor really an ol)noxiouH animal. WImtc he has
the means of supporting a wife, lie ought to have one; lM<sidi-s, tin

196 woman's trials.

awful power of " popping the question " is in his own hands. And he
may rely upon one thing, that be he ever so old, and ever so ugly,
ever so openly devoted to celibacy, man-traps and spring-guns are in
his path ; and if he does not beware, like all who are very, very hard to
please, he may take the crooked stick at last. So much by way of
advice en parenthese.~\

At last " Milly " came, and I confess 1 did not at first find her very
prepossessing. Her figure was small and narrow, her shoulders were
round, or, perhaps from constitutional delicacy, she stooped rather
forward ; her mouth had a finn-set expression, by no means pleasing ;
her nose was small and well formed ; and her eyes were deep grey, and
lustrous — yet was their brightness tempered, as it were, by a certain
indefinable discretion ; they seldom looked abroad, but seemed retired
within themselves, quietly musing upon the affairs of life, rather than
wandering amid, or partaking of, its excitement ; her brow, though
somewhat low, was full, and shadowed by a profusion of light hair,
which, in her youth, must have been rich and luxuriant ; but Time had
there commenced a war with beauty ; or, perchance, it might have been
sorrow or sickness, that scattered snows with what had been a super-
abundance of curling auburn tresses ; her throat was beautifully white,
though its roundness was gone, but a black velvet band, clasped by a
rich ruby brooch (the only ornament she wore) set it off to the best
advantage ; her entire dress, bearing, and manners, savoured much of
what is called puritanism. She would accompany tlie children to the
beach, and, while they wandered about, draw forth her knitting, and,
with Iier eyes fixed on the wide ocean or the passing clouds, continue
lier mechanical employment without heeding the passers by, or, so
unobtrusive was her appearance, being heeded by them. Or she would
read either in a small thick volume, having the appearance of a Bible,
or in divers other books, in both ancient and modern bindings. She
was evidently particular in her dress ; her shoes and gloves (her feet
and hands, I observed, were delicately formed) were always of
superior make and quality, and there was a precision about her dress
which led to the belief that she was exact in all things. She did not
seem anxious to make my acquaintance, and a nervous tremour in her

THE OLD MAID. 197

manner, wlien conversing with strangers, showed she was either
naturally timid, or unused to general society. She bluslied, moreover,
in addressing you, though, after the awkwardness attending a first
sahitation had ceased, there was a strange mingling of gentleness and
firmness in her conversation. That she was an educated, rather than
accomplished, woman, was evident ; but, though devoted to my three
young friends, slie did not wish to explain the cause of her attl'ction
towards them : not that she aflected mystery, but any allusion to their
being related to her, or of her kin in any degree, created that species
of :umoyance which the curious care too little to inflict. Once only, in
one of the casual, and somewhat cold, conversations we held together,
she observed, that there were ties stronger than those cemented by
relationship ; with this I perfectly agreed, but added, that it was rather
an odd observation for a Scottish woman, whose clan-like sympathies
generally give a tinge to all things. She smiled, — one of those dim,
faint smiles which separated her firm-set lips, with an expression of
pensive sweetness that accorded well with the gentle meaning of her
soft intelligent eyes, — and observed, to the very clan-like feeling, which
my observation appeared to condenui, they owed both their prosperity
and success; "In strange countries, when far away from home," she
continued, " the fielings connned to the Mac Gregors, Mac Phersons,
and .Mar Donalds, extend to each child of the hill and heather; the
.Scotsman is everywhere the Scotsman's friend ; and, in my humble
opinion, this very circumstance, so often urged against us, is nuich in
our favour : if such were the course adopted towards the children of
every country, «hen away from their natural dwellings, tlnri' would lie
a lfN<« number depi-ndi-nt on th«- charity ot strangers."

I agrerd most readily with tl.in assertion, and end)iai-i'd ilu- ()|>p(ir-
tunily of paying a just tribulr to thi- moral and intfllfctiuil v\<irili of
thoHv »\Ii() dwill over tin; lM>rder. She appeared gratified.

I have generally notetl that the Scotch are never warm, at first,
either in their rxpre««ions of ph-a.Hure or anger : ihey are early
a(-(|uainted with the lN-nefit» nrining Irom rcHlraint ; they learn it in
their molhi-r'<« arm*, herself ever patient and i xemplary ; they arc
l.iught it by their dracons and iluir pastors ; and a knowledge of the

198 woman's trials.

world establishes them in the judicious practice of self-controul. I
never — however meritorious the restraint undoubtedly is — knew a
person to be very popular, who was very particular on this point.
Perhaps we like to be acquainted with those who now and then make
little slips in conduct, and occasionally burst forth into certain extra-
vagances, both of management and temper, because they seem so many
palpable excuses for our own misdeeds.

" Horace tells me you are going to leave Bognor, and intend
passing a month at Hastings," said Miss Millicent to me one morning;
" you will take a letter for me to a friend of ours there, a Presby-
terian clergyman, who has lately fixed his residence in that neighbour-
hood?"

Of course I promised to do so.

" Perhaps," she continued, " you would like his acquaintance : he
is a kind, amiable man, not much in your way ; but I am sure you
would esteem him highly, if you knew him."

I did not exactly know what Miss Millicent meant by his " not
being exactly in my way," nor did I ask: I suppose she considered me
too scatter-brained for a grave acquaintance. I should not have liked
to have been told that, and I did not wish to put the maiden lady into
a situation where it might have been necessary to have said a civil bit
of fib, — My readers must forgive me ; — but my busy mind, ever em-
ployed on those delectable buildings, denominated Chateaux en Esjxigne,
had settled it, that this Mr. Campbell was some antiquated beau of
hers, and that one of these days Millicent Morrison might become
Millicent Campbell. Still that would not do; my imagination, stretched
to its greatest length, could not fancy her a married woman. What
would she be without her little peculiarities ? and a marrying woman
ought to have none ; the very pins confining the folds of her shawl on
either shoulder, said, as plainly as pins could say, " We were placed
here by maiden fingers." Then the white satin bow, at the back of the
neat Dunstable straw bonnet, its ends cut exactly into three sharp
points, and the two loops of such equal length, that you might fancy
the threads were counted ; that white satin bow would have stood on
end at the idea of the fair hand which arranged its proportions being

devoted to any male creature's control : no, that could not be a
correct conclusion. Why, then, did she blush, when delivering me the
letter ftv "Mr. Campl)ell ? " and why did Horace look ciuining, and
whisper his sister ; and why did the little lady blush, and simper, and
look grave at her brother, when he repeated the whisper, as well as to
say — •• For shame, Horace?"

I w ish big and little people would never either whisper or discourse
silent elofpience with their eyes, in company ; it is really very rude,
very — and very perplexing ; for it is so natural to put that and that
together, — and draw conclusions, — and worry one's brain, about what,
after all, is no concern of one's own. Now, as if I had not enough of
my own affairs to mind, I continued perplexing myself about the three
children and MiUicent Morrison — whom I had seen, — and about this
Mister Jamie Campbell — whom I had not seen ; and was never fairly
content or comfortable, until I had the pleasure of receiving Mr.
Campbell, chez nous, at St. Leonard's. I love the national accents of
all countries, — some more, some less, — they always tell me of some-
thing that is not present, and set the mind wandering to othrr hinds;
bring to you the sweet south, the sturdy north, the brave and the
beautifid of distant countries ; tlie Ixild or the tranquil landscape is
oulstrttche<l before you, and oftrn to me comes the memory of much
that I shall never see :igain, when a poor basket-woman in Covent
Garden market accosts me in what many a one would call a detestable
brogue, with — "God save you this fine morning, my lady; does your
honour want a basket? and anv how, wluther you do or not, (Jod's
fresh blessing be about you!"

Mr. Camplx-ll had not lost the accent of his countrv, nor had he
tried to lose it ; he appeared a quiet, gentlcmanlv m.in, though not
nitogellier what the I'iitf would have ternied a gentleman ; thrrc was a
fire in hiH drrp blue eye, quellt-d, but not extinguished, which I fan-
cied proved him n man of genius. Like most of his countrymen, he
posscaned con»idemble literary information, and a gnat love for music;
but one thing I net my head at rent al)out at «mro — he woidd never do
for Mdli('«-nl Morrison: — he wn.n slovetdy in hiit dress, and his sh(M*B,
I observed, were tied with black leather twi.si instead of riband ; this

200 woman's trials.

would, as I said, never do for her. But why, then, did she blush ?
We shall see.

The following Sunday confirmed my opinion, that Mr. Campbell
was a man of genius, and that his talents, far from being hid luider
a bushel, were brightly burning, kindled by a holy and well-directed
zeal for the benefit of his congregation. There was something wild
and picturesque in the situation of his little chapel, which called to
mind the persecuting days, when the disciples of the true Faith had
not where to lay their heads : it was nested almost in a cleft of the
hill-side ; and from tlie little, clean, and well-preserved platform,
which fronted the entrance, you over-looked the wooded valley — the
distant town — and the boundless ocean, stretching wide and away ; the
sunbeams dancing with its waves, and the blue arch of heaven, un-
tainted, on that bright morning, by a single cloud, reflected in its
bosom. I remember the text he worked upon so beautifully — it was
a simple but a joyous one to the believing Christian ; it involved no
abstruse doctrinal points ; it was one of those excellent and heaven-
constructed sentences which lead the mind from earth to heaven by a
single image —

*' Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden, and I will
give you rest."

He described fully and forcibly the bitter burthen of sin, giving
due weight to its temptations and its fascinations in the first instance,
but proving how, in the end, it became wearisome to the lightest
spirit — how it fretted, and festered, and galled, and oppressed, all who
imagined that the pleasures of this life could satisfy that craving after
happiness and immortality so inseparable from our nature. After
descanting upon the first portion of the sentence, with rare and fervid
eloquence he turned to the promise so touchingly given by our Saviour —
" I will give you rest:" — he painted " the rest" signified by the Son of
God in colours so holy, that, as for a moment my eyes wandered through
the open window upon the outstretched landscape ; I felt as if his
moral pencil had been dipped in the tranquillity of nature, and drank
with thankfulness of the river of living waters which his eloquence
poured upon a soul thirsting for a knowledge of the love of God : —

THE OLD MAID. 201

then came the liymn, and it was impossible to look up to the gorgeous
sky, or out upon the bounteous earth, without feeling conviction of the
truth that

"His ways arc just, His counsels wise."

I forgot the slovenly habits, and ceased to think that the shoes
were fastened with leather twist ; I even, on my return to St.
Leonard's, induljj;td in the hope that Millictiit Morrison might yet
become Milliccnt Campbtll. There is no saying how long this reverie
might have continued, had not Mr. Campbell himself, accompanied by
a — wife — and three children, overtaken my lagging footsteps. " Mrs.
Campbell wished to be introduced to you; she only returned yesterday
from a visit to her father's, in Argyleshire, or she would have called
before." Alas ! alas ! was poor castle-builder ever so confounded !
I made the best of it, however, and agreed to take a friendly cup of
tea with "the Campbells" the next evening. I will at once pass over
the frugal, but kind, hospitality of my hosts, and only mention, that
very soon, I heard a story I have never forgotten — a story I have
prized and cherished — a tale of forl)earancc and good faith — convert-
ing an old maid into a heroine, exalting my sex as I best love to sec
them exalted, more by their virtues than their knowledge. The story
wa.H of .Mii.Kv ov TUK Mansk.

"She was a winsome bonny lass, when I first knew her," said Mr.
Campbell, "l)lilhc— and before all wnnu ii I ever met for singing Allan
Kamsay's ballads, or the songs of K<)bl)ie Hums ; she was her father's
darling, her mother's pride, and indeed, I may say, the pride of all the
congregation; for her father was the pastor of Kirk-IIaverling, and
lived at Haverling Manse. She certainly," continued Mr. Campbell,
after panning for a moment, *' was the l)Miiniest and blithest lass 1 had
ever met."

" That may be," observed the minister's wif«\ " Imi, .Ionic, I never
could think Miis Milly ns bandnome as you say."

"()!" replied Mr. Campbell, — I thought, quite as slily as
consistent in n minister, — " »hc was the lM)nnicst and blithest lass I
had ever met then ; it was before I siaw you, Nannie." The respectable

203 woman's trials.

"Nannie" smiled a smile that well became her round and ample
countenance; and her husband proceeded. "Ronald M'Lean was the
only son of the M'Lean, a laird of family and power, but of little
wealth ; for what remained from ancient times had been spent in
keeping up a style and appearance to please the whim of Ronald's
mother, an English lady, certainly of great beauty. The laird loved
her with Scottish truth, and more than Scottish fervour, and cared not
what he did so she was pleased. Young Ronald had too much of the
spirit of his clan to be a great favourite with his English parent, who
wished him to be sent to an English school. But this his father stoutly
refused ; and the boy was accordingly placed under the care of Duncan
Morrison of Haverling, who had a rich reputation as a classic, and a
still richer as a moral man. I was at that time a pupil in the same
house, though under very different circumstances from Ronald M'Lean.
He was a laird's son, and I was the only child of the Widow Campbell
of Mavisslon — he came to school with a fine footman behind him,
I came by myself — he had a horse to carry his luggage, and my store
was contained in a handkerchief."

" In a trunk — a small trunk," interrupted Mrs. Campbell.

" No, Nannie, it was my poor mother's best silk handkerchief."

" If it wasn't a hair trunk, it was a box, with may be a handkerchief
lapped round it," persisted the worthy woman, anxious for her hus-
band's dignity on all points.

" No, it was only a handkerchief; do I not remember my mother — ?"

" Go on," interrupted Mrs, Campbell.

"I will," said the minister; "but the handkerchief" — (" It was a
trunk, I know," murmured Mrs. Campbell, but in so low a tone as to
be heard only by me, who sat next her) — " did not prevent my being
treated by all the house, Milly included, as well as if I had been a laird
in prospective ; they were happy days, both for me and Ronald, but espe-
cially for Ronald, who secured the love of a heart that was above all price.
Millicent and the young laird grew together, and studied together, and
in all studies where patience and application was necessary, Milly outdid
us all : she was the personification of contented industry and innocent
enjoyment ; the admired of the rich, the beloved of the poor. It was

THE OLD MAID. 20.S

seen by all at the Manse, except Milly's father and mother, that
Ronald M'Lean loved her with a strong and fervid affection, such as
men, however they may change in other matters, can feel but once —
and Milly was not slow in loving in return. I very much doubt if
Millicent would have given up her heart so entirely to this affection,
had not the lady of M'Lean, much struck with her beauty and acquire-
ments, invited her to spend a few months at M'Lean Castle, an invi-
tation she was proud "to accept ; and while there the lady trcateil Ik r
with so much kindness, and, as Milly afterwards said, ' so like a
mother,' that she felt assured, poor thing! that tlie proud lady knew
and encouraged her attachment towards her son : it was natural enough
for her to think so — and indeed Ronald believed the same — natural
enough, too, in him — though bitter was the struggle, and hard the trial,
which taught them the contrary.

" One morning, during her stay with the M'Leans, Milly was sent
for to Mrs. .M 'Lean's dressing-room earlier than usual : and there
were the laird and his proud lady, stiff and cold 'enough; and, instead
of kissing her ' Sweet Scotch girl,' as she used on other occasions,
she jwrmitted her to stand, while she haughtily intpiired, how she had
dared to suffer her son to breathe his affection towards her, while
under her roof? she, moreover, upl)raide(l lur as an artful, designing
creature ; and concluded by an injunction that she should quit her
house for ever, and see her son ii<» more. Vou may suppose that
Milly waited not to be twice l)idd(ii : her knowledge of propriety
prevented tliat, nor, indeed, so bitterly hurt was she, had she the
thought or wi.sh to bid good-bye to him she loved so dearly. ' The
ble.Hsing of the Lord would not i)e with nu-,' she nuirunir«'d in the
silence of her own heart, ' if I encouraged him in disidx-diiiice ; and I
will show the great lady of .M'Lean that I can l)e as proud as shr is.'"

" It was a sinful thought," quoth Mrs. Caniplicll.

"So it W.1S, N.uuue, I'll allow," replied her gt-nth- husband; "but
there nrr times when the woimded spirit stirs within the best of us,
and wc canne>l, without nnirh prayer, command it to be still."

"That's true, Jamie," quoth she again; "you are aye on the siile
of mercy."

204 woman's trials.

I was pleased to see, that though she might be a trifle jealous of
Millicent Morrison, she honoured her husband's opinion ; and I also
observed that her eyes glistened whenever he uttered a sentiment of a
good or pious tendency.

" She went home without leaving word or token for poor Ronald,
who came to the Manse the next day in a woeful taking. By this time
lier heart had become softened, and she argued moreover with herself,
that she might meet him once more, just to bid him good-bye for ever;
and seeing him from her window pacing up and down the little flower-
garden he had so often assisted her to cultivate, she just slipped on her
hood, and stood before him.

" The young man, at first, neither sighed nor spoke, but he looked
into her face as he would read her soul, which was then an easy thing,
for her mind was as an open book, full of good thoughts and maidenly
wisdom, devoid of guile, and simple withal as a mountain dove. I am
no way skilled in love passages — they are foolish, and only snares for
w isdom, beguiling men and women of their good resolutions ; and so
it was in this case ; for Milly, who, notwithstanding Mrs. M'Lean's
harshness, had formed the resolution of giving up all communion with
Ronald, was persuaded, and without her parents' sanction, to meet him
once more in a deep glen, where they had often wandered before it
was considered a sin for either to love what to each appeared most
lovely upon earth. 1 cannot altogether acquit Mrs. Morrison of blame
in this transaction : — true, the young people had never spoken to her
of the affection subsisting between them, but I am sure she knew it,
and she ought to have foreseen that, being so much together, with
similar pursuits, and a suitable difference of age, nothing was more
natural than that they should become attached, in defiance of prudential
considerations. The master himself, poor man, knew nought of such
matters ; he possessed book-learning enough to stock a imiversity, but
he was aye careless of the things of this life, and no ways economical
in the management of his homestead."

" I never blamed the Dominie for that," said Mrs. Campbell, " for
it is the woman's business ; but what I censured the mother for, was
the belief she got into her liead, that Milly's beauty and Milly's

THE OLD MAID, 205

cleverness made her a fit match for e'er a laird in Scotland. Mothers
work ill for their daughters instead of good, by such whimsies."

" So they do, Nannie ; and yet I mind your turning up your nose
at Mrs. Grace, the curate's wife, when she hinted, tliat her William
and our Maggy might be married yet."

Mrs. Campbell laughed, saying only in reply, " But Willy is such
a foxy, mischievous ape, and every one says Maggy is so handsome."

" She is very like you, my love," replied die minister, and con-
tinued : —

" Milly was at her tryst by ihe time appointed. She sat on the
same bank where she had often sat before with her lover. She looked
at the sky; the evening was closing in — the stars, one by one, were
stealing up the blue arch of heaven— the dewy softness of night was
over the landscape; still he came not — tlic loved, the looked-for, was
not there ; her heart beat more quickly — she scanned tin- hill, the
wooded glen — still he came not ; there was a perfect stillness in the air
and on the earth, and no sound disturbed the serenity of nature, save
tlie occasional bark of the shepherd's dog coming over the mountain,
or the plash of the water-fowl in llie deep blue lake at her feet. It
was a delicious iiour, yet she heeded it not ; her heart was sair — and at
last the luibidden tears rolled down her cheeks as if that heart would
break. Suddenly came the soimd of a footstep; she dashed the
memorials of sorrow away, and the feel of ' Why does he not come ?
peradventurc some evil hath befallen him,' was succeeded by the
resolution of assuming an angry manner, though displeasure was far
from her heart. In another moment — not Ronald— but the M'Lean
himself sto<nl at her side. Now was she indeed alarmed ; and grasping
the arm of the tall chieftain, denianded, with an earnestness which told
her feelings, where Uonald was.

" lie seated the trembling girl on the bank, and took his place
beside her. M'Lean wa» a stern, but n«it a cold-hearted man, and he
felt, more than he caretl to express at home, for the innocent and artless
creature who loved his son with such devotion ; he thought highly of
her, for thinking highly of that which lH-l«»nged to him ; and it was some
lime before he w.is able to make the comnnniication he knew nnist be

206 woman's trials.

made. Ronald M'Lean had fallen from his horse that morning, and
been much injured. He had confided to a favourite servant his desire
that Milly should be made acquainted with his misfortune, as an excuse
for breaking his appointment. The servant, with the dread of his
mistress before his eyes, told her of it ; and thus it was that the father,
and not the son, kept the expected tryst. ' And now, Millicent, I am
come to speak to, to commune with you, not to reproach or chide you
for a circumstance which we ought all to have foreseen, and over which,
poor girl, as yet, you have had no control. It will not be always thus ;
for you have reason, and I am about to call upon you to excercise it,
not for your own, but for Ronald's benefit.

" ' Anything for his benefit,' she replied, ' I will gladly do.'

'• ' Do you know, Milly, that you have it in your power to establish
the house of the M'Lean in all its former grandeur, or to plunge it into
deeper difficulties than it has yet known?'

" ' I am sure, laird,' — interrupted Milly, eagerly.

" ' Make no rash promises — nothing rash will I listen to,' said the
M'Lean, — ' hear me — hear me, calmly : Ronald loves you — loves you
now fondly, truly — but young men change — marriage, blessed and holy
though it be, cannot always restrain the wandering thoughts of man —
and even if you were bound together in the holy bonds of matrimony,
Ronald might — nay, I am sure he would, change.' Millicent seemed
as though she had not heard aright, and then shook her head. ' All
men change,' repeated the laird.

*' ' You were aye accounted a good husband,' observed Milly.

" ' I trust I have been so,' he replied.

" ' Then, laird, you have no changed,' added the minister's daughter ;
' and why suppose Ronald unlike his father ? '

" M'Lean looked at her for a moment, baffled by her simplicity and
good sense. ' But,' said he, ' it was not that I meant to speak of; —
have you never heard of Lady Lucy Graham, the heiress of thousands
of acres, and thousands to stock them, too?'

" ' The auld maid of Graham Hall ? " inquired Milly, quite un-
suspiciously.

" ' She is not to say auld — not forty, I should think — nor near.

THE OLD MAID. 207

Well, she loves my son, and would give up her houses, her kye, her
lands, her money, tor the love you hold.'

" ' I dare say she would,' replied Millicent, proudly, 'and well she
might ;— houses, kye, and lands,— O ! what are they to the love of
Ronald M'Lean?' and then, ashamed that she had gone so far, she hid
her blushing checks between her hands.

" The laird took her hand kindly within his. Intent as he was on
other matters, there was something in Milly's love — young, innocent,
and beautiful as she was — something in her love for his son so true and
blameless, that he was proud of the very beauty of the flower whose
bloom he was about to destroy. * You know, Milly, iliat Ronald is
not rich,'

" ' I do know it, laird ; hut lie is rich enough in tlie graces
and blessings of a great mind — God has been bountiful to the
M 'Leans.'

" ' Granted ; but you heard what his mother said.'

••• I have no' forgotten it, sir,' replied the maiden, 'and think not
so meanly of me as to suppose that, because I kept, or meant to keep^
tryst with him to-night, it was to be more to him than I have ever
been — far, far from it — I would but have bid him farewell, — and tauld
him not to think of me — thoutfli — tliough — ' she burst into tears, and
her head sunk upon her bosom.

'" I have told you we are not ridi, Millicent; I must now tell you
more — we are poor.'

*" A wccl ! a wecl ! — ' she said, the accent of her native land
becoming stronger as her feelings were more wrought upon ; ' it is
na cliHgracc'

"The girl is no fool, thought tlu- l.iird ; and yet I wouhl rather
have a f«Hil, or, iK-tter still, a woman of the world, to manage, than this
right-minded creature ; I should know how to deal with the one and the
other, but nhe bnfllen me. ' I5ut it if n disgr.ice, young woman— a
disgrace for a lord, or even n private gentleman, to want the nwans of
keeping up hi* rank. How would you like to »ee me — or Ron.-dd — in
a gaol ?' Mdlicent cl.ixiM'd her hantln and twisted her fingers together,
while he continued — * And yet lliin must happen — this must be. unless

208 woman's trials.

you give him positively up, and refuse of yourself to see or commune
with him.'

" * She raised her eyes, trembling in the moonlight, to the laird's
countenance, — it was still and pale.

'* ' I intended to tell him that, to-night.'

" ' And to abide by it ? '

" * Yes ; I never say one thing and mean another. I meant, laird,
to abide by it — unless — ' she paused ; and then added, ' unless it made
him as miserable as I — feared — I thought it would.'

" The laird saw it would never do to go on at this rate, that nothing
could be gained by it, and therefore resolved to try his hand at his
lady's plan : he repeated his assurance that such were his embarrass-
ments that a very little time would witness his ruin, unless some
decided steps were taken to prevent it ; he told her that Ronald could
possess the hand of Lady Lucy Graham, if he chose to take it; and that
nothing would then be wanting to make them flourish. Again Mil-
licent's eyes scanned the laird's countenance, but the expression was
changed ; — ' And so,' she said, ' you would sell yovxr son to save
yourself?' M'Lean grew angry — he reproached her with presumption
— he repeated the insinuations his wife had more coarsely used ; but,
Millicent's spirit would not brook such treatment. She rose as he
rose ; and the man of the world saw that more could be accomplished
by touching her feelings than by rousing her pride. His manner again
became gentle ; he descanted on the high name brought low — on the
great trampled in the dust — on the misery that would rest upon her, if
she saw a husband, such as Ronald, steeped to the very lips in poverty
with the consciousness that it was she who had done this. He assured
her that his mother's curse would rest upon him to the last hour, if
their destinies were ever united ; and he, therefore, implored her to
think of the desolation she would entail upon them all, by persisting in
her acquaintance with his son — by contmuing a contract, out of which
only misery could arise.

" ' Marry Lady Lucy Graham ! marry Lady Lucy Graham ! ' she
repeated time after time — ' And you, laird, think he would marry
Lady Lucy Graham ? '

TIIi; OLD MAID. 209

" ' I know he would ; he told me himself that if it were not for his
promise to you, he would marry her at once.'

" ' He said tliat ? ' she added ; and again suspiciously perused his
countenance. ' And ye think that, before his life was ended, lie would
be happier with her than with me V

"'(iod witness for me, I do ! ' said the laird. 'How, think ye,
coidd a M'Lean abide poverty and the disgrace of a prison to any
of his kith or kin V

" With the rapidity of thought Milly's mind ghinccd back to
Ronald's habits, Ronald's tastes, Ronald's opinions ; and the review
confirmed his father's statement : his habits were expensive, his tastes
refined, his opinions extravagant. She had often thought so — but,
then, he was a laird, and a M'Lean ; and she looked upon their rude
magnificence as an heritage. After a pause, — and during that pause
much that was great, much that was truly noble, rallied in lier soul, —
she drew forth from her bosom a small pocket-book, and, tearing out a
leaf, wrote a few sentences upon it ; then, rising from the sward
whereon she had knelt to write, she stootl before the laird with that
right noble dignity of manner which those only possess whose bodies
are the temples of living and active virtue.

" • Laird of M'Lean, you come of a noble race ; and though it may
be but a vain and silly thing, yet I have been taught to believe, that as
the richest soil yields the best friuts, so the best blood gives forth the
most glorious actions. For myself, I was born in a cottage, I have
lived in a cottage, and, God willing, may die in one. We who are so
l)om, and so to die, cannot be expected to understand much that you
have said ; but you have called (Jod to witness to your belief, that
before your son's life was ended, he would be happier witli L.idv Lucy
(traham than with me; that G<kI heard — and now sees us both : if such
be really your belief, give him this paper — and — then — I shall m>c his
face no more. — If — if — you know of anything to change your opinion,
oh ! do not, do not for the sake of the gold that glitteni, sell the
happiness of such as Ronald .M'Lean ! Ami now, Inird, Gotl be wi' you !
and from my licart I pray, thai you may no" line cause to mourn for
keeping this tryst with .Milly of the Manse.*

210 WOMAN S TRIALS.

" About a week after this Milly went to visit an aunt who was far
away in Edinburgh ; and before she came back to her father's manse,
the country and the bells had rung with tales and joy — for that the
houses of M'Lean and Graham were now one. Before her return home,
her mother liad died suddenly. Here was a divided grief, and though
I thought I imderstood it all, I could not for my life tell what change
had come over Millicent Morrison. She was more useful in the house;
as studious in the library; she conversed as freely; but there was
certainly a change — little odds and ends of bitternesses — not ill-temper
either, but positive bitterness, would mingle with, or rather, like a
wasp's sting, end, her conversations. She was rather watchful than
abstracted, and more keen than I had known her — not worldly-minded,
and yet looking after trifles ; fonder, than I thought quite beseemed a
woman, of diving into people's motives ; not so fond of birds or flowers,
as she used to be, for those are the affections of a simple and unseared
heart. She was not much thinner, nor much paler, but her features
had acquired the acutencss of her mind ; in short, I cannot tell how it
was — but Milly was changed."

" That was about the time I'm thinking you fell in love with her
ycrself," said Mrs. Campbell, taking advantage of the minister's pause,
and saying so between the sobered mirthfulness of jest, and the serious-
ness of a remembered displeasure. The good lady's husband blushed,
positively blushed, (how odd, and queer, and awkward is a man's
blush !) and rubbed his forehead, as if to obliterate the sense of his
timidity; and both his wife and myself were malicious enough to enjoy
his confusion I

"I will not deny that — I — I — in short, she refused — better, and
greater than I — for, notwithstanding the change, Milly of the Manse
was the desired of many hearts. And now to tlie dole of the story : —
God forgive old M'Lean and his bitter lady ! for how they could ever
think that such as Ronald could be happy with Lady Lucy, is what I
could never understand ; nor could I quite make out how they got him
to give up Milly. Disappointed and heart-broken, the poor fellow
rushed into all sorts of extravagance ; he seemed to care for nothing,
to stick at nothing. And at last all the country cried, Shame upon

him ! — all, all hut one — there was one who never joined the cry that
was raised against him — one who never believed that he was so very
wicked, thoiigli he had been tempted to commit grievous sin ; she
hoped and trusted still.

" Ten years had not passed from the time of the auld laird's
keeping tlie tryst of the young, when Castle M'Lean was advertised
to be sold by public roup, and Lady Lucy had burst a blood-vessel
in a fit of passion, on learning the utter destruction of all her property.
Where was Ronald M'Lean? Ronald M'Lean had gone to Lulia. And
where was the auld laird, whose family pride had wrought such deso-
lation ? — even in the cauld and noisome cell of the gaol he had dreaded.
It was night, and the gaol gate was opened to a neat and well-dressed
female, who had passed the day within the prison walls — the minister
of peace and consolation to tiie ohl white-headed man, who had
wrecked the happiness of tliat i'air and excellent girl, and with it
fomulercd the hopes and aspirations of his first-born and only son.
Poor Milliccntl not a week passed without her spending one, and
often two days with M'Li .m. And it was a calm and holy sight, to
see that woman, still lovely and still young, sitting at his feet reading
him passages from holy writ, and paying him that homage in which his
heart delighted, till the last— which soon arrived, for his spirit was
bowed and broken.

When it was known that .M'Lean was dead, all the old chiefs seemed
to think it was a point of duty, more, in my mind, connected with
their own station than the «jld gentleman's merits, to give him a grand
funeral, though he might have nearly starved in prison but for the
exertions of Milly of the .Manse. However, the pail and the pibrocli
were not wanting, and scores of l)are-legge<l gillies came down from
the highlands: and Milly stoo<l at one of tl»e win<lows in the market-
place to »«>e it all pa.HH ; ami though the tear of wom.inly feeling was
in her eye, there was an expression of •.ueh scorn and c«)ntempt u]M)n
her lip, that I cared n«)l to look on it a second time.

" After a lapse of about nix yearn, word canu* that Ronald M'Lean
had uinrried — married ng.iin in India ! and .ill I heard .Millicent say.
was, 'So lu-Ht.' Rut when she ujade tea for us— <,' "•"* staying for a

212 woman's trials.

few days, at the time, with her father) — wlien she made tea for us
in the evening, I perceived tliat her eyes were red, and that she put
three times the usual quantity of tea into the teapot, which was un-
common for lier, who was so frugal.

" Now comes the wonder of the story : — a brother of the minister,
one whom he had not seen since his boyhood, died in Mexico, and all
the accumulated hoards of years came to Millicent Morrison, in right
of her father ; he, poor body, was nearly childish from age. Here
was a change — a wonderful change for Milly, not only in that it made
her independent, and even rich, but, that it showed fordi her character
in its true and perfect light. Poverty had been accounted to her a
crime — it had stood between her and her earthly happiness — it had
formed a barrier, as it always does, between what might be almost
termed the living and the dead : the knowledge that she was poor had
made her proud, and cold, and stern ; and fearful that her advances
would be repulsed because of her poverty, she made none. Nor
would she receive the overtures of strangers kindly, for she thought,
• When they find me poor, I shall be insulted :' this, as she now con-
fesses, was a sinful pride ; but the wealth which puffs up so many,
made her gentle and humble as a shorn lamb. It is only a noble
mind that can support prosperity ; every one tries to bear up against
adversity, l)ut prosperity is the touchstone of true greatness.

" The quiet calm smile came back to Millicent's rigid lip; gentle-
ness again reigned over all her actions. She was not bitter in word
as she had been ; and, as her sphere of doing good increased, she
appeared cheerful — almost happy; yet did I never hear her sing.
And, I have marked, a deepened blush would suffiise her cheek,
whenever the M'Lean was alluded to, which certainly was not often
the case, — for the unfortunate are soon forgotten.

" I had been married some time ; the poor auld minister, full of
years, had been gathered to his fathers, and a neat white marble slab,
raised by the hand of his affectionate daughter, marked out the place of
his final rest, in the kirk of Ilavcrling. Milly had settled fairly down
into an old maid, and indulged in many of the whimsies which are
overlooked in a married woman, but are put down as tokens of the

THE OLD MAID, 213

sisterhood when a lady arrives at a certain age. (O ! O ! thought I.)
She had a grey cat, lively, though not mischievous. She was fond of
knitting and patchwork, and wofuUy particular in the siiape and
fashioning of the bit ribands to trim her caps and bonnets ; but she
was actively benevolent — beloved by the poor — respected by the
rich. It might have been, as nearly as I remember, about seven years
after tlie news that Ronald M'Lean was again married in India, that
Millicent Morrison came to my house, — for I was the oldest friend of
the family in existence, — and after some dilHculty, and many sorrowing
looks, produced a letter, which she permitted me to transcribe." The
minister took it out of his desk.

" When you receive this, Millicent, the hand that pens it will bo
colder than the clay of this burning country, and the Ronald whom
you once, and I would fain hope, always loved, will then be no more.
I have heard of you, Milly — heard of your good fortune — and I
believe in your faithfulness. My life has been a turbulent dream,
beginning in ambition, ending in disappointment. One thing hangs
heavily at my heart — my old fatlier — he died in a gaol, which would
have l)een utterly desolate but for you. Milly, how great was your
revenge! — may God bless you — may God reward you — I cannot. My
wife will be tlie bearer of this to England; she is of another country —
she knows nothing of European habits, and in Scotland the M'Lean
has now no friends ; perhaps I deserve it — but slic does not. There
are reasons why she cannot remain here, which you will hear her
explain, that is — but — I do hope you may meet. She is a guileless,
simple Indian girl, only a girl — not yet twenty, though the mother of
three chihlren ; ftt-l for her — pity her — for she h)\(.(l me, ' not wisely,
but too wril.' You bore our separation like a lu-roinc — she will, I
know, only l)ear it like a woman— and hers will be the sante as ours,
for an earthly eternity. G«h1 bless you, .Milly. Love Ann.ibel for
my sake — no, not for mine, for you ought not to love me, but for her
own Bwcet sake — and farewell — farcwill for ever — kvkr! — R. M'L."'

"'.And chey are come to Enghuxl,' I said. ' Tliey are,* i»he replied;
and it wa.s the fintt time I ever saw her weep : now the tears rolled
rnpidly and heavily down her cheeks. ' They are come, but he is

~Mt woman's trials.

gone ; and though people say that insensibility comes with age, — and
I am not young, — God knows how gladly I would have died to save
the life of Ronald M'Lean — died to save him for his wife and helpless
children ; they are at Portsmouth.'

" ' And you— ? '

" ' I am going there directly. I have hired a carriage for the
purpose ; for it is no' fit that Ronald M'Lean's wife and baiins should
tramp the country in a public coacli, as if they had nae bluid in their
veins. If they want wordly gear, they must share all I have ; and
whether they do or no, they shall not need a friend.' ' You shall not
go alone, Miss Milly," I replied ; ' I too will welcome M'Lean's
widow ; and I know Mrs. Campbell will be proud to go with us.' It
was Millicent's first visit to England; and we did all we could to rouse
her attention to the scenery, and the difference so palpably existing
between Scotland and this cultivated land : but her mind was far
away — and at last we agreed it was the wisest plan to leave her to
herself. My Nancy enjoyed the journey much ; for it was far plea-
santer going that way, than being jolted inside a public coach."

" That's like your bundle story," interrupted Mrs. Campbell,
turning up her really pretty little nose, " that's like your bundle story
— as if I was never in a private carriage till then; — I've been in the
Duchess of Buccleugh's carriage, before now." And she looked at
him as one should say, " I wish you would not be so blunt before
strangers."

"I remember it," replied the minister, quietly; "it was when
Mistress Laurie Grant, her companion, your own first-cousin, broke her
leg, and you went with her to the doctor's."

" Never mind — how should you ken. Surely it was her Grace's
carriage, at all events," replied the worthy woman.

" We found the widow of Ronald M'Lean a poor delicate Indian
creature, who could do little for herself, and less for others — hardly
able to rise off the sofa — with hands that could not work, and feet that
could not walk — with a pale brown cheek, and black soft gazelle eyes
that seemed fainting for the sun, whose rays they had fed upon in her
own bright land : her manners were languid and lady-like, and there

THE OLD M \ID. i? 1 .">

was a tone of tender and deep feeling in her low musical voice that
rendered her desolate situation ten times more interestins: — desolate it
indeed was. What her reasons for seeking a refuge in Scotland were,
were known only to Millict-nt and herself; but she made no secret of
her straitened circumstances ; and her helplessness was the most
pitiable I ever witnessed. Added to the languid bearin<» so charac-
teristic of every Indian, she was hnnguid also from ill-health, and licr
pallid cheek, occasionally flushed by a deep crimson spot, betokened a
disease which I shuddered but to think upon. She would sit for hours
and days caressing her children, or gazing upon a miniature — fiis
likeness — which she always wore round her neck. As soon as she was
aide to travel, Millicent bore her and hers to her own home; and the
widow of the proud house of M'Lcan was indebted to the despised
Milly of the Manse for food and slieltcr. My fears as to the
dangerous nature of the disease which was preying upon her, from her
first arrival in Kngland, were confirmed ; the hot-house plant could not
bear removal to a colder dime — and she drooped, and drooped — and
for two yt-ars Milly ttnded her sick bed, until it became the bed of
death. It was not one of her least trials that the temper of an Indian,
ever hard to bear, was une<|ual to suj)port with firnmess the struggles
of departing nature. .Millicent was obliged to listen to her comphiiii-
ings, and to endure, as well as she could, the weak petidance of the
mother, and the tiresome, tormenting noise (was ever old maid so
situated I) of three romping, spoiled children. Yet she not only bore
them, but was cheerful under all these trials ; and God greatly blessed
lier exertions : for, though that Indian lady's sotd was in n state of
pitiable darkness when she came to Knglantl, befi)re she died she had
Hou^ht and found the Saviour — and sought and found Him through the
iiiHtnnnentality of the hiunble Mdly. I had remained with M' Lean's
wife on one particular evening — and we had enjoyeil nnich j)rofitnble
rnnvefAalion during the tinu-. It was a p.iinful, and \et a pleasing
thing for me to witneH^ ilu- ntniggles the poor lady tuulerwent, trying
to conrpior her ron<ttitutionnl weakness and irritability of temper — the
npirit warring .'igainitt the (1* hIi, and the flesh ngaiiiAt the spirit. If
beiraye<l into error, »he so (piickly perceived her fault. an«l strove so

21 G woman's trials.

earnestly to remove the predilection to evil, that it was impossible not
to love the frail and fragile being who was so quickly hastening to join,
as she hoped, her Ronald in another world. As I wished her good
night, I thought she appeared more feeble than usual, and her eyes
gleamed from out her pale thin countenance with an unearthly bright-
ness. ' Tliis trial will soon pass away now,' I said to Milly, as she
followed me to the door. ' The poor children ! ' sighed Millicent.
* Ay, indeed, the poor children,' I repeated, ' what will become of
them ! ' 'I have no kin,' she replied ; ' and even if I had, I think that
love is stronger than blood : I will be to them as much a mother
as I can — and, by the protection of the Lord, and your advice, I trust
they will not disgrace their name.' ' But, my dear Miss Milly, you
are not aware of the fresh trials you are bringing on yourself.
Norman Cunningham, the late laird's fourth cousin, has offered to take
the boy.'

" ' And breed him up to fish and shoot — without heeding God's
counsel, or caring for man's — then turn him off into a regiment, to be
shot at like a popinjay! No, no — I'll do my best with'the three.
You know, I am only an old maid,' she continued, faintly smiling, ' and
used to trials ; and, like all things else, they are nothing when you grow
accustomed to them. God's will be done ! this care will save the fag
end of my life from being spent either selfishly or uselessly ; and, may
be, the young creatures, when they grow up, will have an affection for
her who cared for them all so well ; — it takes the desolate feel from
about one's heart, to have something to live for and love.' This was a
long speech for Milly ; and I went home through the starlight,
pondering upon the dispensations of the Almighty, and thinking to
myself, how hard it is for us to pass right judgment upon each other.
No one, to sec that stiff, formal, particular old maiden, wovdd conjecture
that so warm, so generous, so tender a heart dwelt within her bosom —
that the love she imbibed in early youth kindled, in its own fitting
shrine, a pure and steady flame, which burned as brightly as if it had
been fed with smiles — not fanned by sighs. I thought— what was there
could extinguish woman's love !— a passion scoffed at by those who
cannot comprehend its height, its depth, its strength, its duration:

TlIK OLD MAID. 217

sorrow quenches it not — steep it in tears, tliey but renovate its lustre ;
press it with thorns, tlie blood that trickles from the wounds is as
incense on the altar ; talk of death, it laughs at the danger and dis-
ease, as if they were but

— 'baseless fabrics of a vision.'"

The minister again paused ; his wife rubbed her eyes more than
once, and then, with the dew still moist upon their lids, seized her
husb;ind's hand, and kissing it with genuine emotion, forgetful of a
stranger's presence, she exclaimeil, " Ah ! Jamie Campbell, 1 w ish /
had been ye'r first love, and then may be you'd have spoken of me as
you have spoken of her." He pressed his wife to his bosom; and,
looking in her face, tenderly replied : —

" I spoke of the love of all women, not of one only. I believe you
would do as much for me as Milly did for Ronald M'Lean. Thank
God, it is not needed."

" I was right," thought I to myself "After all— I was right— there
was an affaire de cwur here — and that made Milly blush,"

" IJut the lady, sir?" said 1.

"O! yes— I had forgotten her: she fell into a soft shej), from
which she awoke in about an hour, and in a low voice ealhd Milly, who
came instantly to her side.

"' My children!' said the young Indian mother. In a few moments
they were in the room : she kissed them— blessed them all : then
taking a sn)all jewel-casket that was under her pillow, she fastened
round the neck of her eldest girl poor Ronald's miniatuie. She then
selected a rich clasp of rubies, and placing it in Milly's hand, addeil,
' ///.f hair anil mine are within this. — Tell me — tell iiu-,' she continued,
rallying her strength for the (|ue»ti<)n, 'do \ou tliink he i> in luaven.''

•* • Tlirough the Redeemer's mercy, I believe it,' replied Milly,
deeply all'ectejl.

'• • AihI— I— I— meet him there?' She cla'«ped her lian«ls for a
brief space— triejl again to »peak. luil the power was gone; she
molionnl the ehildrrn to go near Millirenl, who kissed them all, and
pressed them in her arms; a light and hea\«nly ".nnle passed over the

)t V

218

WOMAN S TRIALS.

lady's beautiful lips; they parted — slie moved her liands once — and only

once — convulsively — and all was over.

*******

" You know the rest; having of course discovered that the children
you so much admired are those of Millicent Morrison's adoption. She
has discarded the grey cat ; and, I believe, only suffers one pet, a
water-spaniel, to share her attentions witli her wards."

*' I am astonished," said I, " that Ronald M'Lean did not say more
about his son : one would have thought he would have been pleased
and proud to transmit his name, a name so old, to posterity."

" I rather think he had learned the emptiness of seeking to keep up
appearances without suitable means.

"Poor Milly!"

"Great Milly!" exclaimed the minister, "how delighted I
should be, to see all maids, wives, and widows, as useful as Milly
OF THE Manse."

t^^^'N.

T in; I ses or ad vk us it v.

TAUT TIIK 1-IUST.

AKMi !" exclaimed olil Jacob Bond, as lie
sat up in Iiis bed, wliilc tlu- wind clattered
and whistled tlironi^li the slii\crin<^ window
frames. " I lush ! Is that Hrindle's hark !"

" No, father ; it is (»ne of the farm doj^s
near tlie villaj^e. Lie down, dearest father; it
^ " IS a cold ni^ht, and you are tremhiinf;."

" I don't know why I should f«'el cold,
Sarah," he replied, |>i>iniin^ his shadowy fmi^ers
loward.H the ^rate, where an abundant (ire blazed ; '* I am
Hurt- von have put down as much wnnd as woidd roast nn ox."

" It is so very cold, father."

" Still, we must not be wasteful, Sarah," he answered ; ' wilful
waste makes woful want." Sarah Bond covered the old man carefully
over, while he laid himself stiffly down upon his pallet, muttering his
favourite proverb over and over again. She then drew the curtains
more closely, and seated herself in front of the fire.

The room had been the drawing-room of the old house in which
Mr. Bond and his daughter resided ; but, for the sake of sparing both
labour and expense, he had had his bed removed into it ; and though
anything but comfortable, a solitary, impoverished, and yot gorgeous
appearance pervaded the whole, such as those who delineate interiors,
loving small lights and deep shadows, would covet to convey to canvass.
The bed upon which the old man lay was canopied, and of heavy crim-
son damask. In the dim light of that spacious room, it looked to the
worn-out eyes of Sarah Bond more like a hearse than a bed. Near it
was an old spinnet, upon which stood a labelled phial, a tea-cup, and a
spoon. When Sarah seated herself at the table, she placed her elbows
upon it, and pressed her folded hands across her eyes ; her chest
heaved convulsively ; and when she removed her hands, she drew a
Bible towards her, trimmed the lamp, and began to read.

The voice of an old French clock echoed painfully through the
chamber. Sarah longed to stop it, and yet it was a companion in her
watchings. Once, a shy, suspicious, bright-eyed mouse rattled among
the cinders, and ran into the wainscot, and then came out again, and
stared at Sarah Bond, who, accustomed to such visits, did not raise her
eyes to inquire into the cause of the rustling which in a few more
moments took place upon a tray containing the remnants of some bread
and cheese, her frugal supper.

" Sarah," croaked Mr. Bond ; " what noise is that ? "

"Only the mice, father, as usual; do, father, try to sleep. I watch
carefully ; there is nothing to fear."

"Ay, ay, men and mice are all the same; nothing but waste.
When I am gone, Sarah, keep what you will have ; it won't be much,
Sarah, my poor girl ; it won't be much ; just enough to need care ; but
KEEF' IT ; don't lend it, or give it, or spend it ; you are fond of spend-

THE USES OF ADVEKSITY. 221

ing, my poor girl ; see that huge fire, enoiigli for three niglits ; early
bad habits. When we lived in a sniall house and were poor, it was
then you learned to be extravagant; 1 had no money then, so did not
know its value."

" But we were happier then, father," said Sarah Bond ; " we were
so cheerful and ha])py tht-n, and so many poor people blessed my dear
mother, and Mary" —

"Hiss — ss," uttered the dying miser; " don't daie mention your
sister, who disgraced me by marrying a pauper ; a pauper who threat-
ened my life, because I would not give him my money to s;ive him
from starving ; but he did not get the old father-in-law's gold ; no ; he
starred, and"

The words thus uttered by her father, who she knew had not many
hours to live — uttered, too, with such demoniac bitterness— forced the
gentle, patient woman to start from her seat, and pass rapidly across
the room to the side of his bed, where she sunk upon lur knees, and
seized his shrunken hands in hers. "Father!" she exclain)ed, " I
have been your child for forty years, and you have said, tliat during
that periotl, by no act of my own, have I ever angered you. Is it not
so?" The old man withdrew one hand gently, turned himself round,
and looked in her face: *' Forty years! Is it forty years?" he repeated;
" but the fair brow is wrinkled, and the abimdant hair grown thin and
gray. Vou wrre a |)retty baby, Sarah, and a merry child ; a cheerful
girl, too, until that foolish fancy. Well, dear, I'll say no more alxMit
it; goo<l, dutiful girl. You gave it up to please your fatlur fidl twenty
years ago, and when he dies, you shall have all his g«dd — there's a
gfMxl father! You must keep it, Sarah, an<l not give it, or lend it.
1 know you won't marry, as fir is tlcad ; nor see your sister — miiul
that ; if you see /irr, «ir serve her, the bitterest curse that ever rose
from n father'n grave will coinpass you in on every side."

".My fatlur I" nhe Haid, "oh! in mj-rcy to ytnirsflf revoke these
word*. She knrw nothing nf her husl)and's conduct ; he usi-d her
even worse than he used you. Oh I for my sake, jciy y«»u will forgive
Mary. It in .nil I asV.. Do what you pli-.tse with your wealth, but
forgive my iii*ler."

222 woman's trials.

" You were always a fool, Sarali," he replied faintly and peevishly.
" If I could do as I j)lease, 1 would take my property with me, for you
will surely spend it. But there is another condition, another promise
you must give me. Now, don't interrupt me again. We will taliv of
her by and by, perhaps. As long as you live, Sarah, as you value my
blcssiug, you must not part with anydiing in this room. You will live
on in the old house, or perhaps sell it, and have a smaller ; yet don't
spend money in new furnishing — don't ; but never part with anything
in this room ; never so much as a stick."

This promise was willingly given ; for, independently of her love
for her father, Sarah Bond had become attached to the inanimate ob-
jects wliicli had so long been before her. Again she endeavoured to
lead her father away from that avarice which had corrupted his soul,
and driven happiness and peace from their dwelling. She urged the
duty of forgiveness, and pleaded hard for her sister ; but, though the
hours wore away, she made no impression upon him. Utterly un-
mindful of her words, he did not either interrupt her or fall into his
former violence. On the contrary, he seemed involved in some intri-
cate calculation — counting on his fingers, or casting up lines of imagi-
nary figures upon the coverlet.

Sarah, heart-broken, and silently weeping, reti"eated to the table,
and again, after turning the fire, betook her to her solace — the precious
volume that never fails to afford consolation to the afflicted. She read
a few passages, and then, though she looked upon the book, her mind
wandered. She recalled the happy days of her childhood, before her
father, by the extraordinary and most unexpected bequest of a distant
relative, became possessed of property — to what extent she could form
no idea. She knew that this relative had quarrelled with the heir-at-
law, and left all to one he had never seen. This bequest had closed
up her father's heart ; instead of being a blessing, so perfectly avari-
cious had he grown, that it was a curse. Previously, he had been an
industrious farmer ; and though a thrifty one, had evinced none of the
bitterness of avarice, none of its hardness or tyranny. He could then
sleep at nights, permit his wife and children to share their frugal stores
with those who needed, troll "Ere aroiuid tlie huge oak," while his

THE USES OK ADVKRSITV. 223

wife accompanied him on the spinnct, and encourage his daughters to
wed men in what was their then spliere of life, rather than those who
might consider tlie gentle blood they inherited, and tlieir superior
education, a sufficient set-off to their limited means and humble station.
Suddenly, riches poured in upon him : his eldest daughter, true to the
faith she plighted, would marry her humble lover, and her father's sub-
sequent harshness to her favourite child broke the mother's heart.
Sarah not only had less firmness of character than her sister, but loved
her father more devotedly, and gave up the affection of her young heart
to please him. His narrow nature could not understand the sacrifice;
and when her cheek faded, and her really beautifid face contracted into
the painful expression of that pining melancholy which has neither
words nor tears — to lull his sympathy, he muttered to himself, "good
girl, she shall have all I have."

No human passion grows with so steady, so imperceptible, yet so
rampant, a growth as avarice. It takes as many shnpes as Proteus,
and may be called, above all others, the vice of middle life, that sod-
dens into the gangrene of old age; gaining strength by vanquishing all
virtues and generous emotions; it is a creeping, sly, keen, persevering,
insidious sin, assuming various forms, to cheat even itself; for it shanus
to name itself unto itself; a cowardly, darkness-loving sin, never daring
to look fair human nature in the face ; full of lean excuses for self-
imposed privaiir)!! ; only revelling in the impurity and duskiness of its
own shut-jq) heart. At last the joy-bells ring its funeral knell, while
it crawls into ettriiity likr a vile reptile, leavini: a slimv track upon
the world.

'I he inmates of the mansion, enclosed in its old court-vani, had
long ceased to attract the oliservaiion of tiieir neighl)ours. Some-
timcs Sarah called at the butcher's, but she exchanged smiles or greet-
ings with few ; and the liaki r rang the rusty bell tuie«- a-week, which
wn» answered by their only B«Tvnnl. Wlun Mr. Ilond (irsl took pos-
sesnion of the manor-house, he liir«-d live domcsticH, and »veiybo«ly
iiaid they could not do with ho f«'w ; and there were two men ti> look
after the gardrni ; but after his daughter's eloptment and his wife's
death, three were discharged, and he ht the lands and gaidens ; an<l

tlien another went, and Sarah felt the loneliness so great, that she made
tlie remaining one sleep in her own room. The house had been fre-
quently attacked ; once, in a fit of despair, her brother-in-law had
forced his way in the night to the old man's side, and but for her
prompt interference, murder would have been done. No wonder,
then, that her shattered nerves trembled as she watched the shorten-
ing candle, and heard the raving of the wind, saw the spectral shadows
the broken plumes that ornamented the canopy of the bed cast upon
the fantastic walls, felt that his hour was at hand, and feared " that
he would die and make no sign ;" still, while those waving fantasies,
passing to and fro through her active but weakened mind, made her
tremble in every limb, and ooze at every pore, and though unable to
read on steadily, her eyes continued fixed upon the book which her
hand grasped, with the same feeling that made those of old cling to the
altar of their God for sanctuary. Suddenly her father called — and she
started as from a dream — " Sarah ! "

She hastened to his side ; " Dear father, what do you want?"

" Child, the room is dark ; and you had so much light just now.
All is dark. Where are you 1 But it was better, after all, to put out
the light ; wilful waste makes " ;

Before the miser had concluded his proverb, the light of /«?s existence
was extinguished for ever I

Several weeks elapsed before Sarah Bond recovered suflficiently
from the shock, ay, and genuine grief, occasioned by her father's death,
so as to investigate her affairs ; the hardness and the tyranny she had
borne for so many years had become habitual, and her own will was
absolutely paralysed by inaction. Jacob Bond had always treated his
daughter as if she were a baby, and it was some time before she could
collect herself sufficiently to arrange her future plans. She had no
friends ; and the sister to whom, despite her father's cruel words, her
heart clung so fondly, was far from her, she knew not where. The
mourning for herself and her servant was ordered from a neighbouring
shop, with a carelessness as to expense, which made people say that
Sarah was of habits different from her father.

The rector and curate of the parish both called, but she shrunk

THE rSES OF ADVERSITY.

from strangers. The very first act, however, of her liberty, was to
take a pew at church, a whole pew, to herself, which she ordered to be
curtained all round. Some said this indicated pride, some said ostenta-
tion ; but it was simply shyness. And soon afterwards, she placed in
the aisle a white marble tablet, " To the memory of Jacob Bond, who
died in the seventy-eighth year of his age, deeply lamented by his
sorrowing daughter."

Some ladies connected with a society for clothing the poor called
upon her, and explained their object ; she poked five old guineas into
the hands of the spokeswoman, but forbade the insertion of her dona-
tion in the visiter's book. During the following week she had
numerous applications from various charitable bodies, to whom she
gave generously, they said, while she reproached herself with narrow-
ness ; to all, however, slie positively refused to become a yearly
subscriber ; and when closely urged by the rector to be one of the
patrons of his school, she answered, " Sir, my father received his
property suddenly, and I may be as suddenly deprived of it. I will
give, but I will not promise."

She added one more servant to her establishment ; and as she ilid
not send out cards returning thanks for the *' inquiries," which
increased daily, Sarah Hond was a very lonely woman ; for though
some, from curiosity, others from want of occupation, others, again,
from the unfortunately universal desire to form acquaintance with the
rich, would have been glad, now the solitary old miser was gone, to
make fellowship with his gentle-looking and wealthy daughter, yet her
reserve and quietness prevented the fulfilment of their wishes. Weeks
and months rolled on ; the old house had been repaired and beautiiied.
Mr. Cramp, Sarah'H law .'igent aixd *' man of business," advised liei to
let the house, of whieli she occupied about as much as a wren could lill
of the nest of an eagle ; an«l, strangely enough, iiridiiig that the Inunblr
houAC of her childluxHl vvn.<i to let, she took it, removing thither nil the
furniture which her father had made her promise never to part with.
The ceiling of the Ih'sI l)od-room was obliged to b«' raised to admit the
iofly )>c<l with itH phimr<<, and the spinnet w.ih assigned a very
comfortable comer in a parlour, where tiic faded stately eluiirM and

* o

226 woman's trials.

gorgeous furniture formed a curious contrast to the bright neatly
papered walls and drugget-covered floor ; for in all matters connected
with her own personal expenses, Sarah Bond was exceedingly frugal.

After her removal, though shy and strange as ever, still she looked
kind things to her rich, and did kind things to her poor, neighbours ;
only in a strange unusual way ; and her charity was given by fits and
starts — not continuously. She moved silently about her garden, and
evinced much care for her plants and flowers. Closely economical
from long habit, rather than inclination, her domestic arrangements
were strangely at variance with what could not be called public gifts,
because she used every effort in her power to conceal her munificence.
She did not, it is true, think and calculate how the greatest good could
be accomplished. She knew but one path to charity, and that was
paved with gold. She did not know how to offer sympathy, or to
enhance a gift by the manner of giving. Her father had sacrificed
everything to multiply and keep his wealth ; all earthly happiness had
been given up for it ; and unsatisfying as it had been to her own heart,
it had satisfied his. Inclination prompted to give, habit to withhold ;
and certainly Sarah Bond felt far more enjoyment in obeying inclination
than in following habit ; though sometimes what she believed a duty
triumphed over inclination.

If Sarah Bond ministered to her sister's necessities, she did it
secretly, hardly venturing to confess she did so, but shielding herself
from her father's curse, by sending to her sister's child, and not her
sister. Receiving few letters, the village postman grumbled far more at
having to walkout to Greenfield, than if he was accustomed to the journey
every day; and one morning in particular, when he was obliged to do
so while the rain poured, he exhibited a letter, sealed with a huge black
seal, to the parish-clerk, saying, he wished with all his heart Miss Bond
had remained at the old manor-house up street, instead of changing ;
and where was the good of taking her a mourning letter such a gloomy
day? it would be very unkind, and he would keep it "till the rain
stopped;" and so he did, until the next morning; then taking back
word to the village postmaster that Miss Bond wanted a post-chaise
and four horses instantly, which intelligence set not onlv the inn, but

THE USES OF ADVERSITY. 227

the village in commotion. She, who had never wanted a post-chaise
before, to want four horses to it now, was really wonderful.

" Which road shall I take, Miss ? " inquired the post-boy, turning
round in his saddle, aiid touching his cap.

" On straight," was the answer. Such a thrill of disappointment
as ran throusrli tlie little crowd, who stood at the door to witness her
departure. " On straight ! " Why, they must wait the post-boy's
return before they could possibly know which way she had gone. Such
provoking suspense was enough to make the entire village demented.

Miss Bond remained away a month, and then returned, bringing
with her her niece, a girl of about eight years old — her deceased sister's
only child, Mabel Graham.

The following Sunday, Sarah Bond went to church, leading her
yoimg companion by the hand ; bodi were in deep mourning, and yet
the very least observant of the congregation remarked, that they had
never seen Miss Bond look so happy as when, coming out, after service,
and fmdiniT that the wind had cliangcd to the north-east, she took off
her scarf in the church porcli, and put it round the neck of the lovely
girl, who strongly remonstrated against the act. It was evident that
Mabel had been accustomed to have her own way ; for when she found
her aunt was resolved her throat should be protected, she turned round,
and in a moment tore the silk into halves. " Now, dear aunt, neither
of our throats w ill suflir," she exclaimed ; while Sarah Bond did not
know whether she ought to combat her wilfulness or applaud such
tender care of herself. It was soon talked of throughout the village,
how wonderfully Sarah Bond was changed ; how cheerful and even gay
-she had become. Instead of avoiding society, how willingly, yet how
awkwartlly, »he entered into it ; how eagerly she sought to learn and to
make herself ac(|uainted with every source and system of education.
No traveller in the arid desert ever thirsted more for water than did
«lie for knowledge, and her desire Hcemed to increase with what ii i'vd
on. The more she had, tl>e more she required ; and all was for the
sake of itnparting what Bhe le.irncd to Malul. She l;incie<l that
teacher!! might not be kiml to this new-found idol ; that she could
transfer information nuire gently antl continuously ; that the relative

228 woman's trials.

was the best instructress ; in short, the pent-up tenderness of her
nature, the restrained torrent of affections that had so long lain dormant,
were poured forth upon the little heiress, as she was already called ;
and captious and determined she was, as ever heiress could be ; but
withal of so loving a nature, and so guileless a heart, so confiding, so
generous, and so playful, and so overflowing with mirth and mischiefs
that it would have been impossible to fancy any living creature,
who had felt the sunshine of fourteen summers, more charming or more
tormenting.

'• I wish, dear aunt," exclaimed Mabel one morning, as she sat at
her embroidery, the sun shining through the open window upon the
abundant glories of her hair, while her aunt sat, as she always did,
opposite to her, that she might, when she raised her eyes from off the
Italian lesson she was conning for her especial edification, have the
happiness of seeing her without an effort ; " I wish, dear aunt, you
would send that old spinnet out of the room ; it looks so odd by the
side of my beautiful piano."

" My dear Mabel," replied her aunt, " I have put as much new
furniture as you wished into this room, but I cannot part with
the old "

" Rubbish," added Mabel, snapping her worsted with the impatience
of the movement.

" It may be rubbish in your eyes, Mabel, but I have told you
before that my dear father desired I should never part with the furniture
of the room he died in."

Mabel looked the truth — " that she was not more inclined towards
the old furniture on that account;" but she did not say so. Have
yon got the key of the old spinnet, aunt? I should like to hear
its tone."

" I have never found the key, my dear, though I have often
looked for it ; T suppose my father lost it. I have danced to its music
before now to my mother's playing ; but I am sure it has not a
tone left."

" I wish you would dance now, dear aunt," exclaimed Mabel,
jumping up at the idea ; " you never told me you could dance ; I never,

THE USES OF ADVERSITY. 229

somehow, fancied you could dance, and I have been obliged to practise
my quadrilles with two high-backed chairs and my embroidery frame.
Do, dear aunt ; put by that book, and dance." It would be impossible
to fancy a greater contrast than aunt and niece. Sarali Bond's erect
and perfectly flat figure was surmounted by a long head and face,
round which an abundance of grey hair was folded ; for by no other
term can I describe its peculiar dress ; her cap plain, but white as
snow ; and a black silk gown, that had seen its best days, was pinned
and primmed on, so as to sit as close as possible to a figure which
would have been greatly improved by heavy and abundant drapery.
Mabel, lithe and restless, buoyant and energetic, unable even to wish
for more luxury or more happiness tlian she possessed, so that her
active mind was fvrced to employ its longings on trifles, as it really had
nothing else to desire ; her face was round as those faces are which
become oval in time ; and her bright laughing eyes sparkled like
sunbeams at the bare notion of making "aunt Sarah" take either the
place of a high-backed chair or the embroidery frame in a quadrille.
" Do dance," she repeated.

" My dear child, I know as little of your quadrilles as you do of
my country dances and reels. No, Mabel ; I can neither open the
spinnet nor dance quadrilles ; so you have been twice refused this
morning; a novilty, is it not, dear Mabel?"

" liut why do you not break open the spinnet ? Do break it open,
aunt; I want to see the inside of it so much."

*' No, Mabel ; the lock is a peculiar one, and could not l)e l)r()ken
without drfacing the marquetre on the covtr, which I should not like lo
do. My poor mother was so proud of that cover, and used t«) dust and
|M)liHli it with her own hands."

" What ! Iicrself ?" exclaimed tlie pretty Mab.l ; " why did not her
•crvantJi do it ?"

" nccnuM-, my dear, she li.id but one."

" Hut one ! I renu-miMT whrn n»y poor niauniia had n<»ne," Mgh«-il
Mnbrl, "and wv were i» niiiwrablr. "

" Hut not from lack of ntlendnnt.s, 1 lliink, answered Sarah llond.
" If iIh-v arc comfort]!, tliev nrr rar< ful ones, and sa<lly wnsfoful.

330 woman's trials.

We were never so happy as we were then. Your mother and I used
to set tlie milk, and mind the poultry, and make the butter, and culti-
vate the flower-garden, and help to do the house work ; and then in the
evenins; we would run in the meadows, and come home laden with
wild flowers, and tired as we were by alternate work and play, my dear
mother would play on that old instrument, and my poor father sing,
and we sisters wound up the evening by a merry dance, your mother
and myself trying hard which could keep up the dance longest."

Mabel resumed her embroidery without speaking ; Sarah Bond laid
down the book she had been reading, and moved restlessly about ; her
manner, when either thoughtful or excited, prevented her features from
being disturbed ; so her feelings were soothed by wandering from place
to place, or table to table ; but after a considerable pause, she said —
" I wish you were a little older, Mabel ; I wish you to be older, that
I might convince you, dear, it is vain to expect happiness from the
possession of wealth, unless we circulate it, share it with others, and
yet do so prudently and watchfully. Yet, my poor dear father would
be very angry if he heard me say that, Mabel."

" Yes, I know," interrupted the thoughtless girl, "for he ivas
a miser."

"Hush, Mabel!" exclaimed her aunt. "How can you say any-
thing so harsh of him from whom we inherit all we have. He was
careful, peculiar, very peculiar ; but he saved all for me ; and may God
judge mercifully between him and me, if I cannot in all things do as he
would have had me," and then she paused, as if reasoning and arguing
with herself; apologising for the human throes in her own bosom that
led her to act so frequently in direct opposition to her father's desires ;
so that to those who could not understand her motives and feelings, she
appeared every day more inconsistent. " It is difficult to judge of
motives in any case. I am sure, if he had only gone abroad into the
world, and seen distress as I have seen it, he could not have shut his
heart against his fellow-creatures : but his feelings were hardened
against some, whom he considered types of all ; and seeing no misery,
at last believed, as many do, whom the world never dreams of calling
as you called him, Mabel — seeing no misery, believed that it only

THE USES OF ADVERSITY. 231

existed in tlie popular whine. I am sure, if he had seen, he would
have relieved, it. I always think tlial when I am giving ; it is a great
blessing to be able to give ; and I would give more, were I not fearful
that it might injure you."

" Injure me, dear aunt ; how ?"

" Why, Mabel, my heart is greatly fixed upon seeing you a rich
heiress, and, in time, suitably established."

" You have just been saying how much happier you were when you
were all poor together, and yet you want to make me rich."

" People may be very happy in poverty before they have known
riches; but having once been rich, it would, I tliink, be absurd to
suppose we could ever be happy again in poverty."

" I saw," replied the girl, " two children pass the gate this morning
while I was gathering flowers — bunches of tlie simple white jessamine
you love so much, dear aunt — and they asked so hard for bread, that I
sent them a shilling " —

'* Too much,'" interrupted Sarah Bond, habitually rather than from
feeling. " Too much, dear .Mabel, to give to common beggars."

" There were two, you know, and they looked wan and hungry.
Al)oul three hours after, I was cantering my pony down Swanbrook
Lane — the grass there is so soft and green, that you cannot hear his
feet, while I can hear every grasshopper that chirps — suddenly I heard
a child's voice singing a time full of mirth, and I went softly, softly on ;
and there, under a tree, sat one of my morning acquaintances, making
believe to sing through a stick, while the other danced with bare feet,
and her very rags fluttered in time to the tune. I never saw more joy
in well-fed, well-clothed children, for they patised and laughed, and
then Iwgnn aj^ain. Poverty was no pain to thtm, at all evcntii."

** True, dear ; 6m/ a x/iilliiifr was a prcnl itral to fjirr at the gntc"
ob»ervc<l hrr aunt, adding;, after a pau-ie, " and yet it shows how little
will make the poor happy. I am sure, if my father had looked abroad,
inntead of Htaying at home to watch his — his — money, he wouhl have
thou^^ht it right to share what he had. It i* an imnntural thing to shut
one's self tip from the duties t)f life ; one gels \w inter«si for any other
outlay to do the heart service; but though those 'p'^'^'' I'h'ldren dance<l

232

WOMAN S TRIALS.

their rags in tlie sunshine, and felt not the stones they danced on, yet
my dear Mabel could not dance witli poverty as her companion — my
blessed, blessed child ! "

" I'd rather dance a jig with mirth than a minuet with melancholy,"
laughed the girl ; " and yet it would take a great deal to make me
miserable if I were with you, and you loved me, dear aunt. Still,
I own I like to be rich, so as to have everything I want, and give every-
body what they want ; and, aunt Sarah, you know very well I cannot
finish this rose without the pale floss silk, and my maid forgot both that
and to order the seed pearl."

" Mabel's complaint was interrupted by the servant, who told
Miss Bond that Mr. Cramp, her attorney, wished to see her."

" Show him in," said Miss Bond.

" He wishes to see you alone, ma'am."

*' His wife is going to die, and he will want you to marry him ! "
exclaimed Mabel, heedless of the servant's presence. " Do, dear aunt,
and let me be bride's-maid."

Sarah Bond changed colour ; and then, while stooping to kiss her
wayward niece, she called her *' a foolish child."

i-^ fe'

TART THE SECOND.

^^rr^^^jCT^'lT R. Cramp, Miss Bond's man of business —
r-^ y was a jilain little man, skilled in the turnings
and windings of the law, and coidd not be said
to recognize distinctly any other code of morals.
On this pariictdar morning, after a few
common-place observations, he niade a some-
what strange in(|niry. " Had Miss Uond heard
that Mr. Airr«(l Hond ha<l come over to Kngland ? " No;
she had not heard it. It was, Mr. Cramp insinuaird (for he
nevrr Maul anything dirt-rtly) — it was rather an awkward
cirriimstancc, .Mr. .Mfrcd Bond's connng to Kngland.

MitH Ilond opt-ncd hrr wide cyp« nlili more widely. She knew
that Mr. .Mfrtd Hond wa« the heir-at law to the property Ixqneathed
her father ; hut what of that ? he had in-ver, that she heard of, dreamed

i II

23-t woman's trials.

of disputing the will ; and she never felt one pang of insecurity as to the
possessions which had of late grown so deeply into her heart. At this
unexpected intimation she felt the blood rush through her veins. In
all her trials — and they had been many — in all her illnesses, not a few —
she had never fainted, never fallen into that sympton of weak-minded-
ness, a fit of hysterics ; but now she sat without power of speech,
looking into Mr. Cramp's round face.

"My dear Miss Bond, you are not ill, I hope?" exclaimed
Mr. Cramp. " I pray you to bear up ; what has been said is doubtless
wrong — must be wrong ; a threat of the opposite party — an undefined
threat, which we must prepare ourselves to meet in a lawyer-like way.
Hope for the best, and prepare " — ~

" For what, sir ? " inquired Miss Bond, gaspingly.

" For any — anything — that is my plan. Unfortunately, the only
way to deal with the world, so as to meet it on equal terms, is to think
every man a rogue. It is a deeply painful view to take of human
nature, and it agonizes me to do so. Let me, however, entreat you
to bear up "

" Against what, sir ? " said Sarah Bond abruptly, and almost fiercely,
for now Mr. Cramp's face was reduced to its original size, and she had
collected her ideas. " There are few things I could not bear up
against, but I must know what I have to sustain."

" Your father's will, my dear lady, is safe ; the document, leaving
everything to you, that is safe, and all other documents are safe enough
except Cornelius Bond Hobart's will — the will bequeathing the pro-
perty to your uncle. Where is that will to be found ? for if Alfred
Bond proceeds, the veritable document must be produced."

" Why, so it can be, I suppose," said Sarah Bond, relapsing in some
degree into agitation ; " it was produced when my father inherited the
property, as you know."

" I beg your pardon. Miss Bond," he answered ; " certainly not as
I knorv, for I had not the honour of being your father's legal adviser at
that lime. It was my master and subsequent partner. I had not
the privelcge of your father's confidence until after my colleague's
death."

THE USES OF ADVERSITY. 235

'* No one," said Miss Bond, " ever had my father's conjidence,
properly so called ; he was very close in all money transactions. The
will, however, must be, I think, in Doctors Commons ? Go there
immediately, Mr. Cramp; and — stay — I will >^o with you; there it is,
and tiiere are the names of the witnesses."

" My dear lady !" expostulated the attorney in the softest tones ot
his soft voice, " I have been there already. I wished to spare a lady
of your sensibility as much pain as possible; and so I went there
myself, with Mr. Alfred Bond's man of business, whom I happened to
know ; and I was grieved — cut up, I may say, to the very heart's core,
to hear what he said ; and lie examined the document verj' closely too
— very closely ; and, I assure you, spoke in the handsomest, I may say,
the very handsomest manner of you, of your character, and usefulness,
and generosity, and Christian qualities ; he did indeed ; but we have all
our duties to perform in this world; paramount things are duties. Miss
Bond, and his is a very painful one."

" What need of all these words to state a sim|)le matter. Have
you seen the will .'"' said Sarah Bond.

" I have."

'* NVfll, and what more is tiiere to see, unless Mr. Alfred Bond
denies his relative's power to make a will ?"

** Wliicli, I btliivc, ho docs not. He says he never njade a will ;
that is all."

" But there is the will," maintained Sarah Bond.

** I am very sorry to woimd you ; but cannot you understand ?"

*' S|)fak plainly if you can, sir," said Sarah Bond, sternly ; " speak
plainly if you can ; I listen."

" lie maintains, on tlu- part of his client, that the will is a
fo rj^ery."

" He maintain!! a falsehood, then," exclaimed .Miss Bond, with a
linn dctrrniination and dignity of manner that nstonislu-d Mr. ('iMiiip.
If the will be forj^ed, who is the forjjer ? Certainly not my father; for
he inherited the pro|)«'rty from bin cMer brother, who died insane.
The will is in hit favour, and not in my father's. Besides, neither of
them held any rnrresponih-nce with the testator fi)r twenty y«'ars : he

236 woman's trials.

died abroad, and the will was sent to England after his death. Would
any there render a gratuitous service to persons they had never seen ?
Where could be the reason — the motive? How is it, that, till now,
Alfred Bond urged no claim ? There are reasons," she continued,
•' reasons to give the world. But I have within me, what passes all
reason — a feeling, a conviction, a true positive knowledge, that my
father was incapable of being a party to such a crime. He was a stern
man, loving money — I grant that — but honest in heart and soul. The
only creature he ever wronged was himself. He did that, I know.
He despoiled himself of peace and comfort, of rest and repose. In
that he sinned against God's dispensation, who gives that we may give,
not merely to others, but lawfully to ourselves. After all, it would
have been but a small thing for him to have been without this property,
for it gave him no one additional luxury. I wonder, Mr. Cramp, that
you, as a man, have courage to stand before me, a poor unprotected
woman, and dare to say, that will is forged."

While she spoke, Sarah Bond stood forth a new creature in the
astonished eyes of the sleek attorney. He absolutely quailed before
the vehemence and fervour of the usually mild woman. He assured
her she was mistaken ; that he had not yielded the point that the will
was a forgery ; that he never would admit that such was the case ;
that it should be his business to disprove the charge ; that he hoped
she did not suppose he yielded to the plaintiff, who was resolved to
bring the matter into a court of justice. He would only ask her one
little question ; had she ever seen her father counterfeit different hands ?
Yes, she said, she had ; he could counterfeit, copy, any hand he ever
saw, so that the real writer could hardly tell the counterfeit from the
original. Mr. Cramp made no direct observation on this, except to beg
that she would not mention that " melancholy circumstance " to any
one else.

Sarah Bond told him she should not feel bound to make this talent
of her father's a crime, by twisting into a secret what he used to do as
an amusement. Mr. Cramp urged mildly the folly of this, when she
had a defence to make ; but she stood all the more firmly upon what
she fearlessly considered the dignity of right and truth ; at the same

THE USES OF ADVERSITY. 237

time assuring him, she would to the last contest that right, not so much
for her own sake, or the sake of one who was dear to her beyond all
power of expression, as for the sake of him in whose place she stood,
and whose honour she would preserve with her life. Mr. Cramp was
a shrewd man of business. He considered all Miss Bond's energy, on
the subject of her father's honour, as romance, though he could not
help believing she was in earnest about it. He thought it was perfectly
in accordance with the old miser's character, that he should procure or
make such a document ; though he considered it very extraordinary, for
many reasons, that it should have imposed upon men more penetrating
and learned than himself

Sarah Bond, after his departure, endeavoured to conceal her anxiety
from her neice ; Init in vain. Mabel was too clear-sighted ; and it was
a relief, as much as an astonishment to her aunt, to see how bravely
she bore up against the evil news. Miss Bond did not remember that
tlie knowledge of the power of wealth does not l)elong to sixteen
summers. Mabel knew and thought so little of its artificial influence)
that she believed her happiness to proceed from birds and Howcrs,
music and dancing, and books — those silent but ehnpient tongues that
live tlirough centuries, for our advantage ; besides, her young heart
welled forth so much hope, that she really did not understand, even if
they lost their fortime, their " troublesome fortune," as she called it,
how it would seriously aflect their happiness. There was no philosophy,
no heroism in this ; it was simply the im])ulse of a bright, sunny,
beautiful young mind.

The course of events promised sof)n to strip .Mabel of all except
her own hopeful imaginings. Mr. .Mind Bond urged his pha with all
the energy and bitterness of one who had been for many years
despoiled of his right. His solicitor, soon after his claim was first
declared, made an oHlr to S;irali Bond to settle an aiuuiity on her .-uid
her niece during the term of their natural lives ; but this was indignantly
apiirned by Sarah ; from him she would accept n«) favour ; she either
had or had not a right to the whoh- of the property originally left lo hei
uncle. \ nrious circnnustances, loo tedious to enumerate, comltined to
prove that the will deposited in Dorfoni Onnmons was not a true

238 woman's trials.

document ; the signature of Cornelius Bond Hobart was disproved by
many ; second only to one incident in strangeness was the fact, that
tliough sought in every direction, and widely advertised for in the
newspapers of the day, the witnesses to the disputed document could
not be found — tliey had vanished.

The incident, so strange as to make more than one lawyer believe
for a time that really such a quality as honesty was to be found in the
world, was as follows; — Sarah Bond, be it remembered, had never seen
the disputed will ; she was very anxious to do so ; and yet, afterwards,
she did not like to visit Doctors Commons with any one. She feared,
she knew not what ; and yet, above all things, did she desire to see this
will with her own eyes.

IMr. Cramp was sitting in his office when a woman, muffled in
a cloak, and veiled, entered and seated herself without speaking. After
a moment, she unclasped her cloak, loosened the wrapping from her
throat, threw back her veil, and asked for a glass of water.

" Bless me, Miss Bond, is it you? I am sure I am much honoured
— very much ! "

" No honour, sir," she replied, " but necessity. I have been
to Doctors Commons ; have seen the will — it is my father's writing ! "

" You confess this to me ? " said Mr. Cramp, drawing back on his
chair, and almost gasping for breath.

" I do," she answered ; " I proclaim it ; it is my father's copy of the
original will. But how the copy could have been substituted for the
real will, I can only conjecture."

" Surmise is something," replied the lawyer, a little relieved ;
" conjecture sometimes leads to proof."

" My father and uncle lived together when the will came into their
possession. They were in partnership as farmers. My father's habits
were precise : he always copied every writing, and indorsed his copies
with a large C ; the very C is marked upon the will I have just seen at
Doctors Commons."

" That is singular," remarked Cramp ; " but it does not show us
the way out of the difficulty ; on the contrary, that increases. Some-
body — I don't for an instant suppose Mr. Jacob Bond — in proving the

THE USES OF ADVERSITY. 239

will must have sworn that, to the best of his knowledge and belief,
those were the real, which are only copies of the signatures."

" True ; and such a mistake was extremely characteristic of my
uncle, who performed many strange acts before he was known to be
insane. This was doubtless one of them."

" But where is the original ?" inquired the man of business.

" Heaven knows ! I cannot find it ; but I am not the less assured
of its existence."

" Then we must persist in our plea of the truth of the document in
Doctors Commons."

" Certainly not," said Sarah ; " you must not persist in a falsehood
in my name. If you do, I shall rise up in court and denounce you I I
feel it my duty, having seen the will, to state my firm belief that it is a
copy of the original will, and nothing more."

Poor Mr. Cramp was dreadfully annoyed. lie could, he thought,
manage all sorts of clients. He reasoned, he advised, he entreated ; he
got her counsel to call upon her ; but all in vain. She would go into
court, she said, herself, if her counsel deserted iier. She would not
give up the cause ; she would plead for the sake of her father's honour.
She was well assured that the real will was still in existence, and would
be discovered — found — sooner or later — though not, perhaps, till she
was in her grave.

" The senior counsel was so provoked at what he called his client's
obstinacy, that he threw up his brief, and the junior took advantage of
the circumsLtnce to make a most eloquent speech, enlarging upon the
singularity of no appeal having be»'n previously made by the plaintiff —
of the extraordinary disappearance of the witnesses — of the straight-
forward, »imple, and beautiful truthfidness of the defendant ; in short,
he moved the court to tears, .'uid laid the foundation of his future
fortmip. Ibit aft»T that day, .*^arah Bond and lur niece, Malid. were
hoineleHS and liouM-leHs. Yet I sliould not Kay that ; for the gales
of a gaol gaped «i<l»ly for the "miser's daughter," though only for
n few <lays ; aOer which society rang with praises, lou<l an«l rejieated,
of Mr. .Mfrcd Bonds liberality, who had discharged the defendant's
costs as wril as his own. In truth, people lalkid so nnirh and so

210 woman's trials.

loudly about this, that they had altogether forgotten to inquire what
had become of Sarah and Mabel.

The clergyman of the parish was their first visiter. He assisited
them to look into the future. It was he who conveyed to Sarah,
Alfred Bond's determination that she should be held scatheless. The
good man delivered this information with the manner of a person who
feels he comes with good news, and expects it will be so received ; but
Sarah Bond could only regard Alfred as the calumniator of her father's
memory, the despoiler of her rights. The wild expression of joy in
Mabel's face, as she threw herself on her aunt's bosom, gave her
to understand that she ought to be thankful for what saved her from a
prison. '

Words struggled for utterance. She who had borne so much and
so bravely, was overcome. Again and again she tried to speak, but
for some hours she fell from one fainting fit into another. She had
borne up against all disasters, until the power of endurance was over-
whelmed ; and now, she was attacked by an illness so violent, that it
threatened dissolution. At this very time, when she needed so much
sympathy, a stern and severe man, in whom there was no pity, a man
who had received large sums of money from Miss Bond as a trades-
man, and whose account had stood over from a particular request of
his own, believing that all was gone, and that he should lose, took
advantage of her illness to levy an execution upon the goods, and to
demand a sale.

At this time her reason had quite deserted her, and poor Mabel
was incapable of thought beyond her duty to her aunt, which made her
remove her to a cottage-lodging from the turmoil of the town. No
one distinctly knew, except Mabel, why Sarah Bond was so attached
to the old furniture, and few cared. And yet more than one kind
heart remembered how she had liked the " rubbishing things," and
bought in several, resolved that, if she recovered, and ever had " a
place of her own again," they would oflfer them for her acceptance.
Her illness was so tedious, that except the humble curate and the good
rector, her inquirers had fallen off — for long sickness wears out friends.
Some would pause as they passed the cottage window, where the

THE USES OF ADVERSITY. 241

closely-pinned tloivn curtain told of the caution and quiet of sickness ;
and then they would wonder how poor Miss Bond was ; and if they
entered the little passage to inquire, they could scarcely recognise in
the plainly-dressed, jaded, bent girl, whose eyes knew no change but
from weeping to watching, and watching to weeping, the buoyant and
beautiful heiress whose words had been law, and who once revelled in
luxury. The produce of the sale — though everything, of course, went
below its value — left a small surplus, after all debts and expenses were
paid ; which the clergyman husbanded judiciously, and gave in small
portions to Mabel. Alfred Bond himself called to offer any assistance
that might be required, which Mabel declined, coldly and at once.

Patiently and devotedly did slic watch beside the couch of her
poor aunt; one day suffering the most acute anxiety if the symptoms
became worse than usual ; the next full of liope as they abated. Did
I say that one day after another this was the case ? I should have
written it, one hour after another ; for truly, at times she fluctuated
80 considerably, that no one less hopeful than Mabel could have con-
tinued faithful to hope. As Sarah Bond gained strength, she began
to question her as to the past. Mabel spoke cautiously ; but, unused
to any species of dissimulation, could not conceal the fact, that the old
furniture, so valued by her grandfither, and bequeathed with a con-
ditional l)lessing, was gone — sold ! This had a most unliappy effect on
the mind of Sarah Bond. She felt as if her father's curse was upon
her. She dared not trust herself to speak iq)ou the subject. Wlieu
the good rector (.Mr. Goulding) alluded to the sale, and attempted to
enter into partindars, or give an account of the affairs he had so kindly
and no ably manage<l, she adjured him in so solemn a manner never
to Hpcnk of the past, if he wished her to retain her reason, tliat he,
unconnciouA of the m«)tive, and In-lieving it arose entirely froni regret
nt her chnn-^'Cil fortuncN, avoided it as nmrh as she could desire ; .iml
thui nhe had no (»pportunity of knowing how nnich had Iwen saved
by ll«P fK«nevolence of a few kind persons. Sarah Bon«l fell into the
very ronunon error of imagining that persons ou^dit to fctww her
thoughtH nn«l frelings, without her explaining them. But her mind
and judgment had been »n enfeebled by illiuss and mental suffering,

242 woman's trials.

that, even wliile she opposed her opinions, she absolutely leaned on
Mabel — it was as if the oak had summoned the woodbine to support
its brandies. Iliat which gave Mabel the most imeasiness, was
her determination to leave the cottage as soon as she was able
to be removed ; and she was seriously displeased because Mabel men-
tioned this intention to Mr. Goulding. Despite all poor Mabel could
urge to the contrary, they quitted the neighbourhood — the sphere of
Sarah Bond's sudden elevation, and as sudden depression — alone, at
night, and on foot. It was a clear moonlight evening in midsummer,
when the twilight can hardly be said to give place to darkness ; and
when the moon shines out so very brightly, that the stars are reduced
to pale lonely sparks of white rather than light, in the blue sky. It
was a lovely evening ; the widow with whom they had lodged was not
aware of their intention until about an hour before their departure.
She was very poor and ignorant, but her nature was kind ; and when
Sarah Bond pressed upon her, out of her own scanty store, a little
present of money beyond her stipulated rent, she would not take it,
but accompanied them to the little gate with many tears, receiving
charge of a farewell letter to the rector. " And haven't you one to
leave me for the curate ? " she inquired. " Deary me ! but I'm sure
for every once the old gentleman came when Miss Bond was so bad,
the curate came three times ; and no letter for him ! deary, oh, deary
me ! "

" Why did you not put me in mind to write to Mr. Lyset, Mabel?"
inquired her aunt, after the gate, upon which the poor woman leaned,
had closed.

Mabel made no reply, but Sarah Bond felt the hand she held
tightly within hers tremble and tlirob. How did she then remember
the days of her own youth as she thought, '* Oh ! in mercy she might
have escaped from that which only so causes the pulses to beat or the
hand to tremble!" Neither spoke, but Sarah had turned over the
great page of Mabel's heart, while Mabel did not confess, even to
herself, that Mr. Lyset's words, however slight, were more deeply
cherished than Mr. Goulding's precepts. They had a long walk to
take that night, and both wept at first ; but however sad and oppressed

THE lSi:S OF ADVERSITY. 2i3

the mind and spirits may be, tliere is a sootliing and balmy influence
in nature that lulls, if it does not dispel, sorrow ; every breeze was
perfumed ; as they passed the hedges, there was a rustling and niur-
nuirin!j of birds amongst the leaves : and Mabel could not forbear
an exclamation of delight when she saw a narrow river, now half-
shadowed, then bright in the moonbeams, bounding in one place like
a thing of life, then brawling around sundry large stones that impeded
its progress, again subsiding into silence, and flowing onward to where
a little foot bridge, over which they had to pass, arched its course ;
beyond this was the church, and there Mabel knew they were to await
the coach which was to convey them to a village many miles from
their old homes, and where Sarah Bond had accidentally heard there
was a chance of establishing a little school. Mabel paused for a
moment to look at the venerable church standing by the highway,
tlic clerg}-man's house crouching in the grove behind. Thi- hooting
and wheeling of the old owls in the ivied tower was a link of life.
Sarah Hond passed the turn-stile that led into the churchyard, followed
by .Mabel, who shuddered when she found herself surrounded by damp
grass-green graves, and beneath the shadows of old yew-trees.

She knew not where her aunt was going, but followed her silently.
Sarah Bond led the way to a lowly grave, marked by a simjile head-
stone. She knelt down by its side, and while her bosom throbbed,
she prayed earnestly, deeply, within her very soul — she prayed, now
a faded, aged woman ^she prayed above the ashes, the crumbling
bones of him she had loved with a love that never changes — a love that
is green when the head is gray — that Mabel might never suflfer as she
had HufftTed. Ki-lieved by these devotional exercises, Sarah rose, and
the humble and stricken pair bade adieu to the melancholy scene, and
betook themHelves to their toilsome journey. Forliujately the stage
overtook tlu-m, and having with some difliculty obtained seats, they
were in due lime deposited in a village, where Sarah felt there would
be nil eyes to pry into their poverty, no ears to hear of it, no tongue
to lell tijereof, aM«l point them out "as the poor ladies that once were
rii-li." This was n great relief, though it came of pride, ami she knew
it ; and she said within liersc-lf, " When health strengthens my body. I

244 woman's trials.

will wrestle with this feeling, for it is unchristian." She never even to
Mabel alluded to what was heaviest on her mind — the loss of the old
furniture ; though she cheered her niece by the assurance that, after a
few months, if the Almighty blessed the exertions they must make for
their own support, she would write to their friend Mr. Goulding, and
say where they were ; by " that time," she said, she hoped to be
humble, as a Christian should be. After this assurance was given, it
was astonishing to see how Mabel revived. Her steps recovered their
elasticity, her eyes their brightness. Sarah Bond had always great
superiority in needlework, and this procured her employment ; while
Mabel obtained at once, by her grace and correct speaking, two or
three day pupils. Her wild and wayward temper had been subdued
by change of circumstances ; but if she had not found occupation,
it would have become morose. Here was not only occupation, but
success ; success achieved by the most legitimate means — the exertion
of her own faculties ; there were occasionally bitter tears and many
disappointments ; and the young soft fingers, so slender and beautiful,
were obliged to work in earnest ; and she was forced by necessity to
rise early and watch late ; and then she had to think, not how pounds
could be spent, but how pennies could be earned. We need not, how-
ever, particularise their labours in this scene of tranquil usefulness. It
is suHicient to say that Mabel's little school increased ; and that both
she and her aunt came at length to feel and speak thankfully of the
uses of adversity, and bless God for taking as well as for giving.

Though Sarah Bond had used every means within her power to
conceal her place of retreat, yet she often felt bitterly pained that no
one had sought her out. She said she wished to be forgotten, unless
she had the power to clear away the imputation on her father's name.
And yet, unknown to herself, she cherished the hope, that some one
would have traced them, though only to say one cheering word of
approbation regarding their attempt at self- independence. Sarah
thanked the Almighty greatly for one thing, that Mabel's cheerfulness
was continued and unfluctuating, and that her mind seemed to have
gathered strength by wholesome exercise. She believed that her
affections, if not free, were not entangled, and that her pride had

TUE USES OF ADVERSITY. 21-5

risen against her fancy ; and it was beautiful to see how, watching to
avoid giving each other pain, striving continually to sliow the bright
side of every matter, the one to the other — and extract sweets instead
of bitters from every little incident, led to their actually enjoying even
the i>rivation3 which exercised their tenderness towards each other.

Time wore away many of their sorrows, as Time always does ; a
kindness we forget to acknowledge, though we often arraign him for
spoiling our pleasures. Sarah and Mabel had been taking an evening
walk, wondering how little they coidd exist upon, and feeling that it
was a wide step towards independence to have few wants.

*' I can see good working in all tilings," said Mabel ; " for if I
had obtained the companionship of books, which I so eagerly desired
at first, I should not have had the same inducements to pursue my
active duties, to read my own heart, and the great book of nature,
which is opened alike to peer and peasant; I have found so much to
leani, so much to iliiiik of by studying objects and persons — reading
persons instead of books."

" Yes," added Sarah Bond ; " and seeing how much there is to
admire in every development of nature, and how much of God there is
in every human being."

As they passed along the village street, Mabil observed that the
cottagers looked after them, and several of her little pupils darted
their heads in and out of their homes, and laughed ; she thought some
village fun was afloat, that some rural present of (lowers, or butter, or
eggs, had been sent — a little mysterious offering for her to guess at ;
and when she turni-d to fasten the wicket gate, there were several o{
the jX'n.sant.H knotted together talking. A sudden exclamation from
her aunt, who had entered the cottage, confirmed her suspicion ; but it
was »iK)n di»»ipatetl. In tluir absence, their old friends Mr. (ioulding
and the curate hnd arrived by the coach, and eni«T»'tl tluir liumlile
dwelling. From n wagon at the »an)e tinie were lifted several articles
of ohl furniture, which were taken into the cottage, nn<l properly
arranged. There were two old cliairit, an embroidered stool, a china
vajie, a cabinet, n table, and the npinnct. Strangely the furniture
looked on the sanded fl«M)r, but never wn» gift more grateful t(»

246 woman's trials.

receiver than were these to Sarah Bond. She felt as if a ban was
removed from her when she looked upon the old things her father
had so valued. Absorbed in the feelings of the moment, she did not
even turn to inquire how they had so unexpectedly come there. Nor
did she note the cold and constrained greeting which Mabel gave to
Mr. Lyset, She herself, after the first self- engrossing thoughts were
past, turned to give both gentlemen the cordial reception which their
many former kindnesses, not to speak of their apparent connexion
with the present gratifying occurrence, deserved. From Mr. Gould-
incr she learnt that the furniture had been bought up by a few old
friends, and committed to him to be sent to her as a mark of their
good will : he had only delayed bringing it to her, till she should have
proved, as he knew she would, superior to her misfortunes by entering
upon some industrious career.

As the evening closed in, and the astonishment and feelings of their
first meeting subsided, Sarah Bond and Mr. Goulding conversed apart,
and then, indeed, she listened with a brimming heart and brimming
eyes. He told of his young friend's deep attachment to Mabel ; how
he had prevailed upon him to pause before he declared it, to observe
how she endured her changed fortune, and to avoid engaging her
affections until he had a prospect of placing her beyond the reach of
the most harrowing of all poverties, that which keeps up an appearance
above its means. " Her clieerfulness, her industry, her goodness, have
all been noted," he continued. " She has proved herself capable of
accommodating herself to her circumstances ; the most difficult of all
things to a young girl enervated by luxury and indulgence. And if my
friend can establish an interest in her affections, he has no higher views
of earthly happiness, and I think he ought to have no other. You will,
I am sure, forgive me for having counselled the trial. If adversity had
followed your exertions, if you had failed instead of succeeded, I should
have been sooner at hand to succour and to aid."

Sarah Bond had never forgotten the emotion of Mabel, caused by
the mention of the curate's name wlien they quitted their old neigh-
bourhood, and the very reserve Mabel showed proved to Sarah's
searching and clear judgment that the feeling was unchanged. Truly

in that hour was her chastened heart joyful and grateful. '* Mabel
must wait," she said, " until the prospect of advancement becomes
a reality ; for it would be an ill return of disinterested love for a
penniless orphan to become a burden instead of a blessing. Mabel
would grow more worthy every day ; they were doing well ; ay, he
might look round the white-washed walls and smile, but they n'cre
prosperous, healthful, happy, and respected; and if she could only live
to see the odium cast upon her father's memory removed, she would
not exchange her present poverty for her past pride." She frequently
afterwards thought of the clergyman's rejoinder, " Tiiat riches, like
mercy, were as blessed to the giver as to the receiver, and that they
only created evil when hoarded, or bestowed by a heedless hand."

They cerlaiidy were a liappy group in that lowly cottage room that
evening. Mabel's proud bearing had given place, as if by magic to a
blushing shyness, which she tried to shield from observation by every
possible attempt at ease. She talked to Mr. Goulding, and found
a thousand uses for the old furniture she had once so heartily despised.
'* She would sit in the great high chair at the end of tliat table, with
her feet on the stool, and the china vase in the midst fdled with humble
cottage flowers — meadow-sweet, and wild roses, and sweet-williams,
8ca pinks, woodbine, and wild convolvulus ! Did not Mr. Goulding
like cottage flowers best ? " No ; the clergyman said he did not, but he
thought Mr. Lysct did, and the young man assured her it was so ; and
then gazed on the only love his heart, his deep, unworn, earnest heart,
had throbl)ed to, with an admiration which is always accompanied
by fear, lest something should prevent the realisation of the one great
cartlily hope.

And Malxl was more fitful than her aunt had ever seen lier.
Fearlul lest her secret, as she thought it, should be discovered, she
made a.i many tiiruH and windings as a hare ; and yet, unskilled in
di!*gui<ting her fe»-lings, after spi-nding many wor<ls in arranging and re-
arranging, Jihe suddenly wished that the spinnet could l)e opened. " If,"
she oxclnimed, " that vn\iU\ be opj'iu'd, I nhonld br able to teach Mary
Go«lwin nnisie ; and lur mother sr< mi <1 in wish ii mi nmrh : surely we
can open the instrument I "

24-8 woman's trials.

" It has not been opened for years," replied Miss Bond ; " and
I remember, once before, Mabel wished it opened, and I refused, lest
forcing the lock might harm the marquetre, of which my poor mother
was so fond. It has never been opened since her death." But Mabel's
desire was of too much consequence, in her lover's eyes, to be passed
over, although all seemed agreed that if it were opened it could not be
played upon ; so in a few minutes he procured a smith, who said he
would remove the hinges, and then unscrew the lock from the inside,
which would not injui'c the cover. This was done ; but greatly to
poor Mabel's dismay, the cavity where strings once had been, was
filled with old papers.

"Now, is not this provoking?" said Mabel, flinging out first
one and then another bundle of letters. " Is not this provoking?"

" No, no," exclaimed Sarah Bond, grasping a lean, long, parchment,
round which was bound an abundance of tape. " No. Who knows
what may be found here ? " At once the idea was caught ; Mabel
thought no more of the strings. " I cannot," said Sarah Bond to
Mr. Goulding, " untie this ; can you?" Her fingers trembled, and she
sank on her knees by the clergyman's side. The eyes of the little
group were fixed upon him ; not a word was spoken ; every breath was
huslied ; slowly he unfastened knot after knot ; at last the parchment
was unfolded ; still, neither Sarah Bond nor Mabel spoke ; the latter
gasped for breath — her lips apart, her cheeks flushed ; while Sarah's
hands were clasped together, locked upon her bosom, and every vestige
of colour had deserted her face.

" Be calm, my dear friend," he said, after glancing his eyes over
tlie parchment ; " be calm. You liave experienced enough of the
changes and chances of this world not to build too quickly upon any
foundation but the one — the goodness of God ! I do believe this is an
especial proof of His Providence, for I do think this is Cornelius Bond
Hobart's original will in your uncle's favour."

It would be useless to attempt a description of the scene that
followed ; but the joy at the reality of the discovery was a heartful
temperate joy — the joy of chastened hearts. Sarah Bond, blessing
God, above all things, that, go the law as it would, her father's memory

THE OSES OF ADVERSITY. 249

would now be held as tl»e memory of an honest man ; that he had,
as she had said, copied, not forged the will. The shadow cast upon
her father's grave was removed ; and she was indeed happy. She
assured the rector iiow useful adversity had been to them — iiow
healthful it had rendered Mabel's mind — and how much better, if
they recovered what had been lost, they should know how to employ
their means of usefulness. Mr. Lyset's congratulations were not so
hearty as Mr. Goulding's ; he fill that now he was the curate and
Mabel the heiress ; and he heard the kind good night, which Mabel
spoke, with a tingling ear. He was proud in his own way ; and,
pride, as well as affection, had been gratified by the idea of elevating
her he loved. Mabel noted this, and wept during a sleepless night,
that he should believe her so unworthy and so ungrateful.

There was much to think of and to do ; tlie witnesses were to be
found, and lawyers consulted ; and Mr. Cramp was siezcd with a sudden
fit of virtuous indignation against Mr. Alfred Bond, after Sarah Bond's
new " man of business " had succeeded in producing the only one of the
witnesses in existence, who, he also discovered, had been purposely
kept out of the way, on a former occasion, by some one or other. The
delays were vexatious, and the quirks and turns, and foldings, and
doubles, innumerable; but they came to an end at last, and Mr. Alfred
Bond was obliged in his turn to vacate the old mansion, in which he
had revelled — a miser in selfish pleasures.

I have dwelt longer than was perhaps necessary on the viinutice of
this relation, the principal events of which are so strongly impressed
u|>Qn my memory. But the more I have thought over the story, the
more I have been struck with the phases and in)j)ulses of Sarah Bond's
unoblru.tive, but deeply feeling mind ; her habits struggling with her
feeling«i, leading me to the conclusion that ■.he would never have
become, even with the expanding love of her niece to enlarge her
views, thoroughly tnunanncled from parsimonious habits but for
her Ie»»on in adversity, which, instead of teaching, as it cKk-s a
worldly mind, the ralitr of monry, taught her higher nature its
projH-r uic.f.

It was )x*autiful to see how Malnl grew into In r Hint's virtues ; and

250

WOMAN S TRIALS.

even Mr. Goulding was startled by the energy and thoughtfulness
of her character. She soon convinced Mr. Lyset that her prospects
grew brigliter in liis love ; and for a time he was romantic enough
to wish she had continued penniless, and he had been born a peer,
to prove his disinterested affection. This, however, wore away, as
man's romance always does, and he absolutely became reconciled to his
bride's riches. Sarah Bond was living a very few years ago, beloved
and honoured — a fountain of prosperity and blessing to all who
needed. There was no useless expenditure, no show, no extravagance
in " the establishment," at the old manor-house ; but it was pleasant
to perceive the prosperity of the poor in the immediate neighbourhood;
there was evidence of good heads and kind hearts, superintending all
moral and intellectual improvements ; there were flourishing schools,
and benevolent societies, and the constant exercise of individual
charities ; and many said that Sarah Bond and her niece, and nephew,
did more good with hundreds than others did with thousands. From
having had practical experience of poverty, they understood how to
remedy its wants, and minister to its sorrows. And to the last hour of
her prolonged life, Sarah Bond remembered the uses of adversity.

TlIK M K IMII ANT'S DAll. II I'KR,

^' ooR littlf tiling, liow it limps! Hush! I dcilarc
it has gDiic throiigli tlu- ht-dge iiUn tin- church-
yard. Wait one, only one nionu-nt, dear sister.
and I shall certainly catch ii ;" — and over tin-
church-yanl stile boinided Hose Sunderland, as
1 lightly as n sun-heam. or. I should rather Hay. to he in
keeping with tin- time and i)lace, as lightly as a m(M)n-
iK-am; for that favourite orl> of love and ladies hatl risen,
'^ even xvhilf the golden hue of an nutinnnal sun lingered
in the sky, and its pale inutrtain h«an)s, silvered the early

252 woman's trials.

dew-drops, which the gay and thoughtless girl shook from their verdant
beds in her rapid movements. But Rose cared little about dis-
turbing dew-drops, or indeed anything else that interfered with the
pursuit which occupied her for the moment. With the eagerness of
sixteen she had pursued a young leveret among the silent tombs, as
thoughtlessly as if she trod only on the sweet wild thyme, or humble
daisy; and when she had nearly wearied out the object of her anxiety,
she saw it take shelter under the worn arch of an ancient monument
with evident satisfaction, convinced that now she could secure her prize
if Margaret would come to her assistance.

"Sister, sister," repeated she, eagerly, "come; if we do not take
it, it will surely become the prey of some weazel or cub-fox before
morning."

Margaret slowly passed the stile.

" One would think you were pacing to a funeral," said Rose,
pettishly. "If you will do nothing else, stand there at least, and
— now I have it!" exclaimed she joyously; "its little heart pants —
— poor thing! I wonder how it got injured!"

"Stop," replied her sister, in a low agitated voice: " you forget —
yet how can you forget? — who it is that rests here; who — ." She
placed her hand upon a plain stone pedestal, but strong and increasing
emotion prevented her finishing the sentence.

" My dear Margaret, forgive me ! It is ever thus. I am fated to
be your misery. I am sure I never thought — ."

"Think now, then. Rose, if it be but for a moment; think — think
that only one little year has passed since he was with us; since his
voice, so wise, and yet so sweet, was the music of our cottage ; his
kindness, the oil and honey of our existence. Though the arrow had
entered into his soul, it festered not, for no corruption was there!
When he was reviled, he reviled not again ; and though his heart
was broken, his last words were, ' Lord, thy will, not mine, be
done!' My dear, dear father!" she continued, sinking at the same
moment upon her knees, and clasping her hands in devout agony,
" teach me to be like thee ! "

" Say me, rather," ejaculated the sobbing Rose, whose grief became

THE merchant's DAUGHTER. 253

as vivid as had been her exultation: " say, teach Rose to be like thee.
You are like our father; but I am nothing! — anything! O, Margaret!
can you forgive me? There; I'll let the liare go this moment. I'll
to anything you wish ; indeed I will."

" Do let it go," replied Margaret Sunderland, who had quickly
recovered her self-possession ; " it would be ill-done to permit any
suffering near his grave."

After a brief pause, she rose from her knees, and passing her
arm through that of her sister, left tlie churchyard to its moonlight
solitude.

The Widow Sunderland dwelt on the banks of the River Witham,
and the path the sisters had taken led for some time along the pic-
turesque meadows that sloped to the very water's edge. As they
pursued their way, an opening amid the trees discovered the beautiful
window in Lincoln cathedral — at once the pride and boast of that
venerable city ; the beams of the moon were full upon it, and its varied
panes glittered like many-tinted silver in the placid yet wavering
light. " How beautiful !" exclaimed Rose. Margaret sighed. " Is it
not beautilul?" interrogated the gay-hearted girl. "Yes, Rose; but
methinks I more admire these lofty towers, standing out against the
clear night-sky ; and looking, not like relics, but giants of the olden
days. We have no right to upbraid Time in this instance ; for, he.

' gcntlfst aniuiiK the thnillx

Of Deitiny, upon whose wounds hath laid
Hit lenient touches, soft as light that fnlls,
From the wan moon, upon the lowers and walls.
Light deepening the prufoundcst sleep of shade.'

Time and man liave loved those glorious towers ; and I love them
better than the moon-tinted window; for see, Rose, a clotid has veiled
her brightness, and — and now my towers are as prominent as ever,
while your wimhiw is obscured."

"You would draw n moral from tliat, my wise sister."
*• It woidil be quaint ; and, I fear," replied Mart'arel, " an f»ld
song to, perhaps, not a new lime; signifying, that nuicli that is excellent
and benufiful is lost, not having the advnnt.ige of a goo«l light."

251 woman's TIUAX-S.

" Sister, I forgot to tell you that I met Lady Louisa Calcraft this
morning at the library, and she took no notice of me. I am sure
she knew me, for she said something to a gentleman who was with
her, and I distinguished the words, ' dead father,' and ' ruined
fortunes.'"

"The ban is upon you, and upon us all, Rose," replied Margaret,
turning her pale but beautiful countenance towards her sister —
" The ban —

'Of buried hopes,

And prospects faded.'

Would to God that were all — ! that any sacrifice on my part
could pay the debts my poor father, in his honest, but wild specu-
lations, incurred; and then I could return tlie haughty stare of those
who worshipped, it appears, not us, but our prosperity, and now scorn
the daughters of a ruined house. The Calcrafts in Lincoln ! — but
they are everywhere. I could ill have borne a scornful look from
one of them."

"They are friends of Ernest Heathwood — are they not?"

A deep and glowing crimson, which luckily the obscurity of the
night preserved from observation, mantled the cheeks of Margaret
Sunderland, while she replied —

" Yes, I believe so ; but, dear Rose, you might have spared me
the mention of his name."

" You will be more angry with me when you know that this
morning I also saw Ernest, and he requested — prevailed on me to — "

" To what ? "

" To take a letter to you."

Again the tell-tale blood rushed to the maiden's face, and as
cpiickly receded, leaving her fine features pale and rigid as chiselled
alabaster. It was long ere she recovered herself sufficiently to form
any determination, much less arrange her words for utterance; but
the only manifestation of displeasure she evinced towards her thought-
less sister, was by withdrawing her arm and walkino- resolutely
forward, unaided and alone.

Enough has been doubtless gathered from this conversation, to

THE merchant's DAUGHTER. 255

show that Margaret and Rose were the daughters of a ruined mer-
chant — of one, indeed, who had been a prince yesterday, and a beggar
to-day — of one whose argosies had gone forth, but returned no
more — whose name one vear would have guaranteed miUions — vet
who died the next, wanting a shilhng. Maurice Sunderland had
cheerfully surrendered all to his creditors, yet that all was insufficient
to satisfy the claims made, and justly made, upon him. House,
plate, jewels, servants, had all been sacrificed. Not a vestige of
their former prosperity lingered; and they who had revelled in
superfluities, now wanted the most common necessaries of life. A
small jointure alone remained; and in that his wife had only a life-
interest. Margaret was many years older than her sister; and in
his agony, their father wished that the grave li;id closed over llicm,
as it had over his other children, before this great sorrow had come
upon them.

His wife was vain, weak, selfish; a woman who knew not what it
was to grow old gracefully, and who haunted youthful pleasures with
a wrinkled brow, a flaxen wig, and a painted cheek. Her mind
was inconceivably small ; she wept more for the loss of her diamonds
and Dresden than for her husband's misfortunes ; and mourned inces-
santly that her Mino, her darling, her exquisite poodle, was of necessity
deprived of his chicken panada! Being a man of no ordinary intellectual
powers, Mr. Sunderland had chosen her — no one knew why! — froni
the love of contrast, perhaps; or tlic tlan, as well as now, prevailing
opinion, that silly women make the most tender wives; or, perhaps,
smitten with her pretty face — time out of nund the matrimonial bait for
wise men as well as fools! Hut certainly no one could have im.'igined
her to have been the mother of such a being as Margaret ."Sunderland.
One little anecdote will serve to show the nature of M.-irgan-t's
principles — and it is to In- hojicd, act as a lesson to many similarly
circiim<ilance<l, who seem not aware that h(»n<'Hiy demands the sacrifice
of o//; so that, in the emphatic words of Seripture, we may "owe
n() man anything, but to love one another."' When her father was
making out an inventory of her p«'r«onal pr«)perty f<»r the b«'nefit of
his creditors, Margaret entered the room with a noiseless step, imd

256 woman's trials.

placed before him a large casket, containing all the jewels she pos-
sessed. The old man laid down the pen, and looked into her sweet
face, without a word.

" These were only valuable, dear father, because you gave them,
and loved to see me wear such finery ; — in our future dwelling they
would be worse than useless ; — take them, and let them, for my sake,
be appropriated to the payment of our debts."

" Not so, my child ; you have nothing to do with — "

She prevented the sentence being finished by an affectionate kiss.

" I will not suffer you to say so, because it makes me as if not one
with you. If you do not take them I will sell them myself, and send
the money where it may be required.''

Mr. Sunderland unclosed a portion of the casket, and his eyes
rested on a tiara of the finest oriental pearl. " I remember when you
last wore this, my child ; it was at the gallant fete given at Hampstead,
by the rich Jew of Cheapside. How beautiful it looked in your
dark liair."

" And does not this look as beautiful, father?" exclaimed Margaret,
snatching a white rose from an overturned vase of flowers, and placing
it on her head. When we live in a nice country cottage, you shall
gather one for me every summer morning."

" But the winter — the winter will come there, girl, as well as here,
and where then shall I gather roses ? "

" We will then, father, live upon memory — and upon hope ! " She
hardly dared trust herself to pronounce that little word hope, which,
to a really broken heart, sounds more like mockery than consolation.
Her father looked mournfully into her face, and shook his head in
bitter silence ; he then reclosed the casket, and would have placed it in
her hands.

" They are the only portion left you, Margaret."

" Not so, father ; they would take a portion from me."

" How, child ? "

" An honest conscience ! I cannot keep them ; they were bought
with your money for the daughter of tlie rich — they would not, dearest
father, become the daughter of a poor man. All I ask is, permission to

THE MERCIIANt's DAUGHTER. 25'

imitate your example — You give up all : O ! sufter me to do the same,
and do not suppose so meanly of your own girl, as that she valued
these more than that self-approbation, whose silent voice is sweeter
than the applause of courts or kings."

Maurice .Sunderland was neither a harsh man nor a stern father; he
had loved and admired his daughter, hut he had never known her till
that moment. He made no reply to her words, but folded her silently
to his breast ; and she felt tears — the first she had ever known him
shed — falling upon her brow.

These misfortunes may be considered the commencement of
Margaret's trials. Tlie family removed to Lincoln, as one or two
relatives lived there, who could forward the plans Miss Sunderland
had formed for their support. Her affection for her father would not
pennit her to leave him to the can- of a giddy, childish sister, and her
almost idiotic mother; particularly as Iiis healtli was visibly sinking,
and nature appeared unable to repair the inroads of disease. She,
therefore, accepted most joyfully the charge of the education of four
little girls, her cousins, who were to remain with her only during the
day, as their parents resided in the good city of Lincoln. Her father
raisctl no obstacle to this plan ; though his withered cheek flushed, and
liis hand trembled, the first day that he saw his beautiful iNLirgaret
quietly arranging, and superintending her clcvcs in the back parlour of
tlicir cottage, which she had converted into a school-room ; but her
mother's ca])rice and spirit of contradiction was a constant source of
mortification, although it tended still more to draw forth her daughter's
virtues : she was never satisfied ; always regretting their past splendour
— always reproaching poor NLirgaret with having degraded her family,
by condescending to become a "school-mistress;" and yet thought-
lessly squandering her hard earnings on st-lfish «'njoyni»'nts. This was
not all; — no one who h.is onlv rmd of "The delightful task of
leaching the young i<lea how to sImmiI," can forn) an estimate of the
self-denial which must be the portifin of an instructress, particularly if
•he \>c conscientious in the discharge of her duty. All iiifltunces, to br
useful, must be cxerciscil with <liscrelion ; and it is but one little si«j»
from dominion to tyranny. Margaret wa<>, tlnrt-fore, obliged to

X t.

258 woman's trials.

practise as well as preach ; and, indeed, one without the other is
always unavailing ; she had to watch, not only herself but others, so
that her maxims might be really useful to those she sought to improve.
She wished to make them not only accomplished, but informed ; and
her " new system," as it was called, was subject to many animadversions,
both from her relatives and their friends ; who, as usual on such
occasions, quite forgot what Miss Sunderland had been, in what she
was ; treated her merely as " the governess," and admitted her only as
such to their houses.

Of all persons doomed by the wavering scale of fortune to earn
their own bread, none are so much to be felt for as governesses. The
servant, when her work is done, has an hour or two that she can call
her own, and she has no ambition beyond her sphere. But the
governess has no sphere — she is considered — part of the kitchen —
part of the drawing-room; — from the latter she is often expelled, and
from the former she turns with disgust. She struggles between a
double existence ; she is a sort of amphibious creation, belonging to
two separate states. She must appear like a gentlewoman, while she
hardly receives the wages of a lady's maid ; she must be " accomplished
and refined," yet keep her accomplishments out of the way till called
for ; and support insult, as if she were devoid of feeling. Heaven
help those who are obliged to go " a governessing," for they can
expect but little help from earth ! — Volumes miglit be filled by " The
Trials" of " a Governess."

At one of those visits, which she continually shrunk from, and
only endured as an occasional penance, she met the very Ernest
Heathwood, to whom Rose so unwittingly alluded during their evening
walk. The eldest son of a baronet, who, with his new honours, had
changed, it was understood, a mercantile for a somewhat aristocratic
name, was a likely person to attract the attention, and win the civili-
ties, of all within his circle ; and he was welcomed to tlie mansion of
one of Miss Sunderland's relatives with extraordinary courtesy. Mar-
garet, always collected, always dignified, sought neither to attract, nor
avoid, his attentions ; but silently suffered all the little manoeuvres of
second-rate country town society, to take their course. The anxiety

THE MEUCHANT's DAUGHTER. 259

that some mothers evinceil to crowd a tribe of ill-dressed daughters to
a tuneless piano, and there show off their skill in the various depart-
ments of 6rst, second, and third harmony ; while others contented
themselves with exhibiting the more quiet, and, consequently, more
endurable litter, of card drawings and Poonah painting, could only
excite a feeling of pity in such a mind as Margaret's. Pity, that
woman should so thoroughly mistake the end and aim of her creation,
as to descend to be the mistress of a puppet-show — and herself enact
first puppet ; and something more severe than pity towards the other
sex, who outwardly encourage, while they inwardly despise, such petty
traps of slavery. " An age," reflected Margaret, " which values itself
on caricature, parody, or burlesque, can produce little that is sublime,
either in genius or virtue ; yet those qualities, and the display of im-
perfect, and, in nine cases out of ten, more senseless accomplishments,
amuse: and we live in an age that must be amused, thoui^h our best
and noblest feelings pay the penalty;" and she employed her slender
fingers with ten-fold care, to build up the card-castle, which her little
pupil. Cicely, had thrown down.

"It is abominable," whispered her sister, who that evening had
accompanied her, " to hear such bad music, while you could give us
so much that is good." A quiet motion of her sister's finger to her
lips prevented further observation ; and the card-castle bid fair to
mount three stories high, when, suddenly, Ernest Heatlnvood turned
round, and, addressing himself to the fair architect, asked if now she
would fav«»ur them, f<jr he was sure she could. " O, yes," observed
one of the dowagers ; " of course, Miss Sunderland ran and will ; she
tcuchet so Well, that she must be a pnificient." Souu- feeling of pride,
perliaps (for it will hnger, despite nur btlter jiidgnu-nt), c.illed so
excpiiiiite a blush to .Margaret's cheek, and young Heathwood gazed
on her with such respectful, yet visible adtniration, that, had she not
been " only ngoverneHs," the entire female sex, likely to l>e niarried, or
given in marriage, would have thrown up the game a« hopeles.s ; but
the eldest son of a rich barf)n«f would never ihnik of the daughter
of n broken merchant — /iiici a fiorcrncss! the thing was impossible —
<|uite.

260 woman's trials.

What Ernest Heathwood did think while Margaret commenced
that sweet ballad of Moore's, " All that's bright must fade," it is im-
possible to say ; but a thrill, amounting to anguish, was felt by every
one in the room, by the peculiar manner in which she pronounced the
following lines, as if they were the pure echo, the true feeling of the
sweet Indian melody: —

" 'Wlio would seek or prize

Delights that end in aching ?
"Who would trust to ties

That every hour are breaking ?"

Then it was that Ernest Heathwood saw into her very soul, and felt
that she must indeed have known change and misfortune.

Music is dangerous from lips of beauty, but more dangerous from
those of feeling : the union of both was too much for Ernest's philo-
sophy ; and he was, it must be confessed, somewhat bewildered during
the remainder of the evening. She inspired him not only with interest,
but admiration ; and he felt more anxiety than he cared to express,
when her history was truly, though, it appeared to him, coldly com-
municated by her relative, the next day, with the additional intelligence,
that her father had been seized only that morning with paralysis, and
that little hopes were entertained of his recovery ! He called con-
stantly at the cottage ; but it was not until some time after the
bereavement, which Margaret, above all, lamented, that he saw again
the being for whom he felt more interest than ever.

There are peculiar circumstances which train our susceptibilities
to receive impressions, and misfortune either softens or hardens the
heart : the incapacity of her mother, the volatility of her sister, ren-
dered them both unfit companions for the high-minded Margaret; and
she might well be pardoned for anticipating the evening that now
invariably brought Ernest to the cottage, as a time when, free from
toil and restraint, she would meet the sympathy and tenderness, without
which a woman's heart must be sad and unsatisfied. She was not, like
many other wise and prudent people, at all aware of the danger of her
position. She had no idea that, while seeking to alleviate or dispel
sorrow l)y what she termed friendly converse, a deep and lasting

feeling was silently, but surely, implanting itself in her bosom, and
that time and opportunity were fostering it, either for her happiness or
misery. Her girlhood had passed without any of what we may call the
frippery of love. How she had escaped the contagion of flirtation, is
wonderful ! Perhaps it might be attributed to a certain reserve of
manner, which served as a beacon to fools and puppies, to warn
them off whenever it was their fortune to encounter Margaret Sun-
derland.

Among the wealthy citizens many had sought her hand ; but she
was not to be courted by a golden shower ; and after her father's
failure, none remembered the beautiful daughter of the unfortunate
merchant : it was, therefore, not to be wondered at, that she valued
him who valued her for herself, and herself only — and dreamed the
dream that can be dreamed but once !

Many evenings were spent in that full and perfect trustfulness,
which pure and virtuous hearts alone experience. .So certain indeed
appeared the prospect of her haj)piness, that she sometimes doubted
its reality ; and when a doubt .is to the future did arise, it pressed so
heavily, so very heavily, upon her heart, that, with a gasping eagerness
whiclj excited her own astonishment, she cist it from her, as a burden
too much for her to bear.

She had known and loved Ernest for some months, when one
morning their only servant interrupted her little school, by saving,
that a gentleman in the parlour wished to speak to her. On entering
the room, a short, dark, elderly man returned her graceful s^dutation,
with an uncouth eflbrt at ease and self-|)ossession.

" Miss Sunderland, I presume?"

.She bowed; a long pause succeeded, which neither seemed billing
to interrupt; and when Margaret raised her eyes to his, there was
something — »he could hardly tell what — that made her think him the
bearer of evil tidings. Yet was the countenance not unphasing l«) look
upon — the expanded and .s«imewhat elevale<l brow— the roiuu\ full eye,
that had rather a benign than ntirn expression, would have lK't«»keni'd
a kind, and even gentle being, had not the lower |M)rtion of the face
boded heavincsH and severity — the mouth was thin and compressed —

262 woman's trials.

the chin lean and short — the nose looked as if nature had at first
intended to moidd it according to the most approved of Grecian fea-
tures, but suddenly changing her plan, left it a rude piece of unfinished
workmanship.

" Madam," he at last commenced ; " you are, I believe, acquainted
with my son."

"Sir!"

" My son, Mr. Ernest Heathwood ? "

Again Margaret replied by bowing.

" I have resided many years abroad, but if your father was living
he would know me well."

The word " father " was ever a talisman to poor Margaret, and
she looked into his face, as if imploring him to state how he had
known her parent. He evidently did not understand the appeal ; and
continued, in a constrained manner, his lips compressed, so as scarcely
to permit egress to his words, and his eyes bent on the carpet, unwil-
ling to meet her now fixed and anxious gaze.

" I have every respect for you. Miss Sunderland ; and yet I feel it
but right to mention in time, that an union between you and my son,
is what I never could — never will agree to. The title (and the new
baronet drew up his little person with much dignity) I cannot pre-
vent his having, but a shilling of my money goes not with it, unless
he marries with my perfect consent. Forgive me, young lady, I
esteem your character ; I — I — ; he raised his eyes, and the death-
like hue of Margaret's features seemed, for the first time, to give him
the idea that he spoke to a being endowed with feeling.

" Miss Sunderland, I was not prepared for this. I had hoped
matters had not gone so far. I — then you really love Ernest?"

" Whatever my sentiments, sir, may be towards your son," she
replied — all the proud woman roused within her — " I would never
entail beggary on him."

" Well spoken, faith ; and I am sure, Miss Sunderland, that had
you — in short, you must be aware this is a very delicate subject ; but
had you fortune equal to my hopes for Ernest, I would prefer you —
upon my word I would — though I never saw you till tliis moment, to

TiiK mkrcuant's daughter. . 263

any woman in England. You see," he persisted, assuming the tone of
low-bred confidence; " I have, as a mercantile man, had many losses;
perhaps you know that?" He paused for a reply, which Margaret
could not give. " These losses must be repaired, and there is only
one way to do so. If I had not the station to support which I have,
it would not signify ; but as a man of title, the truth is, I require, and
must have, ten or twenty tliousand pounds within a very little time —
there is but one way to obtain ii — you would not — (and here the
man of wealth, and the man of rank, forgot himself in the husband and
the father) you would not, I am sure, by persisting in this love aflair,
entail ruin upon mc and mine. Ernest has two sisters and a mother,
Miss Sunderland."

Margaret's breath came short and quick, the room reeled round,
and, as she endeavoured to move to open the window, she must have
fallen, but for the support which Sir Thomas Ilcathwood aftorded her.

" I will never bring ruin on any one," she said at last. — '' Wliat is
it you require of me ? "

" To write and reject, fully and entirely, my son's addresses, and
never, never see him njore."

" Tiiis, sir, I cannot ; I will see him once more, for the last time,
this evening. I will practise no deceit, but I will tell him what is
necessary. There, sir, you have my word, and may the Almighty ever
preserve you and yours from the bitterness of poverty !"

Weil might the old baronet dread the eflects of another interview
between Marg.iret and his son, when he himself experienced such a
sensation of awe and love towards this self-denying girl ; yet siieli was
the holy truth of her resolve, that he had not the j)ower to dispute it.
He left the cottage, after various awkward attempts to give utterance
to hin contending feelings.

".Margaret!" screamed her mother, as she was passing to Iut
own room ; " do, M.irgnrct, just come here and nee how Wi-ll — how
young I l<M)k with my widow's c.np — a conceit of my own, tliis Irim-
n»ing — when you arc married to KrncHt I shnll drens in while. I slumld
like to know what sort of a m.-m his father is, and if he is likely to
live long or die scxin : d«ar Margaret," ndde<I the p<x»r woman, in :ill

264 woman's trials.

the pure vulgarity of mind, " I should so like to hear a child of mine
called 'my lady!'" Tliis was too much for her poor daughter, who
rushed into her little chamber, and burying her face in her hands,
yielded to emotions which, for a time, were too powerful to submit to
the control of reason.

The evening of that eventful day was clear and balmy; the flowers
of early spring disseminated their fragrance over every little weed and
blade of grass, till they were all impregnated with a most sweet odour:
the few insects which the April sun calls into existence, clung wearily
to the young tendrils for support, and the oak-leaves of the past
autumn still rustled beneath tlie tread of the creeping hedge-hog or
swift-footed hare. It was a tranquil hour, and Margaret Sunderland
repined at its tranquillity. " I could have better parted froin him in
storm and tempest, than amid such a scene as this," she said, as she
leaned against a gnarled trunk of a withered beech-tree for support.
The next moment Ernest was at her side.

" And thus, to please the avarice of my father, Margaret, you cast
me off for ever — you turn me adrift — you consent to my union with
anotlier, though you have often said, that the union, unhallowed by
affection, was indeed unholy. — Is this consistent ? "

" I come not here to reason, but to part from you ; to say, Ernest
Heathvvood, what I never said before ; that so true is my affection for
you, that I will kneel to my Maker, and fervently and earnestly
implore him to bless you, to bless your bride, to multiply happiness
and prosperity to your house, and to increase exceedingly your riches
and good name."

" Riches !" repeated her lover (like all lovers), contemptuously ;
" with you I should not need them."

" But your family ; you can save them from the misery of poverty —
from the plague-spot, that marks, and blights, and curses, all whom it
approaches. I should have remembered," she added, with unwonted
asperity, " that it rested upon us, and not have suffered you to be
contaminated by its influence."

Many were the words he used, and the reasons he urged, to shake
what he called her mad resolve. He appealed to her affections, but

THE merchant's DAUGHTER. 265

they were too strongly enlisted on the side of duty to heed his
arguments ; and after some reproaches on the score of caprice and
inconsistency, which she bore with more patience than women so
circumstanced generally possess, he left her under feelings of strong
excitement and displeasure. He had not given himself time to con-
sider the sacrifice she made ; he felt as if she deserted him from a
feeling of over-strained pride ; and bitterly hinted (though he knew it
to be untrue at the time), that it miglit be she had suddenly formed
some other attachment. When she found herself indeed alone, in the
dim twilight, at their old trysting spot — though while he was present
she had repelled the last charge with true womanly contempt — she
would fain have recalled him to reiterate her blessing, and assure him,
that though her resolve was unchangeable, she loved him with a pure
and imsullied faith. Had he turned on his path, he would have seen
her waving him back ; and tlie tears that deluged her pale cheeks,
would have told liiin but too truly of the suj)pressed agony she liad
endured.

.Many weeks elapsed, and she had outwardly recovered her tran-
quillity, though she was but ill-fitted to go through her daily labours
as before, when Rose so unexpectedly announced that she had seen
Ernest, and taken a letter from him. When the sisters entered the
little cottage, it was evident that .something was necessary to dispel
Mrs. Sunderland's ill temper.

" Yes, it's a pretty little thing ; what loves of eyes it has, and such
nice long ears ! But really, Margaret, you must not go out and leave
mc at home without a sixpence : there was no silver in your purse, and
the post-boy came here, and refiised to leave a London letter without
the money; — it is astonishing how impudent those fellows are — and
no — "

Margaret interrtipteil her mother, by saying that she left ten or
twelve nliillingH in her purse.

"Ay — very trnc--so you dul ; but a woman e.illed with such an
assortment of nwcet rollnrs, and it is so seldom I have an opportunity
now of treating myself to any little bit of dress, that I used them ; it
was so cheap, only eleven and »ix|H*nr«', with so lovelv .i bordir of

266 woman's trials.

double-hem stitch, and the corners worked in the most dehcate bunches
of fusia — here it is."

"And did the letter really go back, mother?"

" I wish you would not call me mother ; it is so vulgar ! every
one says mamma, even married women. No, it did not go back ; I
sent Mary into the little grocer's to borrow half-a-crown. You need
not get so red, cliild : I said you were out — had my purse — and would
repay it to-morrow morning."

Degradation on degradation, thought poor Margaret, as she took
the letter : " I cannot repay it to-morrow ; that was the last silver in
the house ; — I know not where to get a shilling till next week."

" I must say, Margaret, for a young woman, you are the least
communicative person I ever met; you have got that letter by heart
by this time, I should imagine : pray, who is it from ? "

Margaret Sunderland seemed perfectly unconscious of the question,
but continued the re-perusal of her epistle, as if her mother had not
spoken; she then left the room without uttering a single word.

" I must say. Rose, that your sister gives me a great deal of uneasi-
ness," said Mrs. Sunderland; she is so unlike me in all things— so self-
willed — so like your poor father, who, indeed, always made her his
companion. She wants tenderness, and — "

" O! my dear mamma!" exclaimed the generous, thoughtless Rose,
" you cannot think that, I am sure. If you only knew what a sacrifice
she made to-night to catch you that little hare ; — and, as to her purse,
I know that the reason she changed colour was, that it contained all the
money in the house."

" Then she ought to manage better ; I never used to be without
money in London ; it is very odd — " and so ran on this inconsiderate
lady, until the heart of her youngest-born ached within her, from per-
fect weariness, and shame at her selfishness.

" Rose," said Margaret, as the former entered their bed-room,
" come hither : you may, perhaps, see Ernest Heathwood again, and
you can then return him this ;"' — she placed the unopened letter in her
hand ; — " I do not wish to read it, particularly now ; it might have a
baneful effect upon the honest purpose which, I trust in God, I shall

THE merchant's DAUGHTER. 267

have strength to accomplish. And now, dearest, sit here, and look
over this other letter I have received from London."

Rose took the paper that Margaret offered, and moved from
opposite the cracked looking-glass which garnished the simple dress-
ing-table.

" I'll stand here, please, sister ; I cannot bear to sit o])positc
that disagreeable, trumpery glass ; it makes my nose crooked. Oh !
Maggy, do you remember the beautiful mirrors we had in Bedford
Square, and my pretty little bed, with its pale pink silk curtains, looped
with roses? Heigho! I did not know what a patched quilt meant then;"
and she glanced contemptuously at the clean, but humble, coverlet of
their simple couch.

'* My dear Rose, do be serious, and read."

" What an ungenteel-looking letter ! — such coarse paper, and such
a scribbely-scrabbely hand!" Whatever the hand or paper might be,
after she had fairly commenced, she did not again speak until she had
Hnished the perusal from beginning to end, and then, with one loud cry
of joy, she threw herself into her sister's arms.

" Mar<,'aret, dear Margaret — to think of your taking this so quietly,
when I — my dear sister — I shall certainly lose my senses. We shall
be rich, more rich than ever; and you can marry Ernest — dear, kind
Ernest — and we can live in London, and keep our carriage, and —
Nay, sister, do let me break that odious glass. O, Margaret, I am so
happy ! let us go tell our mother — mamma — I beg her pardon ; and
you shall give up your pupils ;— dear, beautifid letter! let me read it
again ;" and the second perusal threw her into greater raptures than
the first.

"It in better not to mention this to our niDtlur, I think," said
Margaret, when her sister's ecstacies h;u\ in sdiiw degree sui)sided.
" And yet shr is our parrnt, and has therefore a right to our
confidrncf, though I know she will endeavour to thwart my re-
solves."

"Thwart your resolves?" npliid Rose, in aAtoni.shiuint ; "why,
what r«<io|ves can yoti have, except to marry Ernest, and be as happy
as tin- day is long ?"

268 woman's trials.

" I shall never marry Ernest Heathwood," replied her sister, in a
trembling voice, " thougli I certainly shall be more happy than I ever
anticipated in this world."

" I cannot pretend to understand you," said Rose ; " but do let
me go and make mamma acquainted with our unlooked-for pros-
perity:" and she accordingly explained to her mother, that a brother of
her father's, one who had ever been on decidedly bad terms with all his
relatives, and their family more particularly, had died lately in Calcutta,
bequeathing by will his property, amounting to many thousands, to his
niece, Margaret Sunderland, who, in the words of his singular testa-
ment, " had never offended him by word or deed, and must ever be
considered a credit to her sex." There is no necessity to recapitulate
the ecstasies, plans, and arrangements that succeeded, and in which
Margaret took no part.

The next morning she granted her pupils a holiday, and when her
mother went out, doubtless for the purpose of propagating the account
of their good fortune, Margaret told her sister that she wished to be
alone for some time to arrange her plans. She had been so occupied
for about two hours, when Rose Sunderland, accompanied by a gen-
tleman, passed the beechen-tree where Margaret and her lover had
last met.

" I am sure she will not be angry — it will be an agreeable surprise
— and mamma won't be home for a long time yet," said Rose; " I will
open the parlour door, and — "

" There I shall find her forming plans for future happiness, in
which, perhaps, I am not included," interrupted Ernest Heathwood.

" You are unjust, sir," replied Rose, as they entered the cottage ;
and in another instant Margaret, with a flushed cheek and a burning
brow, had returned the salutation of him she loved. There was more
coldness in her manner than he deemed necessary, and, with the im-
petuosity of a high and ardent spirit, he asked her if she attributed
his visit to interested motives.

" No," she replied, " not so; I hold myself incapable of such feel-
ings, and why should I attribute them to you? I tell you now, as I
told you when last we met, that my constant prayer is, that God might

THE merchant's DAUGHTER. 269

exceedingly bless yon and yours, and save you from poverty, which, in
the world's eye, is the extremity of sin."

•' But, Margaret," interrupted Rose, as was her wont, " there is no
fear of poverty now ; and Sir Thomas himself said, that, with even a
moderate fortune, he should prefer you to other women."

" I have not even a moderate fortune," replied the noble-minded
girl, rising from her seat, and at the same time laying her hand on a
pile of accompt-books that she had been examining. " You, Mr.
Heathwood, will understand me, if I say that, when I first breathed
the air of existence, I became a partaker of my family's fortunes, as
they might be, for good or evil."

"And you shared in both, Margaret, and supported botli with dig-
nity," said Ernest, eagerly.

'* I believe you think so, and I thank you," slie replied, while the
flush of gratified feeling passed ovtr lur fine features. " And now, bear
with me for a little, while I explain my future intentions. My poor
father's unfortunate failure worked misery for many who trusted in
him with a confidence which he deserved, and yet betrayed. I meant
not that," she added, hastily, ** he did not betray ;— but the waves,
the winds, and the misfortunes, or ill-principles of others, conspired
against him, and he fell, overwhelmed w'nh his own and others* ruin.
Lips tliat before had blessed, now cursed hint lluy had so fatally
trusted, and every curse seemed to accumulate suflerings which only
I was witness to. To the very uttermost — even the ring from his
finger — he gave cheerfully to his creditors; there was no reserve on
his part— all, all was sacrifice*!. Vet, like the daughters of the horse-
leech, the cry was still 'Give! give!' and," she added, with trtinlding
voice, "at last he did give— even his existence! and I who knew so
well Uie honc»ur of his noble nature, at the very time wlun his cold
corpse lingered in the house,— because I lacked tlir means of decent
burial, — wni doomed to receive letters, and hear c«)jnplaint8 of his in-
justice. In the mlenl hour of niglil I knelt by his collin ; decay had
been merciful ; it spared liin fralures to the last ; and I cotdd cotmt
and kifi<i the furrown which di"ap|MMntinent, and the scornings of n
si'lfinh world, h.id grnvfn on M« J.r,.« I.mi ()' ),..« porfertly did I

feel, in that mehinclioly hour, that liis spirit was indeed departed, and
that my hps rested on nought but cold and senseless clay; yet I clung,
with almost childish infatuation, to the dwelling it had so sweetly
inhabited for such a length of years. The hours rolled on, and the
grey mists of morning found me in the same spot ; it was then, as the
light mingled with, and overcame the departing darkness, that I
entered into a compact with the living spirit of my dead father, that,
as long as I possessed power to think or act, I would entirely devote
my energies to the fulfilment of those engagements, which his neces-
sities compelled him to leave vmsatisfied. I am ashamed to say, I
nearly forgot my promise ; and though a portion of my hard earnings
were regularly devoted to the darling prospect of winning back for my
father his unspotted reputation, yet I did form plans of happiness in
which his memory had no share. Ernest, for this I have suffered, and
must suffer more. I have gone over these books, and find that, after
devoting the entire of the many, many thousands now my own to the
cherished object, only a few hundreds may remain at my disposal.
This is enough — again I say, may you be happy with your dowered
bride, and remember that the one consolation — the only one that can
support me under this separation is — that I have done my duty."

Strange as it may seem, young Heathwood did not appear as much
distressed at this resolution as Rose^ — or, to say the truth, as Margaret
— thoujiht he would have been. No matter how heroic, how disin-
terested the feeling which compels a woman to resign her lover, she
naturally expects that the lover will evince a proper quantity of despair
at the sad circumstance : and certainly, Ernest, after a pause of a
few minutes, during which he seemed more affected by Margaret's
noble-mindedness than his own bereavement, entered cordially into her
views, and praised the sacrifice (if, with her feelings, so it might be
called) with an energy that left no room to doubt its sincerity.

After his departure she pondered these things in her heart, and
came to the conclusion, that she had not resigned her affections too soon,
for that it was evident he had pretty well succeeded in banishing her
from his love ; and poor Rose, who had in so little time been twice
disappointed in her hopes both of a fortune and a wedding, was

THE merchant's daoghter. 271

reproved with some asjjerity for conducting Ernest Hcatliwood, under
any circumstances, lo their cottage. It is needless to add, that her
mother's tears and remonstrances had no efFect upon Margaret's
purpose ; and her lawyer received instructions lo remit forthwith
to all the creditors of the late Maurice Sunderland the full amount
of their demands, with interest thereon from the day of his failure !

It required all her firmness to bear up against her mother's
complainings ; and, above all, against the painful truth established in
her mind, that Ernest had ceastd to regard her with anything bordering
on affection. Strange, that at the very moment we are endeavouring to
repress the unavailing passion of the one we love, we secretly — un-
knowingly, it may be — hope for its continuance !

All "business affairs" were arranged according to her desire; but
she was fast sinking under the outward tranquillity which is more fatal
than exertion. Listlessly she wandered amid tlie flowers which Rose
loved to cultivate, when the unusual sound of carriage-wheels roused
her attention, and, with no ordinary emotion, she saw Sir Thomas and
Ernest Ilcathwood enti-r the wicket gate, and walk tow.irds the cottage.

" I told you. Miss Sunderland," comnu'nct'd the oWl gentleman,
with more agitation, but hss embarassment, than he had shown at
their former interview, " that I had need of twenty thousand pounds
to support my credit, and save my family from distress. I told you
I wished my son to marry a lady possessed of that sum, and I now
come to claim you as his bride."

"Sir!"

"Yes, madam: I was your father's largest creditor; an<l though I
had no frau<l, nothing dishonourable to allege against him, yet I did
not, I confess it, like the idea of n>y son's being tmitcd lo his daughter.
Ill- was always sptTulative and imnginativt-, and I feari-d you might
he the same. The sum you have so nobly repaid me, I looked upon
a« lost, an«l you must therefore suffcT nie to consider it a niarriage-
portion ; it ban savrd uu- ftDUi ruin, «itlioiit tin- sacrifice of mv son's
happiness."

"liow i<t (his?" rx(-lnun<-d .Mnrg.iirt, fi-arful »( trusting the
evidence of her own m n>.< •• • " I i-.-mnof inuh rsi.iml — ilic name — "

" Our original name was Simmons," exclaimed Ernest, eagerly ;
" but knowing all the circumstances — I never told you — I knew how
my father would feel at your disinterested conduct ; and now that your
trials are past, you will, I trust, no longer doubt me."

" Who said I doubted?" inquired Margaret.

" Even Rose ; and here she comes to answer for her crime."

" Nay, dearest sister," exclaimed the laughing girl, " it was only
last evening that I saw Ernest, and 1 have kept out of your way ever
since, lest I should discover my secret. Without my frivolity, and
the thoughtlessness of another, who, for all that, is dear to us both,
Margaret's virtues would never have shone with so steady a light."

" True, Rose, spoken like an angel ; 1 never thought you wise
before ; it is to be hoped that when your sister changes her name, her
mantle may descend upon you," said Ernest.

She may want wisdom for herself," she continued, archly, " who
knows but the most bitter trials of Margaret Sunderland may come
after marriage ? "

Ernest did not reply to the unjust suspicion, for he had not heard
it ; his sense, his thought, his heart, were fixed only upon her who had
thrown so bright and cheering a lustre over the impressive truth : —
" The good things that belong to prosperity are to be wished, but the
good things that belong to adversity are to be admired."

«C^=*yfc~.

':^j^^*'^^''»*K,i5S;'«-rtr

'*«r^'

THE PRIVATE PURSE.

TAUT TIIK 11U8T.

^J^VWjjA »:t my niece,

Miss Gtraldiiu' — I mean,
I'cson— know that as soon as
bIic lio-s put oif her bridal, and put on
lior travfllinj;, ilress, I wish to bi-o lur," said
^f r*Cia8C(»ine to her maid, \%h(i had not
.annwcred hir lull until nhe had run^ it twice.
^, " Yes, ma'am," replied the flushed maiden,
wliii was bowfd out with while .salin rihlH)n,
a» if she t<H) had just In-en ma<le a hride.

2 N

274 woman's trials.

" And listen — When all this mummery is over, take off' these white
fal-lals, and lay them by ; they will do for the next fool of the family
who chooses to enter the ' holy bonds ' — ah ! ah ! "

The servant hardly murmured " Yes, ma'am," to this, nor had she
quite closed the door on the crackling laugh of her mistress, when she
muttered, " Well, that beats all ! She to come on a visit to her own
sister, on her niece's wedding-day, and grudge me wearing of the
ribbons that cost her nothing ! But it's just like her ! Stingy ! — augh !
It's no use talking — I can't a-bear stinginess. I wonder why
she could not stay below at the breakfast, like other Christians ;
but it's none of my business. Put by the ribbons, indeed, that
never cost her a brass farthing ! " A group of ladies passing
from one room to another interrupted this soliloquy, and turned the
rippling current of the waiting-maid's small mind from meditation
to observation. In an instant she became spell-bound by the white
roses that garlanded the bridesmaids' bonnets.

Mrs. Gascoigne, a lady of some five-and-fifty years, who had been
a wife for one year and a widow for ten, was occupied after her own
fashion. She was seated at a table in her dressing-room, and upon it
was her open desk. Her long narrow features were pinched into a
mean expression ; her hair grew thinly above her brow ; and yet it was
short and frizzed, as if it had not the heart to grow long. Her lips
were thin and compressed, betokening, however, secrecy rather than
firmness. I have noted mouths which, though ugly, are of bland and
generous forms ; but I never saw a mouth like Mrs. Gascoigne's that
was not indicative of meanness and subterfuge. Her eyes were fine —
that is to say, well set, and of a good colour ; but their expression was
unpleasing — it was sharp and suspicious. Her dress was neither good
nor becoming, and she had flung aside the silver favour which indicated
the motive that had drawn her from her own home. A faded purse of
blue and white was between her fingers, and into it she had dropped
some guineas — not sovereigns, but old-fashioned golden guineas — •
which she had, as it were, purloined from her own desk. She
shook them once or twice, and an unconscious smile disturbed the
gravity of her face — it was evident that she loved the golden chimes.

THE I'RIVATE PURSK. 275

Then she picked out one and put it into its secret hiding-place in her
desk. " Forty-nine," she said to herself — " forty-nine will go as far
with a foolish girl as fifty ; but it's an odd number — she may wonder
why it was not fifty." Another was taken from the purse and returned
to the drawer. A moment's pause — she looked out a third ; a fourth ;
weighed it for u moment on her well-practised finger — it was a thought
light, so she exchanged it for one that pleased her better, and it was
dropped into the hoard Another — she chinked the purse again.
" Forty-five good guineas — forty and five," she repeated — " hum! quite
enough to commence a private purse for the wife of a young banker ; "
and she shut it to with a determined snap.

" May I come in, dear aunt ?" said a sweet voice at the door —
" may I come in ?"

Until the desk was shut and locked she made no answer; and
then, affecting not to have recognised tones, the sweetness of which
told upon every ear, as the joy bells sound upon the summer air, she
inquirtd, " Who is there I"

" .Me, aunt — Geraldine," answered the same music.

Oh, yes, dear, come in," said Mrs. Gascoigne. For a moment she
looked with pride upon the young and lovtly being who had that day
committed her entire destiny into the hands of one who had promised,
with his whole heart and soul, to " love her, comfort her, honour and
keep her in sickness and in health ; and, forsaking all others, keep
him only unto her so long as they both should live."

•* Why, dear," exclaimed Mrs. Gaiscoignc, as the mind returned to
its old habit.H, " what a dial of money that dress must cost ! it is a real
pity to hack it travelling— a real pity. Dear Geraldine, have you
no turned tiilk you c(»uld wear on the journey— eh I"

" You know, aunt, I brought Henry no fortime ; so mamma thought
the least thing I might have was a handsome wardrobe;" and she
lr>oked an niuch annoyed as she coidd have been by anything on such
a day.

".All, «lenr— well, that's true; I stippose ynwr mother scraped
together nil ithe rould to make up the trousxeaii, and has no little
purse to give you, ch ?"

27G woman's trials.

" My dear mother," answered the bride — and the ready tears rose to
her eyes — " has indeed done everything to make me happy — I was
going to say independent — but every woman is dependant upon her
husband ; and Henry is so gentle and affectionate, I have no fear that
he will make me feel he was rich and I was poor. Mamma gave
me ten guineas, and," added the fair girl (she had not numbered
nineteen summers), with a proud air, " it will be a long time before
I spend all that."

" That's my own Geraldine — keep it, dear — don't spend it — keep it.
Gold grows by the keeping ; it does not rust or mildew— keep it ; it is
power — all that man or woman wants. I know that — by wanting it,
Geraldine. Ay, you may smile, and I daresay your mother and all of
them think it not true ; poor Mr. Gascoigne left me enough, but no
more. You, Geraldine, were my god-child — called after me — and I
must say that you have been as good and as affectionate as if I had
made you a present every birthday, which, perhaps, I might have done,
had I not been afraid you would have married your cousin, Arthur
Harewell."

" My dearest aunt !" ejaculated Geraldine, in a tone of surprise.
" Oh, yes ! I know he was very fond of you ; but I hate every
one of the Harewells ; they are as poor as church mice, and yet as
proud of their intellect as if they had been every one city members.
Now, my dear, I am going to tell you a secret, which I must not
have you tell Henry ; your own secrets you may tell him, if you
are foolishly fond of talking, but as this is my secret, you have no
right to tell it."

" No," said Geraldine, somewhat hastily, " I will not tell him
your secret, aunt. I have no right to do that, I think."

" Certainly not, my dear ; men have odd notions, and it is a
foolish thing to tell them every nonsense ; it makes them think little
of us women, to keep up a tittle-tattle about every trifle."

Geraldine gave no reply to this. She had made up her mind to
tell Henry everything ; this was her own right-minded impvdse ; for
her mother, a quiet, amiable, fashionably-thinking woman, fancied she
performed her duty when she sent Geraldine to a boarding-school,

THE PRIVATE PURSE. 277

heard her play and sing, and saw her dance during the vacations —
restricted her own expenditure in all things that she might have the
best masters, and be as well dressed as girls who had ten times her
fortune — a sure way to enfeeble the mind — took it for granted, that, as
she knew her catechism, had been confirmed, and went every Sunday
to church, her religious education was such as to befit the high calling
of a Christian— and had never spoken to her of the duties a woman is
required to fulfil as wife and mother, until about a week previous to
the wedding-day, wiien she told her to be affectionate and forbearing,
and "not to forget her own dignity." Something she added about the
duties of a mother, and the advantage of cold bathing for infants ;
but quickly concluded by saying there would be " time enough to
think of that." No wonder that Geraldine was unable to reply to her
aunt's commonplaces, and at once unravel their fallacy and foresee
their danger. There are, to my knowledge, at tliis moment, when
volumes on female education pour from the press — wiien national
education is rendering the lower, scarcely inferior to the higher, class
in solid and useful knowledge — tiiere are scores of well-intentioned
ladies, gentlewomen by birth, and in manner, who love their daughters,
who would (if they knew how) forward their temporal and eternal
welfare in every possible way — and yet do no more than Geraliline
Leeson's mother did. .Ah ! when shall we have a school for mothers?
Mrs. Gascoigne resumed ihe broken thread of her discourse more
quickly than 1 have finished my digression.

" Well, my dear Geraldine, I have here a little present for you —
just enough to prevent your rumiing to your husband's pocket
every moment ; but ymi viust not tell him a trord about it — it is my
•ecret. If he or your mother were to know I had scraped together
fifty — no, fivc-and-forty — guineas, for you, they would expect me to
go on giving ; and the more you give, the more you may give. So,
take it with my bleuing, child, and take care of it ; spend it iccrtthj
for any little thing you may want, nixl Hay nothing aliout it."

(iernhline was really aurpriHed and pleased; »h«" had never in
nil her life ha«l twi much money of her own, and least of all had she
expected it from Iut " stingy aunt." She reiterated her thanks most

278 woman's trials.

sincerely ; little thinking she had taken the first step towards deceiving
her husband and working her own misery.

"Remember," repeated Mrs. Gascoigne — "remember, it is my
secret, and you have proviised ; you cannot conceive how I should
suffer if you broke your word. Again Geraldine kissed her, and bade
her affectionately farewell — not before she had been twice summoned
by her bridemaids.

" I might as well," said this dangerous monitor, as she took her
seat by the window to observe the departing carriages — " I might as
well have taken back that odd five ; and then the ten her mother
gave her would have just made up the fifty. I hope she'll take care
of it, poor dear child! There she goes, and her cousin, Arthur
Harewell, iianding her in ! Well, I shall conceive it my duty to
give Henry Leeson a hint to look after his pretty wife when Master
Harewell is in the way. It is a very queer world we live in!"

The people who make the world " queer," as they call it, are
the first to complain of this queerness ; and so it was with Mrs.
Gascoigne. Her own marriage had been entirely dictated by in-
terested motives. She married a rich old miser for the sake of his
wealth, when she was past forty ; and upon her " queer " ways his
"queer" ways became engrafted. Geraldine's match pleased her,
because Mr. Leeson was rich ; and she fancied her god-child had
inherited her disposition, because she had discarded a poor cousin,
whom she believed, erroneously, she loved, and married a wealthy
man, whom she, as erroneously, believed she did not love. If
Geraldine had chanced to like and wed her poor cousin, Mrs.
Gascoigne would never have given her five-and-forty pence.

Geraldine Leeson had escaped many of the contaminations of a
public school, from a sincere desire to learn thoroughly whatever
she undertook ; consequently she had little spare time. She knew
the sacrifices her mother made that she might become accomplished ;
and besides, she loved her home dearly and devotedly. She had
not left it as early as many children do, so that the home affections,
if not full-grown, had taken root before her departure into a com-
munity as varied and as dangerous as that of all large schools must

THE PRIVATE PURSE. 279

be, until their entire system is thoroughly regenerated. Still, as
this was a " finishing school," she could not but hear various specu-
lations, on the part of many of the elder girls, as to " when they
should come out." How anxious the mamma of one was to get
papa into good humour, to spend a winter in Paris — whether he
could afford it or not — because her cousin had made an excellent
match there ; to be sure, the gentleman thought at first, from the
style they lived in, that they were very rich, but lie knew the dif-
ference now ; and the other girls laughed at this, and exclaimed,
•• What fun ! " Another mourned bitterly " papa's stinginess," and
how her poor mamma was obliged to alter the house bills to make
them appear more than they were, or else they never could have
anything fit to wear ; while a third rejoiced that such never could
be the case at home, as her mamma's pin-money was secured, and
she did as she pleased, without consulting any one ! All this sort
of poisoning is carried on, like all poisonings, secretly: I do believe
that few women who undertake the charge of youth, would suffer
such observations to go unreproved ; but no governess can have
ear and eye for fifty, or even five-and-twenty, "grown-up" young
ladies, who are permitted to sleep, four or two, in the same room,
and to walk attended by foreign teachers, who frequently do not
understand the language spoken by their pupils.

Geraldine had escaped systematic corruption ; slie loved music
and dancing for tlieir own sakes, and never cared a great deal for
creating a sensation. Sin-, of course, desired to be loved ; but
»lic never degraded arti-ction l)y calculation. .*^he would have
paused, certainly, before she wedded povt-rty ; l)ut she would
not liavr married simply because her lover was rich. So far
she wan tolerably right ; but, unfortunately, many mothers, and
hern among the number, have confused notions as to the botm-
darien of the delicate ond indelicat*-. If love is mentioned, instead
of impresning the young mind with a just idea of itn sacred nature,
it.n holy attributes, itn natural impulses, it is di»mis»e<I wiih an
"Oh, fie!" or a reproving look, which at once assures the daughter
that her mother cannot lie her confidant ; thus a mother loses a strong-

280 woman's tbials.

hold on lier child's mind ; yet, by making it the subject of conver-
sation, speaking of it as an event on which much of the happiness
or misery of after-life depends, she might strengthen the reasoning
powers against its undue influence, and, while subduing its violence,
lead to its being considered in its more holy and sacred bearings.

Geraldine's mother would have almost blushed herself at men-
tioning a husband to her daughter ; yet that daughter could not fail to
perceive to what the hint of, " Geraldine, wear your blue and white,
and let Esther dress your hair — I want you to look particularly well
to-night" tended — for this was done when only one eldest son was
expected to " come in and try his new flute." How much of the
dignity of truth, with which every British mother ought to be crowned,
is sacrificed to those petty arts ; how much misery ensured, by
domestic duties feebly sustained!

" I hope," said her mother — " I hope and pray you may make a
good wife ;" and she meant what she said, but she had never adopted
the means to make her one.

Geraldine had read over the marriage ceremony, thought for a mo-
ment how harsh that word "obey" sounded, then wondered she had
thought so — " it would be so easy to obey one she loved as she loved
Henry — obedience would be pleasure ;" and so she closed the book.
Her nature was very timid. She had little strength of either
body or mind, but she had much affection, a gentle yielding temper,
and wished to do right in all things. Her husband had settled a
handsome independence upon her in case of his death; but the
idea of wanting anything while he lived she had put far from her.
Although induced by her selfish aunt to promise not to mention her
fatal gift, it had never entered into her head that she was doing wrong
in keeping a secret from her husband.

Six months had elapsed since Geraldine became the wife of
Henry Leeson. She was established in a pretty house at the " West
End ;" had a chariot of the newest build, a pair of unexceptionable
bays, a very tall footman, and a very little page ; went sometimes
to the opera, presided at a small dinner party, and assisted at a
soiree, with infinite propriety ; and so liberally had her husband

THE PRIVATE PURSE. 281

ministered even to her fancies, that she had only spent five guineas
of her store. She had told him of her mother's gift, but remained
silent as to her aunt's. Her cousin had come to town to " keep his
terms," and her aunt had succeeded her mother as an inmate for
a month. "The season," as it is called, had commenced; and if
it had not been that her aunt's presence damped her spirits, she
would have been as happy as any wife could be. Her husband never
was late at his club, and, like most junior partners in a bank, did not
remain at his counting-house longer than was absolutely necessary.

One evening, soon after the aunt and her niece had taken their
places in front of a private box at Covent Garden — for they did not
move in the very high sphere which eschews English theatres alto-
gether — Henry, leaning over his wife's chair, exclaimed, "Why,
Gcraldine, what a handsome chain ! I have not seen it before.
Where did you get it?"

" I bought it, love."

"When?"

" Oh ! let me sec— this week."

"This week! and never consulted me! I hope," he added,
looking somewhat serious, " that it is paid for."

" Of course it is, Henry. Why do you ask?"

" Because that chain must have cost twenty-five guineas, at least ;
and you know, last week you shook your empty purse at me, and I
put only ten guineas into it. Where did you get the money ?"

Her aunt contrived to press her foot, as a warning. "I told
you mamma gave me ten guineas when I li-fi home."

" Hut you told me how you spent five of that at Cheltenham. We
young bankers understand substruction."

" Wi'il, then," she replird, colouring with confusion, " if you must
know, mamma made n)c up the moni-y, as I fancied th^ chain."

Mr. I<t'esnn bit his lip. "Indeed!" he rejilitd ; "she is richer
thai) I fancii-d."

" It d(H-a not need n mother to be very rich to give a child ten
guineax, even for such a toy as this," she said, flinging the luik* over
her pretty shoulder.

X o

J2S2 woman's trials.

" Certainly not, my clear ; but riches are comparative. One
person is rich witli a pound, another poor with a thousand." He
looked serious, even stern for a moment, as if something very unplea-
sant was presented to his mind; and then his fine animated face
brightened up, and he added, " I hope my little Geraldine has not
made a private purse ! "

She could not reply ; she felt agitated, degraded ; she had told a
falsehood, and one likely to be detected. The performance passed
unheeded ; she tried to smile, but, instead of smiling, burst into
tears. Mr. Leeson had not been long enough married to slight a
wife's tears; he withdrew her from the front, and thought he had
spoken harshly, when he had only spoken seriously ; he caressed and
apologised, and every affectionate word he spoke added to her self-
reproach. Soon after, her cousin entered the box : his manner was
only that of most animated young men, light and careless, with an
occasional empressement, rendered more striking when contrasted
with his ordinary trifling. Still, that manner was the one, of all
others, her husband disliked most. Nor had Mrs. Gascoigne's in-
judicious hint been wanting, to increase the antipathy he had felt
towards this well-intentioned but frivolous young man, from the first.
Arthur Harewell used a cousin's privilege to the full ; inquired —
Henry thought more tenderly than was necessary — after her health,
then rallied her on her seriousness, talked the usual quantity of
nonsense, which women, who know anything of the world, under-
stand to be matter of course, and then offered some observations on
her dress. She complained that the chain had an unsafe clasp, and
he offered to take it to the jeweller's to get it repaired — conveying
the idea to Henry's mind that he knew where it had been purchased.
3Irs. Gascoigne, who hated every one of the Harewells, did not fail
to cast in as many inuendoes as she could, to annoy the young
barrister, who had too much tact to retort on an elderly rich relative,
yet became gradually irritated by his own forbearance. Geraldine
was so unhap])y as to seem constrained ; Henry grew snappish and
morose ; and the only one of the party who seemed contented with
the evening's proceedings was Mrs. Gascoigne. Not that she acknow-

THE PRIVATE PURSE. 283

ledged a wish to make any one, particularly her god-cliiid, unhappy ;
but, like all other discontented people, she did not quite understand
why anything in this world should go smoothly forward, and it was
consolatory to imagine that others were as uncomfortable as herself.
'1 here are persons who derive consolation from the belief that many
are more unhajjpy than themselves. Geraldine was unaccustomed
to deception ; as long as the five-and-forty guineas had lain dor-
mant in her desk, there was no visible proof of their existence, and
she had no tem|)tation to deceive; but the chain coming so palpably
before her husband's eyes, had changed altogether the nature of the
case, and called her deceptive powers into action. She was, how-
ever, a bad actress, and felt so. Her impulses were, however, good.

" I will not," she said, "run a second risk ; I will return my aunt
her twenty guineas, and not suffer myself to be again tempted : I
was fortunate to get off so well last night." She took out the money,
and entered her aunt's room.

" You look pale enough," was the morning salutation she received;
"and truly, my dear, I am not astonished at it. Mr. Leeson's conduct
was very harsh to you last night, and, I confess, 1 thought rude to
me ; yes, dear, rude to me — to fly into a jiassion about a trumpery
chain, because, forsooth, he was not consulted — to ask if my niece
and god-child had puid for what she wore — to inquire how she got
the money — taunting you with your want of fortune."

" Oh, dear aunt, he never thought of that ! "

"Permit me to know l)esi, if you please, Mrs. I.ceson. If your
mother had done as she ought, she would have stood out for pin-
money, and not liave left you the degrading task of <lunning your
hu.Hband for every little f(Nili>th thing — turning men into mollif-cols — ■
Ah ! you may smile if you like, Geraldine ; the phrase is not very
tirgnnt, but it is very expressive — you will allow ihnt, I suppose.
However, you tire no child of miix-, or I would have in innge<l
ilirt'erently, and taught you ditl'erently. .Men change, my poor girl ;
and it \» quite right for n woman to provide against that change."

" Ily n large Hlork of an«-cti<iii T' incpiired (lerahliiu*. half-amused
and more than half-awaketied Ity h«-r aunt's (lu-ory.

284 woman's trials.

" No, my dear, but as large a stock of cash as she can muster.
Henry makes you an allowance for house-keeping ; you do not spend
it all I hope ?"

" No, aunt ; he has given me credit for good management. I
saved nearly five pounds out of my first month's allowance."

" And you told him so ?"

*' I certainly did. Now, my dear aunt, why do you look so ?
Where would have been the pleasure of saving without his praise ?
I saved five pounds, and gave it him."

"And he took it?"

" Yes ; of course he did."

*' And after that to speak so meanly about the chain ! (which,
to confess the truth, was a bit of extravagance ; but he did not think
that) — a pretty clear proof that he expects you to consult him on every
inch of ribbon. Don't be a fool, Geraldine. I know the world, and I
know that the more you give in, the more you may. Why, you do not
expect a business-man, such as Mr. Leeson surely is, to suffer you to
lay out his money for what you may fancy ? — he knows how money
grows out of money too well for that. No ; make up your mind to
one of two courses — either be content to sink into an upper servant,
spending your month's allowance upon the house, and giving in your
honest account, or do as I did — as other women do — and keep a little
for yourself; you do not know how you may want it ; and, from the
fuss he made last night about that stupid chain — in public, too — I
think you may very easily judge that he intends to draw the purse-
strings tight ; and you looked all the night as penitent as if you had
committed a crime. Well, well, you will know better. I once knew
a woman who managed to scrape a purse together so cleverly, that,
when her husband got into difficulties, she was able to provide all sorts
of little comforts for the house, without the knowledge of the creditors."

" But was that honest ?" inquired the young wife, " as it was saved
out of his means."

" But surely he intended it to have been spent?"

" Yes, very likely," replied Mrs. Leeson, who was musing on her
husband's rudeness ; " Yet such a system destroys mutual confidence."

THE PRIVATE PURSE. 285

" My poor foolish cliild !" retorted her aunt, with an ominous shake
of her head — " My poor foolish child! you do not surely believe that
your husband tells you everything — makes you a confidant ! A hand-
some, would-be fashionable young man make his wife his confidant ! —
tell her everything I Why, what a fool you must be! — ah, ah !" and
the old crackling laugh grated on Geraldine's heart. " By the way,"
resumed the adviser, " who was with you when you bought that chain?"

" My cousin."'

" Oh ! and you told Mr. Lecson that, too, I suppose."

" No, I did not ; but I would in a moment, for I saw no harm
in it."

** Well, my dear, he would ; he's as jealous as a Turk. I would
not wonder if he thought that Arthur Harewell had given you that
chain."

*' I told him mamma gave me the money."

" Oh ! ah ! so you did ; I daresay he thought her a great fool, for
he must know how little she has to spare ; however, dear, there's
an end of it now. Take my advice — do not invite Arthur to the house
yourself, keep what money you have safely, and add to it whenever
you can. You'll find Henry, with all his love, will draw the jjurse-
strings tighter and tighter every year ; it's always the way with those
business-men : and men of independence are just as bad in the other
way, they tlraw in to meet their own greedy extravagance."

Gcraldine was so confounded by the variety of new ideas — tlie
suspicion that .she did not possess her husband's confidence that he
insulted her by his jealousy, that let her be as confiding as she wouhl,
she could meet with no return, that he was, or would be, avaricious,
not from want but caprice — all caused Iier such intense pain, (hut she
retired to Imt r<Kjnj to find relief in tears, without returning the
remainder of her money. If she had preconceived notions upon the
Hubjert — if her mind had Ik-ih decided that, Id hrr huilinml's conduct
Im- what it icould, her duties snlfmnly pUdf^cd at the altar, remained the
tame, all would have bt-en well. Hut, p<H)r thing she had no lix«-d
principles to build on. Her cousin c;illrd n couple of hours after, and
the did not ask hini lo duiner. When her husband returned, he found

2SG woman's trials.

her languid and cold, with an indescribable air of offended dignity ;
whereas he, on the other hand, felt constrained and afflicted at a dupli-
city he had discovered for the first time. If either liad then confided
in the other, how much after-misery would have been spared to both !

Mr. Leeson heard from the footman that Mr. Harewell had called,
and thought it was odd his wife did not as usual mention his name,
with those of two or three other visiters ; then he asked her abruptly,
" Why she had not detained her cousin Arthur to dinner ?"

Her aunt's insinuation as to her husband's jealousy immediately
occurred to her, and she stammered and blushed so as to recall vividly
the young man's frivolous manner on the preceding evening ; and
the consequence was, that both felt exceedingly unhappy.

It is not to be wondered at that Mr. Leeson suffered a good deal of
anxiety ; for it so happened he had discovered tliat his wife's mother
was exceedingly distressed for money before she had quitted his house
to return to her own; and with a delicacy which deserved increased
confidence, he had placed a sum at her disposal as she was leaving
London, intreating her not to mention it to Geraldine, lest the shadow
of obligation might give her pain. The old lady thanked him with tears
of gratitude, confessing that she had wished to borrow a iew pounds
from her daughter, but thought it better not, lest it might lead to
uncomfortable feelings. This proved to him that his beloved wife —
she whom he loved with all the passion of a strong, truthful, and fervent
affection — she in whose simple purity he trusted, and would have
trusted for ever — had deceived him by a mean falsehood. If she had
not returned him the five pounds already mentioned, he would again
have taxed her with forming a private purse ; but that act argued so
strongly against such a supposition, that he rejected the idea for one
far more painful— he believed she had either accepted the chain from
her cousin, or borrowed the money from him.

Henry Leeson's nature was none of the softest. He entertained the
highest possible sense of female honour. Whatever the fact might be,
he boasted of always making his affections subject to his reason. And
on that same evening, when they were alone, he said, after about
twenty minutes had been spent in a restless and painful dialogue, in

TH£ PRIVATE PURSE. 287

which neither were explicit, yet both saw that something remained
untoUl — he said, sternly, tor the fair and gentle face he looked upon
had lost the radiance of truth, " Thus much, Geraldine — thus much ;
l)eware at any attempt to deceive me ; for, if you do so once, you will
never do so a second time."

The young wife wept, and wept bitterly ; but though only four-and-
twenty hours had elapsed since he dried her tears so anxiously, yet
then he liad not thought, and calculated, and placed one circumstance
with another, to see how they tallied ; and he had clung to the hope
that she would have frankly told the trutli when they were alone — he
had pictured her with her pale weeping face, he had framed the gentle
counsel, and heard the fond promise ; he had hoped even tiiat she had
gone in debt rather than have incurred an obligation which she feared
to confess. Her aunt's extreme niggardliness prevented the supposition
that she had bestowed anything upon lur save what even miser's give
— advice. Yet little did he imagine what the nature of that advice
would be. Young men in general are carefid enough as to what male
society their wives mingle with ; but they ought to be even niore
careful as to iheir female friends. A woman is on her guard amongst
men, but amongst women her heart and cars are both open ; yet what
pernicious notions may she not imbilie from that dangerous class of
persons called "women of the world."

It would be dillieult to explain how one small suspicion grew out of
another ; how Geraldine's heart heaved and ached under the conscious-
ness that her hu.sband regarded everything she did with a prejudiced
eye, and listened to her words with a jealous ear ; how, having asked
him for some fancy of hers, when he was in a mood not to grant a
favour, he refused ; and her aiuit, who unfortunately happened to be
prcnont, t<K)k occasion to exult in tlie truth of her evil prophecy : —

" ^ ou see, Geraldine, I was right; every husband grows sellish
sooner or Inter ; and a ptMir woman who has no spirit is sure to be
Irniupled on — never has n Hhilling to hjhik! mi herself, unless she
inattnffrM."

(rirnldine had no l>road ideaa as In the duties of wedded life. She,
hn])pily for herself, had never thought of diHCUssing the rights of i

288 woman's trials.

women apart from the rights of men. Slie did not seek to disturb the
beautiful harmony of nature, by setting up the weak against the strong
— by endeavouring to persuade a woodbine into the ambition of an
oak ; but she did think sometimes that, as the oak did not afford much
generous support to the woodbine, the woodbine might manage a little
artificial prop for itself. So she fell, by degrees, into her aunt's plan.
She stinted the house to fill her private purse, and so rendered his
home anything but comfortable to her husband ; but even this was not
the worst. She who had felt and mourned over her first untruth with
so much real bitterness of spirit, had become accustomed to falsehood ;
it was necessary to tell one little lie to hide another ; the holy beauty
of truth had altogether departed from her. Whenever her conscience
reproached her, she whispered to it " that she could not help it — that if
Henry had continued the Henry he was at first, it would have been
different — that it was his fault — that he was severe — that he had grown
suspicious — that as he often blamed her without a cause, she might as
well have a little of her own way as not — that he was frightfully
stingy." It was impossible for any one to have proceeded in such
a course, without becoming morally degraded ; it is wonderful how
slowly yet surely this degradation progresses ; until, when a review of
the past takes place, we are astonished that what were principles should
now be called prejudices, and marvel at our past simplicity ! Such
were generally Geraldine's reflections. She almost smiled to think how
she had blushed and trembled at an equivocation ; but such smiles are
only as gleams of sunshine on a sepulchre, and when they pass, woe,
woe, for the rottenness within !

Arthur Harewell always came to London in term time, and
sometimes remained until it had been long over. Henry Leeson
would hardly confess to himself that he regarded him with suspicion ;
and yet, though they frequented the same club, walked together,
went to the theatres together, and Arthur was a constant guest at
his table, Mr. Leeson was anything but comfortable in his society.

In indulging this feeling, he did his wife great injustice. She
loved her husband, and practised no deception towards him, except
on the one point ; but it would have been next to impossible to

THE I'RIVATE PURSE. ^89

convince liim of this. She was universally admired ; her loveliness
was matured into beauty. She was never absent from her husband's
thoughts for ten minutes together; and yet he was the only person
who appeared indifferent to her.

Her memory was not always true to her falsehood ; she often
betrayed herself. She had lost her husband's respect. The vase was
broken, and though mucii of the perfume remained, he did not seek to
treausre it, but rather desired to have the power of turning from it
altogether: each had a separate interest; and when he looked upon the
only child God had given them — a girl — his heart sunk within him.
•* For," he said, " she will grow up a liar like her mother ! " To do
Geraldine justice, she endeavoured, strange as it may seem, to impress
her daughter with a love of truth ; but her ideas of right and wrong, in
their bravest and highest sense, were confused — nnd precept in educa-
tion is nothing worth without practice.

The young are apt to ham ; and tlieir powers of observation are
generally far keener than we give them credit for ; it is, therefore,
above all things, necessary that, for their future, our present should
be only, and always, right ; we can never be too mindful of the
fact, that in all *ve do and say, and in almost all we think, we are
induencing the hereafter.

Geraldine had not seen her mother since the birth of her child, as she
had been abroad from ill health. lie r aunt visited her but too often,
for she became, unfortunately, the depositary of her secrets, and still
advised her to keep her purse closer than ever, as, be sure, her child,
as she grew up, would want so luany things its father would not
give it.

AKis! for the mischief that arises from evil counsel; the good are
not alw.-iys strong of mind ; and the best principles may be weakened
or di-»lroyrd by the suggestions of bad advisers ; we have the example
to •• warn nixi scare," in the earliest act of recording sin — the sin by
which Paradise was lost. Disobi tlience is but one of a train of
nusenis that result from this — their most fruitful source; and in mind,
heart, and character, as well as in " gJMHl m.inners," it is ccrtam that
evil communications are the great "corrupters."

290

WOMAN S TRIALS.

It would be impossible to particularise the various instances of
mistrust that occasioned so many bickerings between Geraldine and
her husband ; but they had led to this result — that, even when she
spoke the truth, her husband did not believe her. A disbelief in
her truth as regarded money matters, was not the only doubt that
passed through, and occasionally took possession of, his mind. He
fastened upon her a careless impropriety of conduct, which was
altogether apart from her nature ; and never did she wear the chain
which occasioned her first act of dissimulation, without its rendering
him silent and morose. At last her mother, whom much sickness had
made a wiser woman, came to visit them ; and so great was the
change apparent in both, that she resolved to probe its cause as
far as she was able.

\\\///,

PART THE SECOND.

s^J^^J KRALDINK, liow js it," saitl litT iiiotlur to

' Mrs. Lecson--l)ovv is it that joii and

Henry are so changed in your manner to

each other ? I'our years ago, I left you

all aftcction ; n()\N, 1 liiid you hardly civil —

this is very had. "

"It is," replied her daughter; "hut it is
,"rN not my fault. Henry is perpetually insulting, hy asking
nu- the m«)st frivolous (|ue.stions, and tliiu siuH-ring at
my replies. He never lK«lieves a word I say. It was only yesterday
he took our cluld on Ins knee, :uid read her such a homily on the
heauly of truth thai she IcMiked at him, |MM)r innoeent, in fear and
nsionishmenl, without imderstandmg Lis nuaning. and then he looked
nt me. Oh I mother, I wish I had ne\er matriid. It is very true
what my aimt says — jou never can know how a man wdl turn out."

■f

292 woman's trials.

*' Your aunt, my dear, is a very bad counsellor. I fear she has
caused mischief between you."

" Oh, no ! but she told me how it would be. Why, before we
were six months married he took me to task about a chain ! But that
is nothing; I assure you he is niggardly in the extreme."

" You must be wrong, Geraldine," said her mother, earnestly ;
" indeed, you must be wrong. When I left you to go abroad —
though I did not tell you so, lest it would make you unhappy — my
finances were deplorably reduced. He questioned me upon them with
the greatest delicacy ; and when he found how I was circumstanced,
as he was handing me into the carriage, he slipped a purse containing
a hundred guineas into my hand."

Geraldine felt her colour change. " But how did he find tliat out,
in the first instance ? " she inquired, after a pause.

" I really do not know," replied her mother; "but you remember,
dear, I was always a very bad dissembler. Your aunt says I can be
seen through in a moment, which I dare say is the case, and I do not
care about it. What does it matter when one has nothins to conceal ?
I never led him to suppose that you had a penny, or that I had six-
pence beyond my small annuity ; so I confessed that when I came to
pay you the bridal visit, I had not five pounds in the world."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Geraldine, the falsehood she had
framed as to her mother giving her ten pounds towards the purchase
of the chain, and the effect it must have had upon her husband's
mind, now flashing upon her for the first time. " Oh ! mamma, why
did you not tell me this before? What must my husband have thought
of me?"

" Thought of you, my dear?" replied her mother, not under-
standing her allusion. " Why, what had you to do with it ? He knew,
as I have told you, perfectly well that you had nothing whatever to do
with the matter ; but I called it very handsome of him — very hand-
some indeed." And the lady resumed the perusal of her book, thinking
it better to let this anecdote of iier son-in-law's generosity operate of
itself upon her daughter. Geraldine felt the ])]ood rush to her head,
and in another moment she was chill and treml)h*n2. She went to her

THE PRIVATE PURSE. 293

own room, and traced hack circumstance to circumstance. She saw
clearly that on that evening she must have appeared guilty of duplicity.
She rcmemhered her hushand's deep-seated and constant love and
affection previous to that event ; how her every wish had been anti-
cipated by him. She remembered how pleased, how happy he looked,
when she gave him the five pounds she had saved from her house-
keeping ; and she could not but acknowledge that all the satisfaction
she had received from her secret peculations had been gall and worm-
wood, in comparison to the approving smiles which she now knew how
she had at first forfeited. Truly, her tears were many and sincere.
She would willingly have retraced her steps had she known how ; but
she fancied she had not strength to do so. She considered confession
more humiliating than deception ; and, moreover, Henry's late unkind-
nesses had been so numerous and so severe, that she forgot, when recalling
them, how much was owing to the suspicions she herself had excited.

She resolved to confide to her mother the particulars regarding the
chain, hoping siie shouhl be able to prevail on her to say, if she was
questioned on the subject, that she had borrowed the money to lend
her; for, as I have said before, lies yield ample fruitage. She had
of late mentioned some of her perplexities to her cousin; and here I
pause, to observe that one of the most foolish acts of a young woman's
life is the confiding in any man, either what she fears to entrust to her
husband, or any complaint against him. The act is almost always sure
to betray itself; and if it do not, the step is so imprudent, so likely
to lead to results prejudicial to her character, aiid, certainly, to afft'ct
her conduct, that of all things it ought to be tin- nmst dreaded — the
most avoidfd. Ft is sridom that a woman, resolved to l)rar and
forbear, cannot succeed in winning her husl)and's friendship in the end.
Whore this is really impossible — which I think ran only be when a
man is thoroughly unprincipled — may CJod help her! It is wiser for
lior not to complain of him she has sworn to " love, honojir, and obey."
Her own nvx are often t(Hi feeble for friendHJiip ; and where there is
votiih and beauty, men are chingerotis friends. I( is wiser, tlien, I
repeat, uniler snrh rirrunistances, for a woman to roneeal her sorrows,
and to altevintr ihem by active and duteous employment, rather than

294 woman's trials.

by idle and perilous repinings. The very reputation of having a male
friend is injurious to a young English wife. It is only a vigorous
mind that can bear being thus shut in with itself. A firm and noble
one tvill bear it, because it is right ; and perhaps, after years of firm
endurance, be rewarded by the friendship it has so richly deserved —
the friendship of him in whom a young heart trusted.

Geraldine loved her cousin really as a sister loves her brother ; but
no more. She had never bestowed upon him an atom of an affection
that she needed have blushed to own even to her husband ; and
though her cousin may be acquitted of all premeditated wrong towards
her, he was not averse to being rallied on the preference evinced for
him by his lovely relative. He assured every one " that it was a
brother and sister regard " — that "it was impossible it could be any
thing else, as they had been children together"- — that " Geraldine was
too devoted to her husband to indulge even a friendship for any one —
except her cousin." But he did not say these things frankly, and
seriously, and boldly, as it becomes a man of high honour to do; he
said them with a smile or a shrug, or a dolce sort of self-satisfied
expression, which made the careless young men of his acquaintance
declare him a " lucky fellow," and married men say " that Leeson
should look after his wife ;" while matrons and old maids began to
throw something of significance into their countenances when they
observed that "they had met Mrs. Leeson and her handsome cousin
in the square ; and some were malicious enougli to forget to add that
she was accompanied also by her child or a female friend.

Most unhappily, her husband had become so irritable and suspi-
cious, that she excused herself for her constant deceptions. He had
long found it impossible to distinguish between her truth and falsehood ;
he had become unjust to her virtues ; for she was a most devoted
parent, while he believed that she was indifferent towards her child.
When she told the story of the chain — that origin of all the evil — to
her mother, the old lady, instead of going at once to her son-in-law,
explaining it to him, and showing that the advice of her aunt had
caused her to step aside from the straight path — that it was she who
had urged her to form a private purse — and by this odious system

undermined their mutual confidence ; instead of doing this, she set
herself to frame a " reason for the lie." And why ? Because the
little girl was the aunt's god-child, and she solaced herself, by deter-
mining that "she would certainly leave her all she had, if she were not
displeased ; but if Geraldine broke her word — if she forgot that she
had promised not to tell — all the previous concealments would have
been made in vain, and they would lose the property. Henry would
be sure to ' fly out' about it, and what would be the end of it?" The
good lady quite forgot that Geraldine had promised to conceal the gift
from her, as well as from her husband ; l)ut her ideas of right and
wrong could all be set aside by interest ; we have wonderful tender-
nesses towards those who break their words for our especial sakes.
Geraldine was, in point of fact, incapacitated, in the sight of God,
from making the promise her aunt required of her, on the morning of
her marriage ; because the oath, so important and so engrossing,
which she had taken at the altar, virtually appointed her husband the
depositary of her acts, tiioughts, and secrets.

How despicable a picture of human nature does this perpetual
bowing down to Mammon portray I and how vain and insignificant
does it ap|K-ar, when contrasted with so high, so holy a thing as Truth!
Oh! if those who are heedless of words and their import, did but know
the inestimable value of this " bright ornament" — if they had but
traced the cares, and toils, and tangled weariness that must follow in
the train of falsehood, however small it may appear at first — if they
could witness the contempt that follows the liar to a despised grave — if
they could see the family disunions, the heart-burnings and heart-
breakings, originating in an untruth, no larger than the grain of
nuistard-sved that became an outspreading tree — if they could be
brought to feel the base, ntean, paltry cowardice of n lie — how
earnestly they would pray to be <leliver«-d from its insidiou*. tempta-
tion !

(Jerahlnu-H mother. I have already said, was exactly one of those
who hatl neither Ix-en eiluraled to U-come a mother, nor in the know-
ledge to teach the duties of domentic life to her child. She was, like
«coreH of oiher'i, weak, wann, and nn brainless as a woman could well

296 woman's trials.

be, who went through the etiquettes of life with propriety and exact-
ness. She thought herself acting with extraordinary tact and discretion,
when she entered the small library where Mr. Leeson sat by himself
when at home in the evening, and, shutting the door with a peculiarly
silent and mysterious air, asked if she might intrude upon him for a
few moments. He placed a chair for her, and, laying down his book,
prepared to listen.

Henry Leeson was more changed than men usually are in years
so few, and yet he dressed better, was quite as handsome, when in
society conversed more fluently, many thought more agreeably, for a
dash of vinegar curdled the oil, and rendered him pungent and racy.
But his features had lost their affectionate, confiding, easy expression ;
his face had grown sharp as a lawyer's seeking flaws in an indictment ;
he could not sit for five minutes looking straight forward, but twisted
his eyes to see sideways, and his head to look behind — he had grown
suspicious.

The old lady had a difficult card to play, and, of course, played it
badly, floundering through muddy sentences, until at last she ventured
to regret " that her dear Harry had not been in the drawing-room— he
used to be so fond of music — and she had prevailed on Geraldine to
sing ; and Arthur Harewell said he had never heard her in better
voice."

Mr. Leeson muttered something about a new book, and Arthur
understanding music better than he did, as he heard more of it. And
this was answered by an observation, " that more was the pity." And
then the gentleman sat, and the lady fidgetted through a long pause —
until, with tears of very sincere grief, she declared, in her own simple
way, her regrets that two so much attached as her dear son and
daughter " were " (Mr. Leeson shook liis head) — " had been," then
substituted the sorrowing mother — were now so estranged " without
any cause."

Mr. Leeson stiffly said, " that if there had not been cause, there
would have been no estrangement — the fault was none of his."

The old lady hit upon one sensible observation by chance — " that
in quarrels matrimonial, both parties were generally to blame."

He bowed ; and answered, *' It miglit be so, in a degree."

" For instance," she continued, " yon were very angry with her
long ago, I find, about a foolish chain ; and really, Harry, dear, you
had no reason."

"The chain was in itself as unoficnding," ho replied, "as trinkets
generally are ; but I had reason. She told ine a falsehood as to her
means of purchase. The chain was a gift ; yet she assured ine she
bought it. I have but too good reason to remember it, as the com-
mencement of all our misery. Why, she even used your name as the
giver of part of the purchase-money."

"And so I was," murmured forth the feeble-minded woman, unable
to raise her eyes ; but kerping down the trutli by the weight of her
sister's riches.

"Nay!" he exclaimed; how could that be, when you yourself

Hut you must remember certain passages which prevent a possibility
of that."

" She wished so for the chain," said tlic old lady, " that I bor-
rowed ten pounds to make up the money."

Mr. Leeson rose from his seat in wrathful indignation, and but
that the being before him was a frail aged woman, could not have
contained himself. " You really must excuse me for saying I doubt
you. I should, indeed, grieve to feel that those grey hairs were dis-
honoured by a falsehood, to screen a child who has no feeling for
herself."

Self-degradation forced itself upon the feeble-minded mother, and
sin- otdy said that she hoped he " would permit her still farther to
oxpLnn."

" Pardon me," he replied. " if I decline any future conversation
upon thin Hubject. Wlun I married (leraldine, I ini.igined I read in
the brightncM of her Kunny face tin- light of truth. I loved her with
the entire fulneHH of my heart. I unuld have truHled her witli my
life; I find truHted her witli more — for t'V<Ty man when he marries
I runts his wife with hit honour. I pictured long years of enduring
nffertion ; and. alwivc all, in return for the most devoted love that
man can feel towarcis woman. I a>ked for her confulence. hi-r unbroken

9<k

298 woman's trials.

confidence. Nothing else could satisfy me. It must be frank — spon-
taneous — untainted. My conviction is, that unmingled truth is the
sole bond of domestic happiness. She knew that such was my opinion ;
she had heard me say, a hundred times, that sooner or later sin follows
concealment. I did not want my wife to appeal to me on every occa-
sion, or feel it necessary to render an account of her personal expenses;
such details are irksome to a man ; but I expected that she should
have no interest apart from mine — no expenditure tliat was to be
considered private — no stealing from a house purse, to put into one
called, for distinction's sake, ' her own.' Mine was at all times open
to her hand. If I urged upon her the investigation of accounts, it was
only to lead her to those habits of exactness which are inseparable
from sound domestic management. I remember how my heart beat
with joy, when she brought me the savings of her early housekeeping;
if it had been thousands, instead of pounds, I could not have rejoiced
more sincerely; it was a proof of frankness on the very point upon
which I had depended so much. I felt I had a sweet confiding
friend, and that our interests were the same. How soon this changed,

I also well remember " He paused ; and then abruptly added,

" Why need she have denied that her cousin Arthur gave her that
chain ? "

" Indeed," exclaimed her mother, earnestly; " indeed, indeed, you
do her wrong ; Arthur never gave it her. If you have for so long a
time indulged this injustice, no wonder you have made her and yourself
so wretched."

" My dear lady," replied Mr. Leeson, calm even to bitterness,
" I know he did ; and in the gift, or the taking, there was no sin ;
but there was sin in the lie. It destroyed my confidence in lier ; it
implanted the vile weed suspicion in my bosom ; and ever since, as if
a spell were round her, she has heaped duplicity upon duplicity, until
now, I could not believe truth to be truth coming from her lips." It
was most painful to observe the agitation of his feelings speaking in
his eloquent face. " I believe," he added, " I hope and trust, she is
free of all other sin; I hope it; I — I — believe it; but I cannot believe
HER. It was only this very day that I came to the determination of

THE PRIVATE PURSE. 299

removing our cliild from an influence whicli must in llie end destroy
her, as it has destroyed her mother."

" You are not surely going to be guilty of tlic cruelty of taking her
child from her ! " ejaculated its grandmother ; " you cannot be in
earnest. What will even her friends think? OIi ! Henry, you would
not brand my child as unfit to be a mother ! What would tiie world
say?"

" Madam," he replied, "there is a higher tribunal than that, where
part-nts will be called upon to give an account of the children com-
mitted to their care. Mine is already practised in deception. It 1 say
one thing, and my wife teaches another, what can be expected but that
our child will in turn deceive us both."

" Vou are severe ; indeed, you are," reiterated the poor lady, who
had altogether lost sight of her first object in this fresh trouble, and
did not seem to understand how much she had added It) the evil
feeling she had thought to obliterate by her poor subterfuge. Oh!
Henry, dear Iltnry, remember how you lovrd her!"

*' If," answered the afllicted husband, " if I could forget that, 1
should not suffer as I do."

" Had she been a faithless wife, you could not punish licr more
severely than you propose to do."

"There are various kinds of infidelity not recognised by law," he
replied. ''Ill believed her guilty in the sense you mi.iii, she shoidd
not shelter for a moment here; and yet there are men, who, with less
•how of cause, have branded their wives. Now, do not agitate yourself
on that score ; I make no charge against hir. I in-lieve her pure ;
l)Ut where is the tender fiitli, the confiding love, tuk triitm, that
should !)«• tiie woman's tiironi:. However, my tlieani is past ; my
resolution taken. I will <lo my best to prevent any man being deceived
by my child, aiK I have been deceive«l by her. Vou are, perhaps, the
most lit person to tell your daughter of my determination. In re-
moving my chdd, I remove the j«»y, the light, the solace, of my <»wii
exislenre ; Itut it is fur her own good. She shall not return until
her principles arc fixed, or her mother's course of condurt is entirely
changed."

300

WOMAN S TRIALS.

Unfortunately, Mr, Leeson had selected a powerless messenger,
who, of course, inclined to the other side, and who felt keenly, what
even the most silly women feel, the love of offspring. Instead of
keeping secret as the grave her son-in-law's intention, with garrulous
weakness slie sought sympathy from those hundred and one " dear
friends," who immediately set their own vei'sions of the story afloat ;
and while but few saw and understood the father's intention, the
mass "conjectured" and " hinted " the "real reason." "Poor Mr.
Leeson ! how generous of him to overlook what had occurred, and
keep her (his wife) in his house ; no wonder he should remove his
child; of course, her mother woul(\ make the best of it; — people
might visit her by and bye — but no one would do so, until they saw —
who called first!— they used to give pleasant dinners— and it was a
chcerfid house to visit at — but most likely it would change— time would
tell" — and so forth.

Geraldine looked upon her husband's resolve as an act of wanton
tyranny and cruelty. Having ceased to honour the straightforward
truth, she could not have faith in the actual motive of his resolve;
and, blinded by sorrow and anger, she induced her cousin Arthur to
interfere. Women talk and talk, outrage and anger each other, and
their words are as nought. Wlio heeds or cares for them after they
are spoken? But men's words are uttered to be remembered and
acted upon. Mr. Leeson was indignant at any man presuming to
interpose in his domestic concerns. Words succeeded each other with
angry rapidity, until neither could call to mind how the unfortunate
chain was first alluded to. Arthur Harewell, then, boldly and fear-
lessly declared that he never gave it to his cousin ; upon whicli Mr.
Leeson gave him the lie direct. The usual consequences followed.
Arthur Harewell received a ball in his shoulder, and Mr. Leeson,
also wounded, was conveyed home, where his agonised wife, throwing
herself on her knees by his side, bitterly lamented that her aunt's gift
liad been so fatal. Now, indeed, she spoke the truth. The sight of
her first and only love, his lacerated arm bleeding, and his features
white as a maiden's shroud, recalled her better nature. What, in that
hour, did she care for her aunt's displeasure ? — what for the wealth

THE PRIVATE PURSE. 301

her sordid fingers had grappled together? She believed he was
dying, and dying with the conviction of her utter worthlessncss. She
did not even seek to extenuate her own fault, while she traced it to its
origin ; and yet there, on her knees, even while pouring out her soul
in sincerity and truth, she saw she was not believed.

How could she convince him ? In a state bordering on frenzy she
wrote to her aunt, imploring her to ratify her words, acknowledging
her kindness towards herself, but showing what its effects had been.
To this appeal she received no answer. The proof, however, that
she was able to lay before her husband, at last convinced him that
her first fault — her first falsehood — did not originate in herself.
Before he rose from his sick-bed — for mental agitation, combined with
his wound, terminated in fever — her aunt had died ; and the legacy she
left her niece was characteristic of her sarcastic nature. "And to my
niece, Geraldine Leeson, I give and bequeath, instead of the whole of
my property, as I had intended, the sum of one shilling, to buy a pad-
lock for her foolish lips."

I wish I coidd here say, after the most approved novel fashion,
that, so reconciled, Mr. and .Mrs. Leeson lived happily together to the
end of their day*. Not so. A tarnished honour cannot be restored
to its original brightness ; it is quite impossible for a woman to retake
her place in society — even, if strictly speaking it has not been forfeited —
if she is marked — she is doomed. Henry Leeson, though a rigid, was a
high-minded and generous man, and with such a character even his
erring wife was safe from reproach ; but the eflfect of years of
mi-HCondurt, of any kind, cannot be obliterated by sorrow. lu-peiitance
works well for the penitent, Iml the world is little cognisant thereof.
The duel had stamped Geraldine in the eyes of that world as a
woman, if not of ^in, of levity ; this in truth in a married woman
is BO closely allied to sin, that there is but one Power which can rightly
<li.4ccrn the <lifrerencr. When familiar faces turn<'«l aside as she passed,
when hIu' walketl up the steps of the j>arish church ungreeted, her
husband was by lu-r iiide, and she felt her arm as closely pressed
to hi^ heart as when he Hiip|Hirted her, n lovely, loving bridt*, from the
altar; but even then hIw felt indi btid to Iils fin. rosity. She knew

302 woman's trials.

that liis confidence, tliough she hoped returning, had not returned.
When to prove to the %vorld his perfect conviction as to the virtue of
his wife, he paraded town leaning upon Arthur Harewell's arm, the
knowledge of the necessity for such conduct made her ashamed of her
own shadow.

" Take my child from me now, Harry," she said, with bitter, bitter
tears, and her head bent almost to his feet, " and I will not complain.
Send her where some one of higher and holier mind will strenghten and
stablish her in what is right. Send her where the duties of her sex
and station will be brought clearly before her eyes, and where
there is no danger of her confounding right and wrong. At any
sacrifice of my own, I would save her from the sufferings T have
inflicted and endured."

This, indeed, was the language of truth, and Henry felt it, and
rejoiced ; but his joy was sobered by the knowledge, the fearful
knowledge, of what the world said, and the dread that she did not
yet understand the perfect and entire union of interests necessary
to the happiness of domestic life. Union of sympathies is the happy
effect of chance, but a union of interests is a positive duty ; and so
at last Geraldine felt it.

Time passed on. Mr. Leeson, although he despised the feeble
mind of his wife's mother, and kept her out of the way of her grand-
child, ministered liberally to her necessities. His daughter grew up in
mind all that the fondest parent could desire, although her fragile form
and sensitive face told of constitutional delicacy. She had much de-
ference for the world's opinion, on all points, and a desire to remain
unknown and unnoticed, save by the few she deeply, but earnestly loved.
She was singularly feminine in her tastes, and entertained the pro-
foundest love and veneration for her paients. Towards her mother these
feelings were blended with a kind of enthusiasm that might be sup-
posed incompatible with her gentle nature ; she regarded her as the
most perfect of human beings. No mother was ever so devoted as
hers— no mother was ever gifted with such accomplishments — no mother
blessed with such understanding— if she wished to express the excel-
lence of any individual, she would say " she is like my mother." Her

THE PRIVATE PURSE. 303

father had almost forgotten that he hail ever doubted his wife's truth.
They had removed into a new neighbourhood, and formed new friends.
The son of one of these, a nian of high rank, was paying his ad-
dresses to their daughter ; and not only were the young girl's affec-
tions engaged, but both parents were delighted at the prospect of her
happiness.

Father anil son were dining one day at Mr. Leeson's splendid
country seat, when the old gentleman, who was chiefly remarkable
for extreme propriety, and was so entirely guided by what Mr. This,
or Mr. That said, or thouglit, as to have no fixed opinion, on any sub-
ject, although he believed that he not only entertained fixed opinions of
his own, but guided the opinions of others, and was moreover exceed-
ingly deaf, said, as they were chatting over dessert, " By the way,
Leeson, my cousin, Sir George, was telling me an odd story about a
person of your name, no relation I suppose — eh?" Mr. Leeson did
not know. " No ; but it could not be — very improper indeed if it wns.
Leeson is a irciural, I do not mean to say a coiinnon name, but a
general one. .Something about an aflhir that ought to have given em-
ployment to the gentlemen of the long robe; but the lady, who was a
great story-teller, managed to convince her husband of her innocence,
though she convinced nobody else. And only fancy, by Jove ! the
hu.sband parading St. .James's Street arm-in-arm with the very cousin
he had winged ! Now, did you ever hear anything so absurd / How
the fellows at the clul) windows must have laughed!"

Poor Mrs. Leeson I After the lapse of years, to hear this at such
a moment ! She was carried out of tlie room fiinting. An explanation
followi-d, and the match was, at least for a time, broken of]'.

The hIiocU wa.s of ttx) severe a nature to be endured liy so gentle
and tender minded a girl an Miss Leeson. She had known lier mother
only as gixwl and pure. .She li.-id lieen more proud of her character
and virtiu- than of anything else in the whole world; but after that
fatal dinner she never spoke upon the subject, nor asked a (piestion,
until at the very ln.st. Within an hour of her death land she died
witliin a month), mining herwlf on her pillow, while her parents were
(It either side, she folded her ann round her fither's neck, and drawing

304

WOMAN S TRIALS.

his ear close to her lips, whispered, " Tell me, father — tell me truth —
was she guilty ? "

"No, dearest — God knows, she was not."

The girl's face became radiant with joy, and the last word she
spoke was a repetition of the sound she loved so well — " My mother !
— my mother I — my mother!" And then she passed away, as the
leaves from the summer cistus, as fragile and as fair — the first rough
blast of a rough world liad borne her to the earth.

For years and years her parents lived, two mourning creatures,
he strengthening her, and she, patient and silent, save to the young
whom she counselled, as I do you — dear young friends, who may
read this story — that when you wed, do it not lightly ; but when
done, endeavour as much as lieth in you to be of one mind and one
interest in all things.

T-f

-ii

Till- CrilSK OF IMIOPKIITY.

ooR Barry!" cxclaimrd Mr. Newton. "Poor

I Harry ! it was sad to sec that once fine property

incited away, one could iiardly tell liow, until

'% even the noble dwellinf? of his ancestors wa.<»

sold in lots to n fellow who printed ' Architect'
on his card."
" I was his unch-'s friend," sighed old Sir Charles

aSinnlry ; " and the reinenihrancc of that family — it is
Htrangr, hut, nevertheless, true— afTords me at once cxcecd-
inH pain nn«l sincere pleasure. I mourn over the love of
display, nn«l the pauperising^ system, pursued hy poor
but prniul relations, by which that fine estate was utterly

2 R

30G woman's trials.

ruined ; and I grieve for it the more, because it is far from being a
singular instance of ruin, effected by similar means. You, my dear
friend, will readily believe that the pleasurable reminiscences I expe-
rience arise from the noble conduct of tliat little black-eyed girl, Alice
Lee, whom all the family, excepting Claude, the heir-at-law, strove to
injure; and to whom even now they grudge the fair name and the fair
fame acquired by her own industry and exertions."

" I should like to hear you tell the tale. Sir Charles," replied
Mr. Newton. " I have heard portions of the history ; but the loss
of property, consequent upon mismanagement, is unfortunately so
common in our poor country, that many such events may have been
confused in my memory with this particular one."

" My old friend, Charles Barry," commenced the venerable baronet,
" had the misfortune to inherit, with his estate, the charge of some five
or six half-brothers and sisters, who married, and had a greater number
of ' blessings,' in the form of children, than usually fall to the lot even
of Irish gentry. The person he at that time loved most in the world,
was his own sister, a young woman nothing differing from other girls
of her age and rank, and who, in due time, married two thousand
a year (it was so called) and a fox-hunting 'Squire. Mr. Barry's
health had for some months been on the decline, and he resolved to
visit Bath, then esteemed the most fashionable and health-giving
place on earth.

" A little scene which occurred at Barrybrooke the evening before
his departure, will best illustrate the menage of an Irish bachelor's
house in the year eighty-two. I was staying with him at the time, and
we had agreed to travel together. I must, however, tell you, that he
had determined upon not letting any of his numerous relatives — who
came for 'sea air' to Barrybrooke, with the intention of remaining,
some for three, others for nine, and others again for twelve months-
know aught of his movements. In the evening he summoned, into his
study, Jerry Keg — valet by inheritance — and whom I always remember
the same stiff, upright, honest-looking fellow, with a grave air, a twink-
ling eye, and a twisted nose. Jerry entered, his high shoulders
propping his ears, his head projecting like that of a tortoise, his hands

THE CURSE OF PROPERTY. 307

folded bthind his back, liis old-fashioned, licldy-laced liverv stickinsj
out on either side like the fins of a flat-fisli.

" ' Jerry," said his master, ' I wish my valise filled with rather a
better supply of things than I require when I visit my sister ; I wish
Black Nell saddled, and as you accompany me, you must take Padreen,
I suppose. Have all things ready by six o'clock to-morrow morning*
and tell .Meg we shall not return for a month.'

"'It's a dane impossibility, yer Honour,' replied Jerry, bowing;
' Black Nell, I heard the groom say, wanted shoes, and I made an oath
never to cross Padreen since he flung me into the apple-tree, over the
fence. As to the valise, sir, honey ! Mrs. Mooney's little Jack cried
for it to make a cart for Bran ; indeed, it 'ud surprise yer Honour to
see the 'cuteness of that child — how he settled it car-fashion behind the
dog's tail, and made the natest little harness ye ever see, out o' one of
the new traces o' yer Honour's gig.'

"'And how dare you, sir,' said my friend, incensed at this new-
proof of his not being master in his own house, ' how dare you
.sulllr .Mrs, Monncy, or anybody else, to destroy my property in
(hat way ? '

"•Sure, she's yer Honour's half-sister, and I liope I know
manners too well to contradict a lady ; much less one of yer Honour's
blood rrlations.'

" ' Will, pack the things in a trunk, and we can all go in the
carriage.'

" ' C), boo-boo-boo ! — the carriage, is it? Sure, yer Honour's
own .second cousin, Mr. Finneriy, sint that off yesti-rday, to bring his
nurse and the twins here, an«l his wife along wid 'em, to give ye an
agreeable Jiurprise, as lie .naid, fleeing yer Honour's so fond o' children;
and it'H my own opinion, that sorra a ihrunk in the house 'ud liould
thcj^ithiT ; they've been all lei tn «lriip to pieces, because it's so long
since they've bren wauling.'

"'What am I to «lo, .'^lanl^•y ? ' sai<l my friind, looking at mv
despairingly.

** ' Simply lhu!«,' I replied ; ' let us leave (»ur servants to follow, put
a few things into my portmanteau — for I promise you. the outward man

will need refitting when we arrive at our destination — and I will ride
Dorton's horse.'

" This was agreed upon, to Jerry's mortification, who muttered,
' He could ride the mule any way, tho' it was a stubborn devil, and it
was no thing for a gintleman of family and fortune, like his master, to
lave his own place without an attindant.^

" * What do you mean to do with the horde, at present in possession
of the house ? ' I inquired, laughing : I always tried to laugh him out
of his faults, for, like most of his countrymen, he was more proof
against reason than ridicule.

" ' What ca7i I do with them ?' he replied ; ' they are my own kith
and kin ; and as I am the head of the family, and a bachelor — poor
creatures ! — ay, it is easy for you to laugh — you English folk know
nothing, and care less, about long-tailed families; with you, the junior
members of a family, both males and females, contribute to their own
support ; with us — '

" ' The senior,' I said, ' is expected to provide for all, and is soon
rendered, by that means, incapable of providing for himself In the
name of goodness, my dear fellow, if you must play almoner to such a
tribe, do it in a rational way ; — pay them so much a year — say ten,
twenty, or thirty pounds each — but I defy any income to stand the
constant drains to which yours is exposed ; — men, women, and children
— dogs, horses, and servants — make an eternal inn of your house.
My life on't ! you never know, from one year's end to another, how
many eat at your board.'

" ' Meg does — and she is a faithful old creature.'
" ' True ; but she has so long been accustomed to this Castle-Rack-
rent system, that it is for you to commence the reform — you cannot
expect Iter to do it.'

*' ' Faith, Charles, you are right,' he replied ; ' but you cannot enter
into my feelings. To tell you the simple truth, I could not afford to
pay half the people I support ten pounds a year.'

" ' Permit me to ask how much their support costs you ?'
"'Eh? — 01 a mere trifle, I suppose: but seriously' (and
he fixed his fine blue eyes upon me as he spoke), ' you do not

TlIK CUnSE OF I'ROPERTY. 309

suppose me capable of the meanness of calculating what people eat
and drink ?'

" ' I would only wish you capable of the wisdom of considering
whether, in justice to others, you can literally give more than you
possess.'

" ' Justice I w hat do you mean ? '

•' ' Forgive me, my dear Barry, but have you paid off any of the
embarrassments which hung over the estate when you came of age ? '

" ' I cannot say I have.'

" ' If you have not paid off the principal, I trust the interest has
been punctually discharged.'

" ' I cannot say that it has. I am never pressed for it ; and some-
how or other, the rents slip through my fingers before I have time to
think of my debts.'

" ' Of course you investigate the accounts of your agent and
steward regularly ? '

" ' Strange beings you Englishmen are ! My agent's a glorious
fellow — exact as a dial, punctual as a dun. O, no ! no necessity in the
world to look after him ; and as to my steward, faith ! he's a clever
fellow — so ingenious ! cannot write much, but has a way of his own of
keeping accounts — particular sorts of crosses he makes — amazingly
curious, I assure you.'

'* I smiled and sighed. Jerry knocked at the door.

" ' I want to spake to yer Honour.'

" ' Speak out, then, at once.'

" • It's Mr. Malxrly, the grazier, called about the three fat bullocks
he !M)ld ycr Honour last Christmas, to kill for the poor ; and if it 'ud be
convanient jist to let him have the money, now.'

'"Tell him it is not convenient, and send him to Dennis; why
should he jK-ster n»e about his dtad bidlocks ? I thought he was paid
long ago ; there, Irave the room.'

"'The widdy Uooney is Ih-Iow, on arcomU that Iut .son is kilt
intirtiv, and as gornl as diad, by the .*^pillogue boys; and she thought,
maybe, ye'd help her in her throuble.'

" * I'oor thing I thfie, give her that,' tossing n guinea on the

310 woman's trials.

table ; ' tell licr, I'll commit her son if he gets into any of these
broils again.'

" ' God bless you, sir ! I'll tell him not to brile agen — if he can
help it.'

"' What, is he below?'

" ' As much as is left of him, yer Honour ; ' and away went Jerry.
The just creditor, therefore, was dismissed without even an apology —
the riotous youth, with a reward! I noted this, and more! — I urged
his remaining even for a day or two longer, for the purpose of
arranging his accounts. It was useless ; he laughed me off, and pro-
mised, that on his return he would — ' see about it.' Alas ! how many
of the bright and shining lights of this poor country have been extin-
guished by Procrastination !

" His easy manners, his good-nature, and really handsome person,
made him an universal favourite at Bath, and many a lady of large
fortune would readily have bestowed upon him hand and heart ; but
Charles was no fortune-hunter — he considered the lust of gold

' The last corruption of degenerate man,'

and fixed his affections upon a young and beautiful widow lady with

one daughter, whom he had accidentally met at the house of a mutual

friend. Although his passion was violent, I saw good reason why it

should be lasting. United to feminine loveliness, she possessed the

rare endowments of judgment and gentleness ; there was a steadiness,

a sobriety about her, which made Barry often say, in the words of the

poet,

' I have a heart for her that's kind,
A lip for her that smiles ;
But if her mind be like the wind,
I'd rather foot it twenty miles.'

" * She is so uniform,' he would add, * that I almost think her
too good for me, who am so volatile ; yet I love her the more for the
contrast."

" It is exceedingly difficult to throw off the trammels that have
grown with our growth ; and when he was accepted by this interesting

THE CURSE OF PROPERTV. 811

woman, he positively wanted courage to write and inform Iiis sister of
his intended marriage.

" • Poor thing,' said lie to me, one morning, * she will so grieve
at my being married ; for she has even now instilled into the mind of
her only son, Claude, who is about six years of age, that he is to be
sole heir to my property.'

" 'If,' I replied, ' she has been absurd enough so to act, she
deserves punishment. In addition to supporting the cousin-clan, is it
usual for the head of a family to remain in a state of single blessedness
to please his relations ? '

"lie smiled; but not until after they were united did he com-
municate his attachment to his sister. He went further ; — he wrote
to old Megg, to say, that grieved as he might feel, it was necessary
that no visiters should remain at Barrybrooke, as Mrs. Barry disliked
company. So far, so pood ; would that he had persovorcd in a course
so decided !

" I could not repeat, if I would, the innumerable mortifications
which Mrs. Barry experienced on her visiting Ireland for the first
time. Tl»e manners and habits of the people ill accorded with her
English feelings. From being the admired ami beloved of a circle of
intellectual and accomplished persons, she found herself shiu up in a
castellated, dilapidated house, with bare-footed housemaids (I speak of
what n'ax forty years since) and other servants, to whom the F.nglish
language was totally unknown. I",verylhing, from tlic kitchens to the
attics of the ramliling building, wanted arrangement ; and she was
bewildered where first to conunence a reformation. Out of two-and-
twenty st'rv.nnt**, to dischnrge ten apjjcand tin- most likely mode of
getting anything done properly ; nn<l this sti-p innnediately made her
un|)opulnr with the prasantry. Then she blundered dr«adfully as to
the mnnagenieiit of her parties,— asked Orangeuwu and their wives to
meet the priest of the parish ; and placed the rector's wif«', at table,
above a Kidy v*hi> wan Heronil-cou.iin to the great Karl of Ormond !
These on'cnceH were not to Iht forgiven in a neighbourhood where
every circumstance formed an event, an<l where, if truth nnist Ik> told,
the women envied her iK'auty; — the men fearccl her intellect. Then

312 woman's trials.

the family ! — how was it to be expected they could pardon Mr. Barry
for marrying, at all, in the first place, and for not consulting them, in
the second ? The thing was impossible, and they acted accordingly.

" Harriet, the daughter of Mrs. Barry by her first marriage, was a
proud and silent girl, but possessed of exquisite feeling. Her troubles
were hard and many ; but they were not of long duration ; she pined ;
and wasted, and wept in secret ; and at last, as the only way left of
escaping from a place where she felt every eye glared suspiciously on
her, clandestinely married, and, in less than twelve months afterwards,
gave birth to a female child, and died. Mr. Barry, with the pure
kindliness of spirit which always characterized his impulses, gave the
little orphan into his wife's arms, and bursting into tears, exclaimed —
'It is your grandchild, — it shall be also mine; I will be unto it a
true parent.'

"You know that my friend had not been blessed with children;
the feeling, therefore, on his part towards the helpless innocent was
but just and natural. The person most displeased, when my little
friend Alice Lee took up her abode at Barrybrooke, was Mr. Barry's
sister ; her son, Claude Barry, as he was always called (his father, by
the way, two years after his birth, broke his neck at a steeple-chase),
was naturally considered heir to his uncle's property ; and it was a
grievous thing, in her opinion, for a stranger to take even a small part
of the good things she expected her son to possess exclusively. Claude
himself was always a good-natured boy, though not much given to
reflection.

" ' I can't think w^hy you all hate that little child,' he would say ;
' she is a merry soul, and gets my uncle out of his nervous fits sooner
than any one else, with her innocent prattle ; she is quite a comfort
in the long winter evenings when the place is too dull for us to remain
there.'

" ' Innocent, indeed !' replied one of the family coterie, when the
observation was finished. ' I wonder how she could be innocent,
tutored as she is by her grandmother.'

" ' I am astonished you have not more discernment, Claude, than
not to see,' said his mother, ' that the little imp is brought up with

THE CURSE OF PROPERTY. 313

mighty liigh notions : the very last time I was there, she cried because
there was no sugar in her bread and milk.'

" 'It's a comfort,' kindly added a third, 'that the child is indis-
putably ugly; — a little bit of a thing, notwithstanding all the cramming
she gets, with a monstrous forehead towering over her eyes, making
her look as if she had water on the brain.'

" ' She's as proud as Lucifer,' chimed in a fourth, ' and would
stamp like a fury, if she hadn't a clean frock on twice a day; fine
English airs, indeed ! '

" ' We may all be obliged to her yet, for all that,' said Claude,
laughing, and making tiie remark more from a love of tormenting, than
aught else ; ' poor tln'ng ! I shall be the only one among you, who
never thought or said an unkind word of her!'

" 'And more fool you!' and 'you'll repent it!* and that always
safe and wise saying, ' Time will tell ! ' was echoed about, through the
scandalous council, until poor Claude wished the holidays were over,
and he was fairlv back at school. The followinj; summer, many of
the same party were staying at Harrybrooke ; for disagreeable as they
certainly were to Mrs. IJarry, she bore their society with praiseworthy
forbearance : unfortimately, some words had arisen l)rtween her and
Claude's mother, on a very unimportant matter, and liie lady was
anxious for an opportunity of mortifying her sister-in-law. Mr. Harry
was from home ; but after dinner, when the dessert was placed on
the tablf, Mrs. IJarry desired llu- servant to siiul in Miss Alice, who
was then about six years old. The little girl came, as usual, to her
grandmannna's knee, and at the moment Claude was helping himself to
some currants.

*• 'Give a few of those to Alice, dear,' said Mrs. Harry.

" ' II.lp yourself fir!.c, my darling,' observed his niother ; adding^
in a bitter un<ler tone, ' It is not meet to take the children's l)read and
give it to (he dogn.'

" Mrs. Harry rote a-* ^hv sp«)ke ; and I shall never lorgel the
dignily with which ulie crmsed tin- dining-hall, to leave the apartnu'iit
in which »lie had Miflered so grotn an insult : — those who felt justly
d was one of the number) followed. Alice perfectly understixMl wha(

i •

314 woman's trials.

liad passed ; and the little thing stood where her grandmamma had sat,
swelling with rage. Claude heaped the plate with currants, and called
her affectionately to his side. Alice looked at him with an expression
I shall never forget. At last, swallowing her passion, she shook her
head, and turning to his mother, said, very quietly, —

" 'I am no dog; I am, as you have often called me, a little ugly
girl ; but the time may come, when those who hate me now, may be
glad to pick crumbs from my table, and thank me for them too.'

" This spirited reply coming from one so young, drew forth many
and various observations from the party. Claude was indignant at the
cruelty of his parent, and followed his aunt with apologies, and even
tears. This was only one incident in a thousand of the dislike evinced
to tliis hapless child, of whose father, I should have told you, nothing
had been heard for a considerable period, as he went abroad on the
death of his wife. In the meantime, the circumstances of my old
friend were far from improving ; his habitual neglect of money matters,
and his eternal procrastination, were swiftly leading to a ruin, which,
as Mrs. Barry was ignorant of its extent, she could not avert. Indeed,
the very exactness with which she conducted household matters, was
attributed to her as a crime.

" ' Where's the use of painting palings, for the rain to batter
against ? ' said one ; — ' such expense, indeed ! '

" 'Then,' said another, ' there was an enormous bill for building
two pig-sties: even if the bastes did get into the garden, now and then,
what grate matter was it ? where's the good of flowers ? '

" ' Couldn't she let the tenants go on as they used,' exclaimed a
fourtli, ' and take the spinning and duty fowls from their wives, as
others did before her ? What was the time of the poor to them ? Talk
of extravagance ! wasn't it the height of extravagance to pay women
for spinning, when it could be done for nothing?'

" Mrs. Barry's system, whatever might have been the prejudice enter-
tained against her by the peasantry, as ' a fine lady from foreign parts,
who was come to reign over them,' was productive of so much good
to the poor, that they soon regarded her as their best friend, and their
gratitude and affection were proportionate, while increasing difficulties

THE CURSE OF PROPERTY,

pressed hard upon Mr. IJarry, and he wanted resolution to tear himself
away from family and party feuds. These circumstances soured his
temi>er, and made him at times capricious and severe. It is well
known, that at home or abroad, whatever goes wrong with a married
' man, is avenged upon his wife. Perhaps I ought not to say avenged,
but I can hardly find a term to express the ill-temper which is too
often shown at home, when adverse circumstances are encountered
out of the domestic circle.

" Your own poet has expressed in language so chaste and beautiful
the peculiar feelings which this sort of thing generates, that I will
repeat you the lines : —

" ' A something light as air— a look,
A word unkind or wrongly taken, —
Oh 1 love, that tempests never shook,
A breath, a touch, like this, has shaken.*

j "'Are they not beautiful?' exclaimed the old gentleman again.

I Not that matters were so bad with them, either ; but certainly, some-
thing was fast undermining Mrs. Barry's constitution. I would not
j have said that her chief happiness arose from the consolation allorded
her in the affection of her tenants, had I remembered the devoted
tenderness of her grandchild, and the delight she took in attending to
her education. The development of the girl's mind was both rapid
and powerful. Distant as they were from towns, no aid of masters
could be obtained. Mrs. Barry knew enough of music to teach tlio
child its rudiments; and Alice, gifted with a fine car, and a genuine
love for the charming science, made swift progress in the art she loved.
Many studies were resorted to, with a view to occupation, that would
not have b«-on tho\ight of under other circimistances, or if the little
maiil had enjoyed the society of persons of her own age. Iler grand-
father taught her L.itin, and the priest of the parish instructed her in
Italian. Of what are usunlly railed children's books, she never
possessed any; but cojdd re|)cat, nhnost by heart, the Hisfori<'S of
Hume and Kollm, with many of the ancient chronicles. Iler light
reading vnrie<l from tlu- Arabian Nights to the History of the Bobber
Freny, with odd volumes of Irish History, and now and then a

316 woman's trials.

romance of the Radcliffe school. Shakspeare she loved ; Milton she
revered ; but there was one book that was invariably perused morning
and evening, which laid the foundation of her good conduct and future
prosperity. Her grandmother saw that her romantic and rambling
mind needed a powerful corrective. Situated as she was, and feeling
that the child was debarred from amusements suited to her age and
sex, — observing also the avidity with which she obtained information,
and unable, from the increasing delicacy of her health, to guide her as
she wished, — she wisely felt the necessity of strengthening her reli-
gious impressions. The imagination of my young friend readily caught
at the beauties of Scripture, but her grandmother wished her reason to
be convinced of its truths: this she happily effected, and the silence and
solitude of her sick room often echoed the pure doctrines of salvation,
and the breathing prayers dictated by faithful hearts. Barry procured
for his wife, at an immense expense, the best medical advice the
country afforded. His affection had cooled, but never changed ; and
the prospect of losing one so dear, redoubled his attentions. It was,
however, of no avail : and, after a tedious illness, I followed her to her
grave. Alice had never left her sick bed : it was a touching sight, to
see the expiring effort the pale but still beautiful woman made to place
the hand of the weeping child within that of her husband : he fell on
his knees, and solemnly swore to protect Alice Lee to the latest hour
of his life, and to bestow upon her a handsome income at his death.

" ' I do not want that last promise,' she said in a trembling voice,
* she can make riches for herself. Protect her, but let her be inde-
pendent !"

" Independent was the last word this excellent woman uttered ; no
wonder then that it was a hallowed feeling and a hallowed sound to the
heart and the ear of her grandchild.

" ' I WILL be independent," said the sweet girl, as she strewed the
flowers in which her grandmother had delighted, over the silent corpse,
and placed to her cheek the blooming roses which she had so loved to
cultivate ; and then she laid her own head on the same pillow, and
read in the Book of Life, of eternity, and heaven, and worlds beyond
the grave — and was comforted in her affliction !

THE CURSE OF PROPERTY. 317

" She had watched from her chamber window the slowly pacing
funeral pass from the court-yard, the coffin supported by eight of the
oldest tenants, who claimed the privilege of carrying it to its resting-
place, and Claude Barry, in right of kin and as the representative of
his uncle (who was too ill to perform the melancholy duty), following
as chief mourner. She had seen the procession, attended by a multi-
tude of peoj)le, wind round the hill side, till it was concealed from her
view by a dense wood that overshadowed the road, and drying her
tears, she entered the dark room where her grandfather was nurturing
in secret the bitterness of grief. She seated herself quietly by his
side, and made a sign of silence to old Jerry, who had followed her
into the apartment, and whose infinuities prevented his attending the
funeral : surprised that he motioned her towards the window which
looked out upon the avenue, she opened the shutter so as to peep
forth and ascertain his meaning. The old porter at the second gate
waa engaged in evidently a fierce contention with some four or five
men, who demanded free passage to the house. Poor Alice trembled
all over, for she had heard of writs and executions, as calamities
threatened against her grandfather ; but as he had ' managed to keep
them oft*' {a\-M ! for such management), she never thought they would
really arrive at Barrybrooke. 'I'he appearance of the men, the agita-
tion of the servant, and, above all, their suddenly pushing past the
I>orter, while Jerry exclaimed so loud as to startle his master: ' I'll
bar the doors,' confirmed her in the feeling, that they were sheriff's
officers. And she flung herself on her protector's neck, exclaiming,
• What shall we do!'

" I'oor Barry looki-d for a moment on the men as they wheeled

j round the hou.se to approach the door. * i see who lln-y are,' he said

j in a (juiet voice; ' alas I and was not my heart sulliciently broken?

and have I already livfd to see the time when I return thanks to the

AIniighly fur having taken froni me the wife of my bosom — so that she

has been spared this misrrv?'

"lie walked to the hall, where his faithful servant, in the true
spirit of Irinh fidelity, had drauti the bohs, and eittnblished him-
self with a riiHty musket, that had done the rooks and magpies

318 woman's trials.

much miscliief, resolved to protect the dwelling from ' bailiff or
sheriff.'

" ' Open the door, Jerry,' said my friend.

" ' ^Vhat, yer Honour ? '

" ' Open the door.'

" * For what, plaze yer Honour, 'ud I do that same?'

" * To admit these men.'

" 'Lord bless yer Honour, and keep ye in yer right mind, which
ye are not in at this present time, or yed niver give way to the like o'
them.'

" ' Fool,' exclaimed Mr. Barry, as they thundered at the portal,
' do as I command you.'

*' ' Master, darlint ! ' replied the poor fellow, * you may trample on
me if ye like, and call me what ye plaze ; but Fll never be the manes
of letting shame into the house, in the shape o' the law, — only the
boys are all at the funeral, it's long till they'd suffer such sarpents to
walk the country. — Well, since ye'r determined on it, do it yerself, sir,
I niver opened a door to a limb of the law, nor niver will.'

" Jeremiah flung down his musket, and hastily left the hall, while
Alice clung closely to her grandfather's arm.

" ' Come in, gentlemen, come in,' said he, with a frightful calm-
ness of manner; 'here I am, you see; — be seated, and tell your
business.'

" ' The business was soon told ; a writ against his person at the
suit of Benjamin Maberly, Esquire, for cattle furnished during a period
of sixteen or eighteen years — a sort of running account, with now and
then a nominal settlement ; bills bearing interest, and sundry other
expenses ; — this claim alone amounted to the enormous sum of two
thousand pounds ; for my poor friend had often taken it into his head
to stock farms, and speculate in sheep, pigs, and oxen — speculations
that always terminated badly, from his unfortunate habit of never
attending to his own business, but leaving it to others to manage for
him. Another of these men of law had an execution against his goods
and effects, for the sum of three thousand pounds, he having bestowed
upon a favourite cousin a bond for fifteen hundred pounds, upon his

THE CURSE OF PROPERTY. 319

commencing ' professional man ; ' the interest of this, of course, was
never paid nor demanded, but on his refusing to lend the young
hopeful some two or three hundred pounds, which he thought proper
to require, he placed the affair in an attorney's hands, who urged
immediate proceedings on the bond, the interest of which had amounted
to a sum equal to the principal. Mr. Barry was very unfit to think or
act; but Alice prevailed on the officer who made the arrest, to wait
until the arrival of his friends ; he proceeded calmly to take an
inventory of the furniture ; while the master of the mansion seemed
perfectly torpid. Claude returned with me and three or four others
from the melancholy funeral to the house of morning. As to poor
Claude, he had all the family taste for expenditure, and the property
he inherited from his father was mortgaged to its full value. This did
not prevent his living in style ; he had a good stud, fine dogs, and
a machine to drive in, that almost broke one's neck to look at ; he had
given a ball on his coming of age, which cost almost as much as the
fee-simple of his estate was really worth ; and his mother, with her
usual wisdom, observed it was of little consequence, considering her
son's expectations.

" Claude, therefore, could do little — except join me in bail, wliicli

was entered into immediately ; in less than an hour after our return,

Jerry had the inexpressible satisfaction of banging the hall-door after

' the sarpinis,' and of drinking (a ceremony, by the way, the poor

fellow never omitted) ' Destruction to the law,' in a bumper of j)ure

whisky. I rt-mained at IJarryljrooke, and endeavoured to unravel the

ditliculties with which my friend was encompassed. I confess they far

exceeded my anticipations. To enter into details would be useless.

SufTlce it to say, that on his marriage, to pacify his relations, he had

granted annuities, which had ni-vcr been regularly paid, and then had

given securities on his property for the various sums that arcumulaled

he knew not how ; then, none of the old incumbrances had l)ecn j)ai{!

ofT; and tin" fnu- domain, which cotdd have supjiortcd the eslalilish-

ment if propi-rly farmed, was positively nothing more than a common

for the iu'i;^hbours' horses, cows, sheep, pigs, and poidtry to revel on.

Mrs. Harry had nfreiu'ln <l most lonsidi rahlv tin- hoii'Nrhold expenses ;

320 woman's trials.

but as my friend, Alice Lee, said, • grandmamma was never suffered to
know grandpapa's affairs ; and what she saved, even from her own
personal comforts, was expended out of doors.' Claude's difficulties
were quite as perplexing. The advice I gave to both parties was as
follows ; — Mr. Barry to sell off as much property as would discharge
all pressing demands (for when one creditor comes down on an estate,
the rest are sure to follow), to let Barrybrooke, and go abroad for five
or six years, live on a small allowance, and thus clear what was spared.
Claude we recommended to marry a rich widow, who was known to
look favourably on him, and pay off his debts with her fortune,
providing an annuity for her from his estate.

" ' Cousin Claude,' said Alice, quietly, ' take my advice : they say
you have fine oratorical talents, go to the bar, and make a fortune for
yourself.' It may be easily imagined, that the advice given was not
relished by either. Barry's pride revolted at the idea of selling a
single acre ; and Claude did not like the widow, because he had chosen
to fall in love with a girl without either character or fortune. Some
accommodation was made with the creditors, and my friend resolved to
go abroad. A noble lord offered to take the house, and reside there ;
but no ! — again family pride was up in arms : — and although the
certainty that Barrybrooke could not be kept in even decent order,
except at great expense, was dwelt upon by his true friends, he
disdained to let it ; decided that three old servants should remain to
take care of it, and as quickly as possible bade adieu to the halls of his
ancestors, leaving the property at nurse for his creditors, and reserving
only an income of three hundred a-ycar for himself. All his relatives
objected strongly to his being accompanied by Alice Lee. — ' She'll be
sure to come round him,' they exclaimed one and all, ' and if only six-
pen'oth of property is left, it's only just that right should have it.' It
was all in vain : Barry took a proud, cold leave of his ' dear relations '
and ' particular friends ; ' his spirit had been bitterly wounded by his
late misfortunes ; but it was by no means subdued.

" ' Jerry,' said he, as the poor fellow held open the carriage door,
* see that the widow Murphy has the milk as usual, and the children at
the school their clothing at Christmas ; the agent will attend to it.'

THE CURSE OF PROPERTY. 321

(I must tell you I had used every exertion to prevail on him to
appoint a new aj^ent, but in vain,) — and Barry was trying to conquer
liis emotion, when Alice, her face swollen with weeping, sprang into the
carriage. The only living thing she possessed — a pet lamb, attempted
to follow her, and looked up bleating in her face. ' Keep it, Jerry,'
she said, ' it is all I have to give you, and I give it you as a
remembrance.'

" The carriage drove on : at the gate, a concourse of tenantry, and
the poor he had so often relieved, awaited liini. They stopped the
carriage : some of the men, who had grown grey on the estate, came
forward. * We have lived and flourished under yer Honour, and them
that's dead and gone, for many years ; and ye've never distressed us,
nor offered to do it. If yer Honour 'ill stay among us, and keep from
foreign parts, we'll make an advance on our rents, and pay up at once
to next half-year ; don't lave us to the marcy o' strangers, and we'll
work for ye, and fight for ye, and never let a writ or a sheriff' come
near the house.'

" ' Och ! don't go to lave us,' exclaimed a poor woman, laying her
thin hand on the coach-window. * Oh ! don't, agra! .Miss, don't let him
— and the mistress, God mark her soul to glory! not could in her grave
yet!' All this was too nuich for my poor friend ; he could only reply,
covering his face with his hands, 'God bless you all ! I must go now;
b'lt I will return to you in happier times.'

" Mr. I'ariy proceeded to I'rance : the idea oi' che.i|) living is
connected, perhaps truly, with the Continent. An Irish gentlemen is
sure of a kind reception a))r()a(l ; and the intelligent and cheerful man-
ners of my friend Alice, equally free from Knglish stiffiiess and IVench
levity, increased the feeling of kindness into esteem. Harry, however,
could not long remain contented in the Provinces, and determined on a
visit to Pans. This certainly was not wise; but Alice Lee had the
happy art of extracting sweets fr<im poi>on. She was introduced to
some persons of literary distinction there, who discovered that her
powerful and clear min«l was capable of great eff'orts, and nnich useful-
ness. They tnu;»ht her to soar, and directed her flight with judgment
and kindness. Her attempts were made without even the knowledge

"/ T

322 woman's trials.

of her grandfather, who read and approved her first production without
having an idea from whose pen it proceeded; — his feelings can be
better imagined than described, when he discovered that 'his little
cherished child,' — the scorned, the despised one — had not only received,
but, merited the i)raise of some of the most celebrated persons in
France ; he was not slow in sending this intelligence over. I, indeed,
heard it witii far more pleasure than surprise ; but it threw every
member of the long-tailed family into utter consternation. ' The thing
was impossible — what! the little pug-nosed girl, who had never been
to school, to be praised in the newspapers, and thought much of by
learned people, — for her to write a book, a whole book, who had
learned to hold her pen from a village schoolmaster ! ' Fancy, my
dear sir, all the exclamations of vulgar astonishment, and even then
you can hardly have an idea of the hubbub the news occasioned.
— Happily for Alice, she was not one of those morbid literary ladies,
who mourn at their hard fate, and pretend to sorrow because their
minds are superior to their neighbours, — who sigh and sentimentalise
over their being obliged to appear before the public, and yet use every
justifiable and unjustifiable mode of forcing celebrity. Alice was in
the purest sense of the word a Cliristian, and she felt the necessity of
doing her duty in that state of life to which it had pleased God to call
her. She shrank not from the useful exercise of her abilities, and she
had good sense enough to perceive that the odium, which .at that time,
even more than now, attached to literary women, proceeded from the
attention they exacted, and the airs of superiority they assumed, in
society. She did not neglect the cultivation of simple flowers, because
she was skilled in botany ; she did not cease to charm by the exercise
of her fine melodious voice, because she comprehended the nature of
sound ; nor did she delight less in the mazes of the dance, because she
understood the laws of motion. 'I'hough she became an author, she
had not ceased to be a woman : her motives were noble — her actions
pure; so that she neither needed, nor wore, a mask :— this was the
grand secret of her popularity.

" The creditors of Mr. Barry's estate had lately become clamorous
and dcclarefl that tlie sums stipulated for had not been regularly

discharged. My friend found it necessary to go over to Ireland, and
settle matters, the derangement of which he could not account for ;
even his stipend had not lately been remitted, and but for the exertions
of Alice Lee, he would have suffered much pecuniary difTiculty. He
felt that he ought to clear himself from the imi)utation of connivance
where evidently, on the agent's part, mismanagement, if not dishonesty,
must have been practised : he came upon the man unexpectedly, and
the fellow j)aled and trembled before him. Conscious and confused,
he fjxed the next morning for the explanation of his accounts, but that
very night set off" for America, taking with him a very considerable
sum, which he had jirevailed on the tenants to advance, in addition to
their rents, under the idea of ministering to their landlord's necessities.
'I'liis was a dreadfid blow to my friend's feelings : Alice had suff'ered
nuicli from delicate health, and he would not subject her to the fatigue
of a journey ; but earnestly did he long for her presence, to support
and cheer him. About three weeks after he had (piitted Paris on this
unfortunate business, Alice Lee received the following letter, sealed
with dismal black ; the first page was in the handwriting of lur beloved
guardian and relative. She afterwards permitted me to copy it.

" ' Barrybrookr, Decoinbor, IH — .
" ' Mv BKI.OVF.D Cuii-D, — I ouglit not to liave written you so
gloomy an account ; it was sadly selfish of me to disturb your mind
wluii I know how much (K'pends on the work you ;iie now engaged
upon. Voii would gladly support your poor grandfallur — would you
not ' even if he had not an acre left. No account of that villain since
he sailed from ('ork. Alice, pray for me — pray that my senses may
lie Hpared. The ingratitude I meet with, is the scorpion's sting th;U
fcHlers in my heart. I'ray for me, Alice Lee! I suppose it nnist come
to a Male. Sell IJarrylirooke! And the trees and flowers slit- jilanted !
ibit I shall have one unfading flower left; — yoti, Alice! I'oor Claude
in even worjie off" than mvHflf. Oh ! ihc curxe of propcrtif, nianaged
nH it i.H in thix unhappy country. Would that I had been bred a
common tradesman ; I shoulil then have l)een inilcpnuLnt, and not
afraid to hxik every man I meet in the face, lest he Hhould ask me
for ujoney. Do you know that my BterneHi credit«>rH are those of my

324 woman's trials.

own kin ? I am sick at heart, my child, and you are not here. Do
yon remember the evening you left that splendid conversazione at the
Count de Leonard's to come home, that you might give me the
medicine with your own hand? Yet I would not have you here now
for the world. Jerry grows young again, and Sir Charles is kind as
ever : it is too late to wish now, — but if I had taken his advice, — good
night, my child. You are the only being related to me who never
gave me cause for anger. Good night — God bless you ! to-morrow I
will finish my letter.'

" Poor fellow ! " exclaimed Sir Charles, as he lifted his eyes from
the painful record. *' When the next sun rose, his spirit had met his
God : — his heart was indeed broken. The remainder was written by
his old servant."

" * May it plaze ye. Miss, to put up with me to tell ye the sorrowful
tidings, — that nixt morning when I wint as us usual into his Honor's
room, he was clane gone, and as could as a stone ; they worried the
soul out o' him, that they did ; and my curse, and the curse o' the
poor, 'ill rest heavy on 'em on the day o' judgment for that same. I
wish ye could see how beautiful he looks this minute ; jist smilin' in
his coffin. So best ; for he's beyant trouble now. — God be praised !
they couldn't keep his sowl from glory ! Poor Master Claude is like
one mad, and Sir Charles is forced to order the funeral : it 'ill be the
thing to do honour to the name, and a grand berrin' as ever was seen
in the country ; priests and ministers, and all the heart's-blood o' the
gentry — and it's my intintion, now that the dear master's gone, to
travel into foreign parts myself, and wait upon you. Miss, who must
want some one to look after ye ; seeing (no offence, I hope !) that ye
are all as one as my own born child ; and so keep up yer heart, and
God's fresh blessin' be about ye, prays yer humble and faithful servant
(till death) to command. — Jeremiah Keg.'

Very soon, the estates of the late Charles Barry, Esq. were advertised
to be sold by the sheriff, for the benefit of the creditors of the said
estates. The sorrow of sweet Alice Lee was agonizing to witness or
think upon ; and even now she has not ceased regretting that she did not
accompany her grandfather on his last journey. Agitation brought on

THE CURSE OF PROPERTY. 325

a nervous fever ; and her friends in Paris, for more than a month,
dreaded what its final eftVcts might be. She recovered slowly ; and
one day I was sitting with her in the drawing-room (as I found I
could be of no service in Ireland, I went to see her), when the lady
she was staying with, endeavouring to divert her mind, observed, with
the good-humoured playfulness of her country, that Alice's last work
had made a conquest of an old half-Indian gentleman, a Mr. Clifton,
an Englishman, she believed, who wished he were young enough to
make love to her.

" ' Clifton was my dear grandmother's name,' replied Alice ; ' and
she had a brother once, but lie died, I believe.' A vague idea, which
I could neither account for nor express, took possession of my mind.
The next morning I waited on the old gentleman ; and judge of my
delight and astonishment when I found, after much investigation, that
Mr. Clifton was indeed the brother of her grandmother, who had gone
abroad when his sister was too young to remember aught about him,
and who had returned a wifeless and childless man : and the discovery
of such a relative was a source of extraordinary happiness to him.
He was a proud, stern man, very unlike the parent she had lost; yet
he soon proved that he was anxious to bestow upon her what the
world calls substantial proofs of his affection. Being tlie avowed
heiress of a rich Indian merchant could add nothing to the lustre of
Alice Lee, but it increased her power of doing good. The idea of
Barrybrookc being sold rendered her very miserable. IKr uncle,
who might wtll !)»• proud of her, when I mentioned lur wish
to him, caught with avidity at the idea of gratifying her, and agreed
to give money for the j>urpose, just as if he were bestowing upon
her a splendid toy. He wished to visit Dublin, and wr set <Mit for
that once Rplendid city with many ami varied feelings. Hut I tire
you, — a monient more and my tale is ended. We were grit'ved, on
our arrival there, to fuid that llic sale had l)cen hurried forward : by
the desire of .Alice Ix-e, I wrote to tlu- sheriH', offering terms for the
house, &r. of Harry bnnike. Through some precious mistake, my
letter miscarried. Wr jlrove down to ihc estate ; and here you must
let me nirntion an instance of the delicacy of my favourite's mind

326 woman's trials.

— she would not travel in lier uncle's carriage, but only in a post-
chaise.

" ' It would insult their distress,' she said, ' to go in splendour,
when the family of my benefactor is reduced almost to want. The
auction was going on when we drove into the town ; we were ten
minutes too late, the very liouse of Barrybrooke had been sold to the
architect I spoke of! The kind and generous feelings of my young
friend were thus thrown into another channel ; she purchased an
annuity for ' Cousin Claude,' and to the hour of his death he never
knew from whom the income came, that enabled him to live with so
much comfort during the five years he survived his uncle. She prac-
tised the revenge of a Christian : she did good to those who had
despitefully used her, nor were they averse to partake of whatever
crumbs she chose to bestow."

Mr. Newton looked at his watch : — the kind-hearted, garrulous
old gentleman took the hint, only adding, that the motto adopted by
Alice, was Independence, — the device, a little bark passing through
a stormy sea, with Hope at the helm, and the haven in view ; and
adding, " Thank God, all the trials of Alice Lee were endured in
youth : her after-age was free from them, save and except those in-
herent in, and doubtless necessary to, human nature."

LOST JJKAl TY.

► N tlio saloon of ;i Inrj^e and antiijiu- liousc, of

till' Kli/aWtlian era, two ladies wore seated,

enjoying the cool cveninj; breeze that entered

tliroii^li an <»jM-n window. The <lwi'llinii had

heen altered and r«-alteri«l, to niiet the tastes

g and inii)rovenunt!» of tlie various niastent into

' ^ J «hosf hands it had i»a.Hs«'«l froni century to

^^^^-^""^ century. More and there fraguients of tiirreiB

were propprd up hy nuMhfn buttresses, the nuwlern and the anti(|ue

appearni;^ ui perfect contract ; one beautiful arch still niark«-d the

328 woman's trials.

old entrance-gate. The former strength of the place was intimated by
the remains of a moat, now nearly filled with rubbish and portions of
broken and mouldering stone, from which the flaunting wall-flower,
and various creeping plants, sprung up, and mocked the decay, which
— alas, poor blossoms ! was soon to render them far more contemptible
than that over which they triumphed. The windows of Leslie Abbey
— for so was the dwelling called — were of every order, and every size
— from the small loopholes to the spacious and modern French
casements, that opened upon a lawn of matchless colour and beauty.

Near one of these the ladies were seated : and if we do not longer
descant upon the richness and variety of the landscape, the extent of
the wood, whose dark girdle of mingled oak and platanas clasped the
green meadows, and shadowed the river that wandered and murmured
beneath its foliage, it is because we would make acquaintance with
that noble-looking woman whose countenance is turned towards the
setting sun, and whose every attitude expresses dignity. How firmly,
yet how gracefully, her head is raised above her polished shoulders !
What richness, yet propriety, in her dress ! — the folds of lier velvet
robe descend to her feet, that — so delicate are their form — hardly
indent the crimson cushion with their slight pressure. Her companion
is of other, though, it may be, of more winning beauty. The childish
golden hair, that clusters over her expansive brow in such redundancy
of freedom, harmonizes well with the cheek of palest rose, and a form
that, we could imagine, might rest upon a bed of violets without
crushing a petal. Her voice is like the breathing of a soft lyre, when
awakened by the spirit of joy ; her blue eyes are full of hope — that
perfectly unsaddened hope which dwells with youth as a companion,
and calls innocence its sister.

They aie both children of the same parents, though many years
had passed before Annette was born, to be the playmate and friend of
the stately Lady Leslie.

As they sat together in that chamber, there was a feeling of quiet
and solitude around them which darkened the shadows of Lady Leslie's
mind, and sobered the smile on the lip of her gay young sister. They
had both recently suffered from that fell disease which has been the

LOST BEAUTY. 329

bane of so much beauty. But, while Annette had escaped unscathed,
the bhght had fallen upon her sister, and the mistress of Leslie Abbey
arose from her bed with the marks of the pestilence written on her
once beautiful countenance too strongly to be ever effaced.

It is not to be denied that the noble lady had as large a portion of
personal vanity as usually falls to the lot of woman. Of high birth,
and large possessions, she had consequently a sufHcicnt number of
flatterers to praise and fawn. Had she been as dark as Erebus, and
as deformed as sin, they would still have sung of and praised her
loveliness. But its character and brilliancy had been such that she
could not move without receiving the homage of eyes — so rarely paid
without being sensibly felt, and duly appreciated. She had been feted
and sung, painted and sculptured, until her exquisite head whirled
upon its pedestal, and, what was still worse, her heart, naturally kind
and benevolent, became careless of the wants or wishes of her fellow-
creatures. Prosperity drives pity from the bosoms of the wealthy : it
is good to feel disappointment, and even adversity, at some period of
our lives ; for practical experience is a benefit to ourselves and others.
It was Lady Leslie's beauty that steeled her heart; she thought of it —
acted upon it — dreamed of it. It had gained her the affections of the
only man she ever loved. One whom wealth and title could not
purchase was nevertheless caught by the matchless face — that now! —
but she could not liear to think of it. To look upon it a second time,
thus scarred and disfigured, was impossii)lf I Ilir husband had been
abroad ; and the letter, which lay oj)en on her l;ip, told of his hopes of
an immediate return ; and spoke nuich of anticipated happiness
in meeting again (so ran the words) " with his bright and beautiful
wilr.

.Annette h.id watched, with all the earnestness and anxiety of her
afl^tTlionate nature, the cfltrt produced by the perusal of thai letter
upon her sister'n mind. She h-id longed for the return of her
brother ; for nhe felt that now was the time, when Lady Leslie's proud
spirit wan bowed by mortification, to lea«l her frou) the vanity of her
ways, and teach her to mount far, far above the world's mean and
sordid enjoyments. " Why nhould such as she," thoughl Anni tie,

— -

330 woman's trials.

*' trifle away the essence and energy of soul, that God has given her,
upon those whose wonder is cankered by envy — and to whose lips
blessings are unknown ! Her heart is touched and softened by
affliction ; she valued the casket more than the jewel it contained —
for she lived among those who could appreciate the first, but not the
last ; the roses of her cheek were more lovely in lier sight than the
blossoms of her mind, that would have supplied such glorious fruit,
had tlie one been cultivated with half the care bestowed upon the
other. But it is not too late ; she Js yet in the summer of her days ;
and who knows that, if Leslie comes not, it may be given to me —
to me, her youngest and unworthy sister — to show her better things.
When the old Roman soldier was blind, he was led by a stripling
boy — as one child would lead another: not that the old man w;is
less wise than he had been, but he wanted sight, and the youth
lent him the only faculty he needed. On the same principle, may
not I give to her, who is ten times greater than I am, the one quality
she needs — the only one I possess, and so render her loss a gain ?"
Having thought so much, Annette looked into Lady Leslie's face ;
it retained the traces of recent tears, and was more than usually
pale. ** I will not speak yet," thought her sister ; and, without saying
a word she took her lute, and, striking a few wild chords, began that
beautiful song of die witty and accomplished Carew : —

" He that loves a rosy cheek,

Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek

Fuel to maintain his fires —
As old Time makes these decay
So his flames must waste away."

She paused, for a moment, at the conclusion of the first verse, and
stole a quiet glance at her companion ; but there was no expression
that could induce her either to continue or forbear. She again sung : —

" Uut a smooth and stcdfast mind,

Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combin'd,

Kindle never-dying fires :
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely checks, or lips, or eyes."

LOST BEAUTY. 331

" You are fond of the lays of the olden time," said Lady Leslie,
with a si"h ; " but I care not for either the modern or the ancient
rhymsters ; why should I care for anything, w hen nothing cares
for me ? "

" If you care for nothing, dear sister, that same nothing shows
marvellous wisdom in caring for you. I wish I could imitate it ! But
will you not read me Leslie's letter ? " she continued ; " or, at least, tell
me what he says? Here have I sat, the perfect picture of maidenly
patience, singing and sighing, from fair curiosity to know what writes
my lordly brother."

" O, you may see it all !— but stay, I w ill read you this passage
myselfl —

•' ' Since you have so long enriched the abbey with your presence,
I fear I can hardly hope you will continue there after my return; tell
me, dearest, do you not pant for the court, of which your beauty was
so bright an ornament?'

" You hear, Annette," continued the proud lady, rising from her
seat, and pacing the apartment with the grace of a Mary, and the
irritation of an Klizabcth : ** You hear :— Did he know of the evil I
have suflered, it would be ill talking of beauty ; perhaps he would not
think of returning."

" And have you not told him, then?"

" Told him, Annette ! O, no, silly girl ! Do you think I did not
want to sec him once more! Ilim I have so loved! — Hut your childish
nature cannot understand such love : you love linnets, and doves, and
wild roses, and — "

•' You, sister ! "

" Forgive me, Annette, forgive me!" said Lady Leslie, with one of
those sudden transitions of tcni|MT to which pitti-d men, women, and
children, arc so oft«'n »ul)ject : " Some allowance would be made for a
king wIki li.-id lost his crown — f«)r a — "

*' )'ini have not lost your crown, li is now my turn to be forgiven,
for again interrupting you. I havr reatl of a virtuous woman being a
crown of glory to her huibnnd ; and do you know wh.ii I fancy should
be a married woman's crown? - Her husband's love."

332 woman's trials.

" Granted ; my Inisbancl's love was what I prized on earth — more
than earth's — all earth's other treasures ; it is for him I would be
beautiful!"

" My dear sister ! "

" What mean ye, girl ? " inquired Lady Leslie, with returning haugh-
tiness of manner.

" That you deceive yourself: I grant he was your principal, but
not your only, object. Admiration was your food — your existence
depended on it ! If he were not present to give the necessary supply,
you took it from other hands. Nay, do not look so sternly on me. I
own from him it was siveeler than from any ; but, sister, it was sweet
from all."

Lady Leslie gazed upon her young sister with astonishment. She
had only considered her an affectionate kind girl ; she had not sought
to penetrate her character ; vain people seldom care for others
sufficiently to scrutinize their minds. And now, astonishment at her
boldness was blended with veneration for her truth. Annette con-
tinued — " If my beloved sister would throw open the rich storehouse
of her mind, and cultivate the affections of her heart, she would be
more beloved than ever by her husband, and command the respect —
if, indeed, it would be worth commanding — of those who flattered ;
and, better still, of those who never soiled their lips by flattery or
falsehood."

" Annette Feversham, the philosopher ! " exclaimed the lady,
contemptuously.

" Annette Feversham, the naturalist, if you will !" replied her sister,
playfully : " May I tell you a little tale ? it is very short, and very true.
You know that when you were engaged in the business of fashionable
life, your boy was turned over to his childish aunt, as companions well
suited to each other. Well, sister, I have learned from children more
wisdom, more of that natural wisdom which comes direct from God,
than I ever learned from men. Their goodness is so active, and their
thoughts given with so much honesty ! I love to hear them prattle of
their miniature hopes and fears, before deceit has taught them mystery
or concealment. Do you remember, the first day you ventured to your

LOST BEAUTY, 333

dressing-room, you ordered Edward to be brought in ? I was well
long before, and had seen him frequently ; but some weeks had elapsed
since he had been permitted audience of his mother. Sister, you took
him in your arms — kissed his fair brow a thousand times, and wept salt
yet sweet tears of joy ; they were brighter to my eyes than the gay
jewels of your coronet ; for they were nature's tears."

" Perhaps they were tears of pride, shed at my own sad change."

" I'll not believe it!— he, too, had suffered the disease, but 'scaped
without a blemish. Ah, good my sister ! you wept for joy — to see his
brow unstained."

" I did!-I did!"

'* I knew you did. I took him to his cliamber ; and, after a grave
pause, he looked into my face, and, clasping his tiny hands, exclaimed,
' I am so happy that mamma luis grown ugly : sliall I tell you why,
dear aunt?— It has taught her to be kind — she never kissed me so
before. Shall I pray to-night that she may continue always ugly?' —
Trust me, dear sister, Ned was the true philosopher : he knew
that people, though they may be admired for beauty, are never
loved for it."

" .My poor boy ! " said the lady, after a painful pause — " My piwr
dear boy— he is a noble child ! and I may tliank you for it, Aimette :
1 trusted him to menials ; you saved him from contamination."

" I am not yet cumc out," retorted .Miss Fevershani, with In r own
peculiar archness of manner ; " when I am I shall have other employ-
ments, I dare say, like other young ladies."

*' Annette, do not trifle now. .My child uinj/it think those seams of
little consequence ; but my husband I— then those women— those beauties
whom I have so long eclipsed!"

•• Ah, there it i» I I will not believe it is on Leslie's account you
sorrow — he is but one of the many! If I liave wronged you by my
frankncM," she continued, seeing the chnid again gatlnring on her
sister's brow, " study but the nrt.s lie lovis, and on my kiu«H I'll crave
n pardon — and never-never — never any more nUind. lie loves a
country life — he loves simplicity "

" lie ouglit to have married you."

3Si woman's trials.

" Perhaps he would had I been old enough. My glorious sister !
if you look so upon me, I'll never jest again. I know not why I jest —
a jest is a play on truth — and truth I have ever worshipped. With
reverence I speak ; it is the earthly type of all things heavenly. God
is truth — his word is truth — faith and truth are one — truth should be
treasured in our hearts, dwell ever on our lips — brighten our eyes —
shed a pure lustre over our features, a lustre that can make beautiful
tlie plainest face. A noble thing is truth ! "

" Annette, there's a new spirit created or roused within you."

" Lady, it is not new ; love may burn faintly for a time, but it can
be quickly fanned by circumstances to a flame. I loved my sister ;
and when I looked into her mind I saw but one blot there — 'twas
vanity. I feel that I am touching a dangei-ous theme, with much too
free a hand ; but you have called me friend — that is a title dearer far
than sister. I've heard you say men are capricious, and would feed on
loveliness, like bees, taking honey, returning stings — that they would
rove from flower to flower, seeking the sweetest : but Leslie is not one
of these. We look upon the plainness of the thing we love till it grows
into beauty."

" He could not look on me, Annette," replied Lady Leslie, " with-
out drawing comparisons — what I was, and what I am."

" My dear sister, let me tell you one more short story, and I
have done.

" In an eastern country, no matter whether in Persia or Turkey,
but somewhere in the East, there was a spring — a limpid spring, whose
waters were like crystal ; and upon the margin thereof the nymphs and
good spirits used to congregate, and return thanks to Allah for having
jjlaced so delightful a fountain by the way-side. The holy men who,
journeying from country to country, drank of its refreshing waters,
declared that it came directly from the centre of the world, and brought
to its surface the virtues and medicaments that before were concealed
in the bowels of the earth. Tlie fame of the well spread far and near;
and one of the rulers in that country said : —

" ' Behold ! we will build around our spring— the spring wherewith
Allah has blessed our land — a safeguard and a wall ; and the wall shall

LOST BEAUTY. 335

be of alabaster, within and without — so that all wlio pass by shall
marvel at the purity of the well. And we will set one to keep the well,
and watch over it ; and the name of her who watches and guards the
well shall be called Truth.'

"And all the wise in that country who heard the words of the
venerable ruler declared that they were good. And the ruler stroked
his beard, wliich descended below his girdle. And the ruler said —
' Let the thing be done forthwith.'

" But in that land there were more rulers than one ; and another
opened his moutli and spake. * The brain in the grey head is dry,'
said the youthful rider; 'and his eye dim, so that he cannot discern the
fashions that spread over the earth ; his ear is closed against the voice
of improvement. Behold ! we will till him a thing ! Why should our
well, the spring of delight in our wilderness, be closed in alabaster, and
one of such exceeding ])lainness as Truth set to guard its waters?
Behold ! we will plant a glorious tree beside the well ; and its roots
shall descend into the earth, and its branches ascend to the first heaven.
And the tree shall bear the fruit of gems and jewels, that will sparkle
in the sun, and o'ershadow our spring with splendour.' And the young
and the f«x)lish shouted the shout of joy. And the shouts of the young,
and the shouts of the foolish, were louder than the shouts of the wise.
So the young ruler curled his moustache, till its hairs saluted those of
his soft hazel eyes, and said, ' 'i'he thing shall be done forthwith.*

** And (he thing was done — the voice of the foolish prevailed for a
time over the voice of the wise.

" ' Where is the goodness of the well, and where the purity of the
water?' exclaimed those who once had praised its marvel and its
beauty ; * l»ehold ! tin- roots of the lilthy tree have disturbed its
clearness.'

"* My sprmg — my spring — my limpid spring!' wnih-d the voice of
the last spirit that had lingered l)V i(s side, and could now no longer
remain near its margin. ' Birds of no wiK<lom nest in the branrlu>« of
the false tree, and the untrue pems have Ix-come cankered — and thy
waters are cnrnipt. (), that tliou hadat been wnlled with alabaster, and
gu.irded by Truth I '

336 woman's trials.

" And, as the spirit passed sighingly away from the well, the
spring itself replied: 'The sun shines, and the gems sparkle on me —
what do I desire more ? '

" And a great spirit heard the words ; and the great spirit said
that the words were foolish. And the great spirit resolved that he
would uproot the unclean tree, and after a time restore the well.

" And the tree, which was named * external beauty,' became
uprooted, at the command of the great spirit. And the waters of the
spring were troubled, and mourned after the tree, and after the gay
birds that filled its ear with foolishness.

" But the great spirit said, ' Let be — the well, in a little time, will
regain its purity, now that the glare of external beauty is removed
from its sight, and the roots of vanity from its heart ; it can now
drink into its depths the mysteries of heaven, and the light of Allah,
and be satisfied with the wall of alabaster as a guard. O that so
fine a well should have ever become corrupt!'

" My dear sister," persisted the fabulist, seeing that Lady Leslie
was not displeased at her invention, " you are the well, and Leslie the
wall of alabaster, and I am Truth, and your beauty was the tree ;
think less of the tree, and more of your husband and child ; and,
Annette Feversham's word upon it, he will love you better than ever.
I will not tell you," she continued, with more tact than those un-
acquainted with the windings, the knowledge, and the mysteries of
woman's heart, would have given her credit for — " I will not remind
you that your figure is as perfect as ever — your eyes as brilliant —
your teeth as white — your smile as gracious; and, as for those little
pits, — they are graves for vanity ! Write to your husband, sister —
tell him—"

" Lady Leslie started from her seat — and, after a moment's listen-
ing, exclaimed — " It is his horse's tramp ; I know the sound of its
hoofs among a thousand. Oh, that I could hide this face from him
and from the world ! " She seized a veil which lay upon the sofa,
and would have flung it over her head. But Annette drew up her
slight figure with a gesture and a dignity that bore a miniature
resemblance to her sister — and, taking the rich lace from the trembling

LOST BEAUTY. 337

and agitated hands of the lady, said, with both feeling and emphasis: —
" There is but one thing that should make a woman veil before
her husband, and tliat is — shame. The house of Feversliani knows
it nut!"

Lady Leslie could hardly help smiling at the tone of authority
assumed by the little Annette ; but she yielded, nevertheless, and
forgot, at the time, in her husband's warm and affectionate greeting,
the mortification which, for so many weeks, had steeped her proud
heart in bitterness.

• •••*»•

It is again evening — thuugh five years have passed since the
commencement of our tale — and on the lawn of Leslie Abbey, the lord
and his noble lady are enjoying the prospect and the breeze of their
native hills. The moat has been partly filled, and instead of weeds
and wildness have sprung up goodly shrubs and smiling flowers.
Here a vista has been carefully opened in the wood, and we may see
the beautiful river wandering like animated silver beneath the smiles of
the rising moon, until it is again swallowed in the darkness of the deep,
deep forest.

Hark! the voice of joyous children from a neighbouring village —
the shout— the laugh— the gay halloo— dancing amid the echoes of the
hills ; and we can perceive the spire of the village church — the church
which they, the lord and his once proud wife, have built and beneficed ;
the country upon which they look is theirs — the silver river — tiie dark
wood — the waving corn; — what else? — the hearts and blessings of
their tenantry !

The Lady Leslie, after many struggles, followed the advice of her
young and siniple sister : she l)ecame literally a crown of glory to her
hiisl).-ind, and was crowned in return by his perfect love.

" Where tarries our sister?*' he inrpiired, afti-r tln-y had surveyed
their wide domain, and heard the blackbird's last whistle, and watched
the fog-wreath encircle the woo<l, an<l east its mantle over the valley.

"She is with our ciiildren. < ), I.oliel we l)oth i>we much to that
girl, who blend.i so nstonisliingly the wisdom of the serpent with the
gentleness of the dove and the frolic of the wild kid. I shall never

538

WOMAN S TRIALS.

forget tlie first lesson she read me on the advantage of personal

plainness."

" Personal plainness! what has it to do with you?"

" Peace, peace, dear Leslie ! Do not again awaken the vanquished

spirit of pride within your wife's bosom ; I sometimes fear it only

sleeps ; yet have I learned to bless ' lost beauty.' My trial has been

turned into a triumph."

" Let it sleep on, then," replied the husband, of whose character

Annette had rightly judged. " A British woman has something to be

far more proud of than personal beauty."

^^^^:^'>:^ i;

Tiir: WISDOM OF roRtiTiioi Gil r.

PART TIIK FIRST.

'TlT^'Crl'r'^^J^' ' ^" '"' '"" ^^^ f^ow, Londctn— I need not trll

S^ \.^ (f^J ^^^ ^^ \<>>' \\liicli — is the vill:i;;f of Kcpton, wlicrc

/ V\>' Ir"/ ^ the two hrolluTS, .loliii .iiid ("liarlcs Adams,

' >/ originally ri-sidtd : it i>» a jn<tty \dl.i>4»' to this

day ; and whi-n John Adams, sonic livo-and-

thirfy yf:.r8 aj^o, st<M)d on the top of Hcptoii Mill,

and h)okrd <lo\vn npon tin- lionsrs th«' little

fchurcli, whose Hin.ph- ^ate «as llankrd l»y l«o
. J _ , / nol)i»- yew trees, iK-nealh wlu)se l)ranches hr had often sat —
i^ ' the murnnirm^ river in %vhieh he- had oUcn finlu'd — tlje eherry
T^ orchards, where the ri|K' fruit hun^ like halls of coral ; when
he looked d«»wn npon all thene thar domestic sights— for so

340 woman's trials.

every native of Repton considered them — John Adams might have
been supposed to question if he had acted wisely in selhng to his
brother Charles the share of the well-cultivated farm, which had been
equally divided at their father's death. It extended to the left of the
spot on which he was standing, almost within a ring fence ; the
meadows, fresh shorn of their produce, and fragrant with the perfume
of new hay — the crops full of promise, and the lazy cattle laving
themselves in the standing pond of the abundant farm-yard ; in a
paddock, set apart for his especial use, was the old blind horse his
father had bestrode during the last fifteen years of his life ; it leaned its
sightless head upon the gate, half upturned, he fancied, towards where
he stood. It is wonderful what small things will sometimes stir up the
hearts of strong men, ay, and what is still more difficult, even of
ambitious men. Yet he did not feel at that moment a regret for the
fair acres he had parted with ; he was full of the importance which the
possession of a considerable sum of money gives a young man, who has
been fagging almost unsuccessfully in an arduous profession, and one
which requires a certain appearance of prosperity to command success
— for John Adams even then placed M.D. after his plain name ; yet
still, despite the absence of sorrow, and the consciousness of increased
power, he continued to look at poor old Ball until his eyes swam
in tears.

With the presence of his father, which the sight of the old horse
had conjured up, came the remembrance of his peculiarities, his habits,
his expressions ; and he wondered, as they passed in review before
him, how he could ever have thought the dear old man testy or
tedious ; even his frequent quotations from " Poor Richard " appeared
to him, for the first time, the results of common prudence ; and his
rude but wise rhyme, when, in the joy of his heart, he told his father
he had absolutely received five guineas as one fee from an ancient
dame who had three middle-aged daughters (he had not, however,
acquainted his father widi that fact), came more forcibly to his
memory than it had ever done to his ear —

" For want and age save wliile you may ;
No morning sun shines all the day."

THE WISDOM OF FORETHOUGHT. 341

He repeated the last line over and over again, as his fatlier had done ;
but as his " morning sun " was at that moment shining, it is not matter
of astonishment that the remembrance was evanescent, and that it did
not make the impression upon him his father had desired long before.

A young, unmarried, handsome physician, with about three thousand
pounds in his pocket, and "good expectations," might be excused for
building " dcs chateaux en Espagne." A very wise old lady said
once to me — " Those who have none on earth may be forgiven for
building them in the air ; but those who have them on earth should
be content therewith." Not so, however, was John Adams ; he built
and built, and then by degrees descended to the realities of his position.
What power would not that tliree thousand pounds give him ! He won-
dered if Dr. Lee would turn his back upon him now, when they met in
consultation ; Mr. Chubb, the county apothecary, would not, he was
sure, laugh and ask him if he could read his own prescriptions? Then
he recurred to a dream — for it was so vague at that time as to be little
more — whether it would not be better to abandon altogether country
practice, and establish himself in the metropolis — London. A thou-
sand poimds, advantageously spent, with a few introductions, would
do a great deal in London, and that was l)ut a third of what he had.
And this great idea banished all remembrance of the past, all sense of
the present — the young aspirant thought only of the future.

• ••••»

Five years have passed. Dr. John ;\dams was "settled" in a
small "showy" house in the vicinity of Mayfair ; he had, the world
said, made an excellent match. He married a very pretty girl, " highly
connected," and was considered to be possessed of personal property,
because, for so young a physician, Dr. ,\dams lived in a " superior
style." His l)rolhi-r Charles was still residing in the ohl farm-house,
to which, beyond the mere keeping it in repair, he had done but little,
except, indeed, adding a wife to his establishment — a very gentle,
loving, yet industrious girl, whose dower was too small to have been
her only attraction. Thus lM)th brothers might be said to be fairly
Inimrhed in life.

It might be imagined that Charles .Adams, having determined to

342 woman's trials.

reside in his native village, and remain, wliat liis father and grand-
father had been, a simple gentleman farmer, and that rather on a small
than a large scale, was altogether without the feeling of ambition
which stimulates exertion and elevates the mind. Charles Adams
had quite enough of this — which may be said, like fire, to be " a
good servant, but a bad master" — but he made it subservient to the
dictates of prudence — and a forethought, the gift, perhaps, tliat, above
all others, we should most earnestly covet for those whose prosperity
we would secure. To save his brother's portion of the freehold from
going into the hands of strangers, he incurred a debt ; and wisely —
while he gave to his land all that was necessary to make it yield its
increase — he abridged all other expenses, and was ably seconded in
this by his wife, who resolved, until principal and interest were dis-
charged, to live quietly and carefully. Charles contended that every
appearance made beyond a man's means was an attempted fraud
upon the public : while John shook his head, and answered that it
might do very well for Charles to say so, as no one expected the sack
that brought the grain to market to be of fine Holland, but that no
man in a profession could get on in London without making " an
appearance." At this Charles shrugged his shoulders, and thanked
God he lived at Repton.

The brothers, as years moved rapidly on — engaged as they were
by their mutual industry and success in their several fields of action —
met but seldom. It was impossible to say which of the two continued
the most prosperous. Dr. Adams made several lucky hits; and having
so obtained a position, was fortunate in securing an abundance of patients
in an intermediate sort of state — that is, neither very well nor very ill.
Of a really bland and courteous nature, he was kind and attentive to
all, and it was certain that such of his patients as were only in moderate
circumstances, got well long before those who were rich ; his friends
attributed this to his humanity as much as to his skill ; his enemies
said he did not like " poor patients." Perhaps there was a mingling
of truth in both statements. The money he had received for his
portion of the land was spent, certainly, before his receipts equalled
his expenditure ; and strangely enough, by the time the farmer had

THE WISDOM OF FORETHOUGHT. 3-t3

paid oflT his debt, the doctor was involved, not to a large amount, but
enough to render his " appearance" to a certain degree fictitious. This
embarrassment, to do him justice, was not of long continuance; he
became the fashion ; and before prosperity had turned his head by an
influx of wealth, so as to render liim careless, he got rid of his debt,
and then his wife agreed with him " that they miglit live as they
pleased."

It so happened that Charles Adams was present when this obser-
vation was made, and it spoke well for both tlie brothers that their
different positions in society liad not in the smallest degree cooled
their boyhood's affection ; not even the money transactions of former
times, which so frequently create disunion, had changed them ; they
met less frequently, but they always met with pleasure, and separated
with regret.

" Well !" exclaimed the doctor, triumphantly, as he glanced around
his splendid rooms, and threw himself into a chaise loiiguc — then a
new luxury — " well, it is certainly a charming feeling to be entirely
out of debt."

"And yet," said his wife, " it would not be wise to confess it in
our circle.

" Why f" inipiired Charles.

" Hocnuse it would prove that we had been in it," saiil the lady,

" At all events," said John, " now I .shall not have to reproach
myself with every extra expense, and think I ought to pay my debts
first ; now I may live exactly as I please."

" I do not think so," said Charles.

"Not think s«(I" repeated Mrs. Adanjs, in a tone of astonishment.

"Not think sol" exclaimed .lohn ; "do I not make the money
myself? "

"(iranted, my dear fellow ; to l>e sure you do," 8aid Charles.

' Tlun why should I not spend it as phases me best ? Is there
any reason why I should not !"

Ah if to give the strongest drnmntie effect to Charles's opinion, the
mn%i' at that momrnt o|K'ned the (Ir.iwing-ruom door, and four little
laughing children nished into the room.

344 woman's trials.

" There — are four reasons against your spending your income
exactly as you please ; unless, indeed, part of your plan be to provide
for them," answered Charles, very seriously.

" I am sure," observed Mrs. Adams, with the half-offended air of
a weak woman when she hears the truth, " John need not be told his
duty to his children ; he has always been a most affectionate father."

*' A father may be fond and foolish," said Charles, who was pecu-
liarly English in his mode of giving an opinion. " For my part, I
could not kiss my little Mary and Anne when I go to bed at night, if
I did not feel I had already formed an accumulating fvmd for their
future support — a support they will need all the more when their
parents are taken from them, as they must be, in due course of time."

" They must marry," said Mrs. Adams.

" That is a chance," replied Charles ; " women hang on hands
now-a-days. At all events, by God's blessing, I am resolved that,
if they are beauties, they shall never be forced by poverty to accept
unworthy matches ; if they are plain, they shall have enough to live
upon without husbands."

" That is easy enough for you, Charles," said the doctor, " who
have had your broad acres to support you, and no necessity for
expenditure or show of any kind ; who might go from Monday
morning till Saturday night in home-spun, and never give anything
beyond home-brewed and gooseberry wine, with a chance bottle of
port to your visiters — while I, Heaven help me ! was obliged to dash
in a well-appointed equipage, entertain, and appear to be doing a great
deal in my profession, when a guinea would pine in solitude for a week
together in my pocket."

" I do not want to talk with you of tlie past, John," said Charles ;
" our ideas are more likely to agree now than they were ten or twelve
years ago ; I will speak of the future and present. You are now out
of debt, in the very prime of life, and in the receipt of a splendid
income ; but do not, let me entreat you, spend it as it comes ; lay by
something for those children ; provide for them either by insurance,
or some of the many means that are open to us all. Do not, my
dear brother, be betrayed by health, or temptation for display.

THE WISDOM OF FORETHOUGHT. 34f5

to live up to an income the nature of which is so essentially pre-
cariotis."

" Really," niurniurcd Mrs. Adams, " you put one into very low
spirits."

Charles remained silent, waiting his brother's reply.

" My dear Charles," he said at last, " there is a great deal of truth
in what you say — certainly a great deal ; but I cannot change my style
of living ; strange as it may seem. If I did, I should lose my practice.
And then I must educate my children ; (hat is an imperative duty, is
it not?"

" Certainly it is ; it is a part of the provision I have spoken of,
but not tlie whole — a portion only. If you have the means to do
both, it is your duty to do both ; and you have tlie means. Nay, my
dear sister, do not seem angry or annoyed with me ; it is for the sake
of your children I speak ; it is to prevent their ever knowing practi-
cally what we do know theoretically — that the world is a hard world ;
hard and unfeeling to those who need its aid. It is to prevent the
possibility of their exjH?ricncing a reverse."

Mrs. Adams burst into tears, and walked out of the room. Charles
was convinced that she would not uphold his opinion.

•' Certainly, ' said John, " I intend to provide for my children ; but
there it no hurry, and "

" There should be no hesitation in the case," interrupted Charles ;
" every man intends to provide for his children. God forbid that I
should imagine any man to be suMiciently wicked to say — I have been
the mt-ans of bringing this child into existence — I have brought it up
in the indulgence of all thr luxuries with which I indulged myself;
and now I inti-nd to withdraw them all from it, and leave it to fight
itH own way through the world. No man couhl look on thi- face of
the innocent cl>ild nestling in your bosom and say that; btil if you do
not approjjriate a portion of the means you possess to save that child
from the ' licrcafter,' you net as if you had resolved so to cast it on
the wild wntern of n turbulent worhl."

" Hut, Charles, I intend to do all that you roimsrl ; no wonder
poor Lucy could not br.nr the**- words, when I, your own and only

brother, find them stern and reproachful ; no wonder that such should
be the case ; of course I intend to provide for my children."

" Then DO IT," said Charles.

" Why, so I will ; but cannot in a moment. I have already said
there is no hurry. You must give a little time."

•' The time may come, my dear John, when time will give you no
time. You have been spending over and above your debt — more than,
as the father of four children, you have any right to spend. The duty
parents owe their children in this respect has preyed more strongly on
my mind than usual, as I have been called on lately to witness its
effects — to see its misery. One fainily at Repton, a family of eight
children, has been left entirely without provision, by a man who
enjoyed a situation of five hundred a-year in quarterly payments,"

" That man is, however, guiltless. What could he save out of five
hundred a-year ? How could he live on less ? " replied the doctor.

" Live upon four, and insure his life for the benefit of those
children. Nay," continued Charles, in the vehemence of his feelings,
" the man who does not provide means of existence for his helpless
children, until they are able to provide for themselves, cannot be
called a reasonable person ; and the legislature ought to oblige such
to contribute to a fund to prevent the spread of the worst sort of
pauperism — that which comes upon well-born children from the care-
lessness or selfishness of their parents. God in his wisdom, and
certainly in his mercy, removed the poor broken-hearted widow of
the person I allude to, a month after his death ; and the infant,
whose nourishment from its birth had been mingled with bitterness,
followed in a few days. I saw myself seven children crowd round
the coffin that was provided by charity ; I saw three taken to the
workhouse, and the elder four distributed amongst kind-hearted hard-
working people, who are trying to inure the young soft hands, accus-
tomed to silken idleness, to the toils of homely industry. I ask you,
John Adams, how the husband of that woman, the father of those
children, can meet his God, when it is required of him to give an
account of his stewardship ? "

" It is very true — very shocking indeed," observed Dr. Adams.

THE WISDOM OF FORETHOUGHT. 347

" I certainly will do something to secure my wife and children from
the possibility of anything like that, althougli, whatever were to happen
to me, I am sure Lucy's family would prevent"

Charles broke in upon the sentence his brother found it difficult to
complete — " And can you expect distant or even near relatives to
perform what you, whose duty it is, neglect? Or would you leave
those dear ones to the bitterness of dependence, when, by the sacrifice
or curtailment of those luxurious habits which, if not closely watched,
increase in number, and at last become necessaries, you could leave
them in comfort and independence ? We all hope for the leisure of
a death-bed — awful enough, come as it may — awful, even when be-
yond its gloom we see the risen Sun of Righteousness in all his glory —
awful, though our faith be strong in Him who is our strength ; but if
the consciousness of having neglected those duties which we were sent
on earth to perform be with us, then dark, indeed, will be the Valley of
the Shadow of Death. I do not want, however, to read a homily, my
dear brother, but to impress a truth ; and I do hope that you will pre-
vent the possibility of these dear children feeling what they must feel,
enduring what they must endure, if ijoii passed into another world
without performing your duty towards them, and through them to
society, in this."

Mrs. Adams met her brother-in-law that day (people fivc-and-
twenty years ago did dine by day) at dinner, with an air of oflencc.
She was, of course, lady-like and quiet, l)ut it was evident she was
displeased. Everything at table was perfect according to its kind.
There was no guest present who was not superior in wealth and
position to the doctor liiinself, and each was quite aware of the fact.
Those who diml) liohlly sometimes take a false stej), but at all times
make dangerous ones. When Charles looked round upon the splendid
plate and stylish servants — when the children were ushered in after
dinner, an«l every tongue was loud in prais»'s of their beauty — an
involuntary shudder jjassed through his heart, ami he almost accused
liimself of selfiMhness, wh«n he was comforted by the remembrance
of the provision made for liis own little ones, who were ns pretty, as
well educated, and as happy in their cliecrful country home.

3-JS woman's trials.

The next morning he was on his return to Repton, happy in the
assurance his brother liad given him before they parted, that he would
really lay by a large sum for the regular insurance of his life,

" My dear John," said the doctor's wife, " when does the new
carriage come home ? I thought we were to have had it this week.
The old chariot looked so dull to-day, just as you were going out,
when Dr. Fitzlane's new chocolate colour passed ; certainly that
chocolate-coloured carriage picked out with blue, and those blue
liveries are very, very pretty."

" Well, Lucy, I think them too gay — the liveries I mean — for an
M.D. ; quieter colours do best ; and as to the new carriage, I had not
absolutely ordered it. I don't see why I cannot go on with the jobs ;
and I almost think I shall do so, and appropriate the money I intended
for my own carriage to another purpose."
" What purpose?"

" Wliy, to effect an insurance on my life. There was a great deal
of truth in what Charles said the other day, although he said it coarsely,
which is not usual with him ; but he felt the subject, and I feel it also ;
so I think of, as I said, going quietly on with the jobs — at all events
till next year — and devoting this money to the insurance."

It is difficult to believe how any woman, situated as Mrs. Adams
was, could have objected to a plan so evidently for her advantage and
the advantage of her family ; but she was one of those who never like
to think of the possibility of a reverse of fortune — who thrust care off
as long as they can, and who feel more pleasure in being lavish as to
the present, than in saving for the future.

" I am sure," she answered, in the half-petted, half-peevish tone
that evinces a weak mind—" I am sure if anything was to happen to
you, I should break my heart at once, and my family, of course, would
provide for the children. I could not bear the idea of reaping any
advantage by your death ; and really the jobs are so very inferior to
what they used to be— and Dr. Leeswor, next door but one, has
purcliased such a handsome chariot — you have at least twice his

practice ; and . Why, dear John, you never were in such health ;

there will be no necessity for this painful insurance. And after you

THE WISDOM OF FOUETIIOUGIIT. 349

have set up your own carriage, you can begin and lay by, and in a few
years there will be plenty for the children ; and I shall not have the
galling feeling that any living thing would profit by your death. Dear
John, pray do not think of this painful insurance ; it may do very well
for a man like your brother — a man without refinement ; but just fancy
the mental torture of such a provision."

Much more Mrs. Adams talked ; and the doctor, who loved display,
and had no desire to see Dr. Leeswor, his particular rival, or even
Dr. Fitzlane, better appointed than himself, felt strongly inclined
towards the new carriage, and thought it would certainly be pleasanter
to save than to insure, and resolved to begin immediately after the
purchase of his new equipage.

^Vhen persons are very prosperous, a few ten or twenty pounds do not
much signify, but the principle of careless expenditure is hard to curb.

Various things occurred to put olf the doctor's plan of laying by.
Mrs. Adams had an illness, that rendered a residence abroad necessary
for a winter or two. The eldest boy must go to Eton. As their
mamma was not at home, the little girls were sent to school. Bad
as her management was, it was better than no management at all.
If the drKtor had given up his entertainments, his " friends "
would have said he was going down in the world, and his patients
would have imagined him less skilful ; besides, notwithstanding his
increased expenditure, he found he had ample means, not to lay by, but
to spend on without debt or didiculty. Sometimes his promise to his
brotiicr would cross his mind, l)Ut it was soon dispelled by what he had
led liimHelf to believe was the impossibility of attending to it then.
In process of time two little ones were added to the four, and
stdl his nu-ans kept pace with \\\% expenses; in short, for ten years he
was a favourite with the class of persons who render favouritism
fortune. It is iniposnible, within the compass of a t.ile, to trace the
minutia* of the iirotherfl' history ; the children of both were handsome,
intelligent, and, in the world's (ipiiii<in, well educated. John's eldest
daughter wax one amougiit a thousand for beauty of mind and person ;
ln-rs was no glaring (litplay of figure or information. She was gentle,
tender, and ail'ectionate ; of a <lis|)osiiion Hensitive, and attuned to all

350 woman's trials.

those rare virtues in her sphere, which form at once tlie treasures of
domestic life and the ornaments of society. She it was who soothed
the nervous irritahihty of her mother's sick chamber and perpetual
peevishness, and graced her father's drawing-room by a presence that
was attractive to both old and young, from its sweetness and unpretend-
ing modesty ; lier two younger sisters called forth all her tenderness,
from the extreme delicacy of their health ; but her brothers were even
greater objects of solicitude — handsome spirited lads — the eldest
waiting for a situation, promised, but not given ; the second also
waiting for a cadetship ; while the youngest was still at Eton. The
moment his eldest sons got the appointments they were promised,
Dr. Adams would certainly save, or insure, or do something !

People who only talk about doing " something," generally end by
doing " nothing." Another year passed ; Mrs. Adams was still an
invalid, the younger girls more delicate than ever, the boys waiting, as
before, their promised appointments, and more extravagant than ever ;
and Miss Adams had made a conquest which even her father thought
worthy of her.

The gentleman who had become really attached to this beautiful
girl was of a high family, who were sufficiently charmed with the
object of his affections to give their full sanction, as far as person and
position were concerned ; but the prudent father of the would-be
bridegroom thought it right to take an early opportunity of waiting
upon the doctor, stating his son's prospects, and frankly asking what
sum Dr. Adams proposed settling on liis daughter. Great, indeed, was
his astonishment at the reply — " He should not be able to give his
daughter anything immedialcly, but at his death." The doctor, for the
first time for many years, felt the bitterness of \\h false 'position. He
hesitated, degraded by the knowledge that he must sink in the opinion
of the man of the world by whom he was addressed ; he was irritated
at his want of available funds being known ; and though well aware
that the affections of his darling child were bound up in the son of the
very gentlemanly but most prudent person who sat before him, he was
so high and so irritable in his bearing, that the fathers parted, not in
anger, but in anything but good feeling.

THE WISDOM OF FORETHOUGHT.

Sir Augustus Barry was not slow to set before his son the disad-
vantages of a union, where the extravagant liabits of Miss Adams had
no more stable support than her father's life. And Dr. Adams insulted
the son for the fault of the father, and forbade his daughter to receive him.

Mary Adams endeavoured to bear this as meekly as she had
borne the flattery and the tenderness which had been lavished on her
since her birth. The bitter, l)itter knowledge that she was considered
by her lover's family as a girl who, with the chance of being penniless,
lived like a princess, was inconceivably galling ; and though she iiad
dismissed her lover, and knew that her father had insulted him, still
she wondered how he could so soon forget her, and never write even
a line of farewell. From her mother she did not expect sympathy ;
she was too tender and too proud to seek it ; and her father, more
occupied than ever, was seldom in his own house. Ilcr uncle, who
had not been in town for some years, at last arrived, and was not less
struck by the extreme grace and beauty of his niece, than by the
deep melancholy which saddened her voice, and weighed down her
s])irits. He was evidently anxious to mention something which made
him joyous and happy ; and when tin- doctor entered the library with
him, he said, " Aiid may not Mary come in also?" Mary did come
in ; and her gentle presence subdued her uncle's spirits. " I had
meant to tell the intended change in my family only to you, brother
John; but it has occurred to me we were all wrong about my niece;
they said at home, ' Do not invite my cousin, she is too fine, too gay
to come to a country wedding; she would not like it;' but I think
Hurrounded as she is by luxuries, that the fresh air of Kepton, the
fresh flowers, fresh fields, and fresh smiles of her cousins would do
my niece good, great good, and we shall be quite gny in our own
hnnu-ly way — the gaiety that upsprings from hearts grateful t(» the
Almighty for his gcKMlnc^s. The fact is, that in about three wreks rni/
Mary is to Im* married to our rector's eldest son! In three weeks.
As he is only his fatlior'n curnte, they could not have aflorde*! to
marry for five or nix year*, if I had not been able to t« II down a
hamUonie j»um for Mary's fortune ; it was a prou«l thing (<• be able
to make n good chdd happy by care in time. ' Care in time,' that's

352 woman's trials.

my stronghold ! How glad we were to look back and think, that
while we educated them properly, we denied ourselves, to perform our
duty to the children God had given to our cai-e. We have not been
as gay as our neighbours, whose means were less than ours; we could
not be so, seeing we had to provide for five children ; but our pleasure
has been to elevate and render those children happy and prosperous.
Mary will be so happy, dear child — so happy! Only think, John, she
will be six years the sooner happy from our care in time!" This was
more than his niece could bear. The good father was so full of his
daughter's happiness, and the doctor so overwhelmed with self-reproach
— never felt so bitterly as at that moment — that neither perceived the
death-like paleness that overspread the less fortunate Mary's face.
She got up to leave the room, staggered, and fell at her father's feet.

" We have murdered her between us," muttered Dr. Adams, while
he raised her up ; '* murdered her ; but / struck the first blow. God
forgive me ! God forgive me ! "

That night the brothers spent in deep and earnest converse. The
certainty of his own prosperity, the self-gratulation that follows a just
and careful discharge of duties imposed alike by reason and religion,
had not raised Charles above his brother in his own esteem. Pained
beyond description at the suffering he had so unconsciously inflicted
on his niece — horror-struck at the fact, that thousands upon thousands
had been lavished, yet nothing done for hereafter, the hereafter that
jnust come, he urged upon John the danger of delay, the uncertainty
of life. Circumstances increased his influence. Dr. Adams had been
made painfully aware that gilding was not gold. The beauty, position,
and talents of Iiis beloved child, although fully acknowledged, had failed
to establish her in life. " Look, Charles," he said, after imparting all
to his brotlier, absolutely weeping over the state of uncomplaining but
deep sorrow to which his child was reduced, " if I could command
the necessary sum, I would to-morrow insure my life for a sum that
would place them beyond the possible reach of necessity of any
kind."

" Do not wait for that," was the generous reply of Charles Adams;
" I have some unemployed hundreds at this moment. Come with me

THE WISDOM OF tOKETHOL'GHT. 353

to-morrow; do not delay a day, no, nor an liour ; and take my word
for it you will have reason to bless your resolve. Only imagine what
would be the case if God called you to give an account of your
stewardship." But he checked liimself; he saw that more was not
necessary ; and the brothers separated for a few hours, both anxious
for the morning. It was impossible to say which of the two hurried
over breakfast with the greatest rapidity. The carriage was at the
door ; and Dr. Adams lefi word with his butler that lie was gone into
the city on urgent business, and would be back in two hours.

" I don't think," exclaimed Charles, rubbing his hands gleefully,
" I don't think, that if my dear niece were happy, I should ever have
been so happy in all my life as I am at this moment."

" I feel already," replied John, " as if a great wei;^flit were
removed from my heart ; and were it not for tlie debt whit h I have

contracted tu you Ah, Charles, I little dreamt when 1 looked

down from the hill over Kepton, and thought my store inexhaustible,
that I should be obliged to you tluis late in life. And yet I protest
I hardly know where I could have drawn in ; one expense grows so
out of another. These boys have been so very extravagant ; but 1
shall soon have the two eldest oH"; they cannot keep them much longer
waiting."

"Work is better than waiting; but let the lads fight tlu ir way;
they have had, I suppose, a good education; they ought to have h;id
professions. 'J'here is something to me awfully l.izy in your ' ajtpoint-
mcnis ;' a yoiuig man of spirit will appoint himself; but it is the
females of a family, brought up ns y'>urs have l)ei n, who ;ire to l»e
considered. Women's position in society is changed from what it was
some years ago ; it was expected that they nmst marry ; and so they
were left, beft)re their marriage, dependent upon fathers and brotlurs,
an creatures that could <lo luithing for themselves. Now, poor things,
I reallv «lon*t know why, but girls d(» not marry o(V as tiny used.
They become old, and frequtntly — owing to the expectation of their
si-ttling — without the provision n<'ce»snry for a comforinble ohi age.
This is the parent of those despicable tricks and arts which won)en
resort to to get marrie<l, ns they have no aeknowled^«'d jMisilion

351 woman's trials.

independent of matrimony. Something ought to be done to prevent
this. And when the country steadies a little from the great revolution
of past years, I suppose something may be tliought of by improved
teaching and systems — to enable women to assist themselves, and be
recompensed for the assistance they yield others, Now, imagine your

dear girls, those younger ones particularly, deprived of you"

" Here is the patient upon whom I must call, en route," interrupted
the doctor.

The carriage drew up.

" I wish," said Charles, " you had called here on your return. I
wanted the insurance to have been your first business to-day."

" I shall not be five minutes," was the reply. The servant let
down the step, and the doctor bounded up towards the open door. In
his progress, he trod upon a bit, a mere shred, of orange peel ; it was
the mischief of a moment ; he slipped, and his temple struck against
the sharp column of an iron-scraper. Within one hour. Dr. John
Adams had ceased to exist.

What the mental and bodily agony of that one hour was, you can
better understand than I can describe. He was fully conscious that he
was dying — and he knew all the misery that was to follow.

.?3»e?:;

PART THK SECOND.

(Ni.Y give me your attention, my dear niece,"

^;A^ ""'•' Charles Adams, as he seated liiniself by

t- \ Mary's side ; '• for half an hour, now that all is

over, and that the demands of the world press upon

, ™ us. I wish to speak about the future. Your mother

iJ^ bursts into sueh fits of desj)air that I eau do nothing

^ with her; anil your brother is so unijovernable —

talks as if he could command the Hank of l^ng!an«l, and

• _ . is so full of his mother's connexions and their influence,

J that I have left him to himself. Can you, my dear Mary,

restrain your feelings and give me your attention ?"

Mary Adams look«'d firmly in her uncle's face, and said, " I will
trv. I have been thinking and planning all the morning, luit 1 do not
know how to iM'gin to be useful. If I mice began, I could go on.
The sooner we arc out of this huge expensive house the belter; if I

356 woman's trials.

could get my mother to go with the little girls to the sea-side. Take
her away altogether from this home— take her "

"Where?" inquired Mr. Adams; "she will not accept shelter
in my house."

" I do not know," answered his niece, relapsing into all the
helplessness of first grief; "indeed I do not know ; her brother-in-law,
Sir James Ashbrooke, invited her to the Pleasaunce, but my brother
objects to her going there, his uncle has behaved so neglectfully about
his appointment."

" Foolish boy ! " muttered Cliarles ; " this is no time to quarrel
about trifles. The fact is, Mary, that the sooner you are all out of this
house the better ; there are one or two creditors, not for large sums
certainly, but still men who will have their money ; and if we do not
quietly sell off, they will force us. The house might have been
disposed of last week by private contract, but your mother would not
hear of it, because the person who offered was a medical rival of my
poor brother."

Mary did not hear the concluding observation ; her eyes wandered
from object to object in the room — the harp — the various things known
from childhood. "Anything you and your mother wish, my dear
niece," said her kind uncle, " shall be preserved — the family pictures
— your harp, your piano — they are all hallowed memorials, and shall
be kept sacred."

Mary burst into tears. " I do not," she said, " shrink from
considering those instruments the means of my support ; but although
I know the necessity for so considering, 1 feel I cannot tell what at
quitting the home of my childhood ; people are all kind ; you, my dear
uncle, from whom we expected so little, the kindest of all ; but I see,
even in these early days of a first sorrow, indications of falling off.
My aunt's husband has really behaved very badly about the appoint-
ment of my eldest brother ; and as to the cadetship for the second — we
had such a brief dry letter from our Indian friend — so many firsts
on the list, and the necessity for waiting, tiiat I do not know how it
will end."

" I wish, my dear, you could prevail on your mother, and sister.

THE WISDOM OK FORETHOUGHT. 357

and all, to come to Repton," said Mr. .Vdanis. " If your mother

dislikes being in my house, I woidd find her a cottage near us ; I will

do all I can. My wife joins me in the determination to think that we

have six additional children to look to. We difler from you in our
i . .

I habits ; but our hearts and affections are no less true to you all. My

I Mary and you will be as sisters."

His niece could bear no more kindness. She had been far more

bitterly disappointed than she had confessed even to her uncle; and yet
I the very bitterness of the disappointment had been the first thing that
I had driven her father's dying wail from her ears — that cry repeated so
i often and so bitterly in the brief moments left after his accident —
! " My children ! My children ! " He had not sufficient faith to commit
' them to God's mercy ; he knew he had not been a faithful steward ;

and he could not bring himself from the depths of his spiritual blind-
I ness to call upon the Fountain that is never dried up to those who would

humbly and earnestly partake of its living waters.

It was all a scene as of another world to the young, beautiful,

])eued, and feted girl ; it had made her forget the disappointment of
I her love, at least for a time. While her brothers dared the thunder-

( loud that burst above their heads, her mother and sister wept beneath
I its influence. Mary had looked forth, and if she did not hope, she

thought, and tried to l>ray ; now, she fell weeping upon her uncle's
i shouhh-r ; when she could speak, she said, " Forgive me ; in a little

time I shall be able to conquer this ; at j)resent, I am overwhelmed ; I

feci as if knowledge and sorrow came together ; I seem to have read
I more of human nature within the last three days than in .ill mv
■ past lifi'."

" It all depends, .Mary, Jipon the p«rson you meet," said Mr. Adams,
' "as uiK)n the book vou read ; if yon choose a foolish bcjok or a bad

Ijook, you can exp«'Ct nothing but vice or foolishness ; if you choose a

f«Mili>.h rompnnion, surely you rannot expect kin<lneH8 or strength."

The kind-hearted man rej)eated to her all he had liefore said. " I
' cannot," he added, " be guilty of injuNtice to my children ; l)ut I can

merge all my own luxuricn into the one of being a father to the

fatherle«»."

358 woman's trials.

But to all the plans of Charles Adams, objections were raised by
his eldest nephew and his mother ; the youth could not brook the
control of a simple straight-minded country man, whose only claim to
be considered a gentleman, in his opinion, arose from his connexion
with "his family." He was also indignant with his maternal uncle for
liis broken promise, and these feelings were strengthened by his
mother's folly. Two opportunities for disposing of the house and its
magnificent furniture were missed ; and when Mrs. Adams complained
to her nearest and most influential connexions, that her brother-in-law
refused to make her any allowance unless she consented to live at
Repton — expecting that they would be loud in their indignation at his
hardness — they advised her by all means to do what he wished, as he
was really the only person she had to depend upon. Others were
lavish of their sympatliy, but sympathy wears out quickly ; others
invited her to spend a month with them at their country seat, for change
of air ; one hinted how valuable Miss Adams's exquisite musical talent
would be now. Mary coloured, and said, " Yes," with the dignity of
proper feeling ; but her mother asked the lady what she meant, and a
little scene followed, which caused the lady to visit all the families in
town of her acquaintance, for the purpose of expressing lier sympathy
with " those poor dear Adamses, who were so proud, poor things, that
really there was nothing but starvation and the workhouse before
them ! " Another of those well-meaning persons — strong-minded and
kind-hearted, but without a particle of delicacy — came to poor Mary,
•with all the prestige of conferring a favour.

" My dear young lady, it is the commonest thing in the world —
very painful but very common ; the families of professional men are
frequently left without provision. Such a pity ! — because, if they
cannot save, they can insure. We all can do that, but they do not do
it, and consequently everywhere the families of professional men are
found in distress ; so, as I said, it is common ; and I wanted you to
suggest to your mother, that, if she would not feel hurt at it, the thing
being so common — dear Dr. Adams having been so popular, so very
popular — that while every one is talking about him and you all, a very
handsome subscription could be got up. I would begin it with a sum

large enough to invite still larger. I had a great regard for him — I
had indeed."

Mary felt her heart sink and rise, and her throat swell, so that she
could not speak. She had brought herself to the determination of
employing her talents for her own support, but she was not prepared to
come with her family before the world as paupers. " We have no
claim upon the public," she said at last. " I am sure you mean us
kindly, but we have no claim. My dear father forwarded no public
work— no public object ; he gave his advice, and received his payment.
If we are not provided for, it is no public fault. Besides, my father's
children are able and willing to support themselves. I am sure you
mean us kindly, but we have no claim upon public sympathy, and an
appeal to it would crush us to the earth. I am very glad you did not
speak first to my mother. My uncle Charles would not suffer it, even
if my mother wished it."

This friend also departed to excite new speculations as to the pride
and poverty of " poor dear Dr. Adams's family." In the world,
however — the busy London world — it is idle to expect anything to
create even a nine day's wonder. When the house and furniture were
at last ottered for sale, the feeling was somewhat revived ; and Mary,
whose beauty, exquisite as it was, had so unobtrusive a character as
never to have created a foe, was remembered with tears by many :
even the father of her old lover, wIkm Iir was congratulated by one
more worldly-minded than himself on tliu escape of his son in not
marrying a portionless giil, reproved the unfeeling speaker with a
wish that he only hoped his son might have as good a wife ;is M;ny
Adams would have been.

'1 lif bills were taken down, tht; house purified from the auction-
mob— evi-rylhing chan;^ed ; a new iwuue oceupie«l the doctor's place in
the " C'ourt (luidr" — and in three njonlhs the family seemed as
completi'ly for;.'otlen amongst those of whom they once formed a
prominent part, as if they had never existed. When one sphere of life
closfH again.Ht a family, tlu-y find room in another. Many kin<l-hearted
pefHons in Mrs. A<lani»'» first circle wouhl have Inen rcjoiee<l to be of
service to her and hers, Init they were exactly the jHiiple upon whom

360 WOMAN S TRIALS.

she had no claim. Of a high but poor family, her relatives had little
power. What family so situated ever had any influence beyond what
they absolutely needed for themselves ? With an ill grace she at last
acceded to the kind offer made by Mr. Charles Adams, and took
possession of the cottage he fixed upon, until something could be done
for his brother's children. In a fit of proud despair the eldest son
enlisted into a regiment of dragoons ; the second was fortunate enough
to obtain a cadetship through a stranger's interference ; and his uncle
thought it might be possible to get the youngest forward in his father's
profession. The expense of the necessary arrangements was severely
felt by the prudent and careful country gentleman. The younger girls
were too delicate for even the common occupations of daily life ; and
Mary, instead of receiving the welcome she had been led to expect
from her aunt and cousins, felt that every hour she spent at the Grange
was an intrusion.

The sudden death of Dr. Adams had postponed the intended
wedding of Charles Adams's eldest daughter; and although her mother
agreed that it was their duty to forward the orphan children, she
certainly felt, as most affectionate mothers whose hearts are not very
much enlarged would feel, that much of their own savings — much of
the produce of her husband's hard labour — labour during a series of
years, when her sister-in-law and her children were enjoying all the
luxuries of life — would now be expended for their support; this to
an all-sacrificing mother, despite her sense of the duty of kindness,
was hard to bear. As long as they were not on the spot, she theorised
continually, and derived much satisfaction from the sympathising ob-
servations of her neighbours, and was proud, vcttj proud, of die praise
bestowed upon her husband's benevolence ; but when her sister-in-
law's expensive habits were in daily array before her (the cottage
being close to the Grange); w^hen she knew, to use her own expression,
*' that she never put her hand to a single thing ;" that she could not
live witiiout port wine, when she herself never drank even gooseberry,
except on Sundays ; never ironed a collar, never dusted the chimney-
piece, or ate a shoulder of mutton — roast one day, cold the next, and
hashed the third. While each day brought some fresh illustration of

THE WISDOM OF FORETHOUGHT. 361

her thoughtlessness to the eyes of the wife of the wealthy tiller of the
soil, the widow of the physician tiioiight herself in the daily practice
of the most rigid self-denial. " I am sure," was her constant obser-
vation to her all-patient daughter — " I am sure I never thought it
would come to this. I had not an idia of going through so much.
I wonder your uncle and his wife can jjcrmit me to live in the way I
do — they ought to consider how I was brought up." It was in vain
Mary represented that they were existing upon charity ; that they
ought to be most grateful for what they received, coming as it did
from those who, in their days of prosperity, professed nothing, while
those who professed^ all things had done nothing. Mary would so
reason, and then retire to her own chamber to weep alone over things
more hard to bear.

It is painful to observe wiiat bitterness will creep into the heart
and manner of really kind girls where a lover is in the case, or even
where a commonplace danghng sort of flirtation is going forward;
this depreciating ill nature, one to the other, is not by any means
confined to the fair sex. Young men pick each oilier to pieces with
even more fierceness, but less ingenuity ; they deal in a cut-and-hack
sort of sarcasm, and do not hesitate to use terms and insinuations of
the harshest kind when a lady is in the case. Mary (to distinguish
her from iier high-bred cousin, she was generally called Mary Charles)
was certainly disappointed when her wedding was postponed in con-
sequence of her uncle's death ; but a much more painful feeling
followed v^htn she saw the adniiration lur lover, Edwin Lechmere,
bestowed upon her beautiful cousin. .Mary Charles was herself a
beauty — fair, open-eyed, warm-hearted — the beauty of H«pton ; but
though feature by feature, inch by inch, she was as handsome as Mary,
yet in her cousin was the grace and spirit given only by gcuHl society;
the manners elevated by a higher n)ind, and toned down by sorrow ;
a gentle softness, which a keen observer of human nature once told
mc no woman ever possessed uuless she had dreply loved, and
sud'ered from diiappointed nH'ection ; in .shorl, she was far more
reHned, far m<»re fnHcinnling, than her coimtry cousin. Uesides, she
was unfortunate, and that at once gave her a hold u]M)n the sympathies

.T *

362 woman's trials.

of tlie young curate : it did no more ; but Mary Charles did not
understand these nice distinctions, and nothing could exceed tlie
change of manner she evinced when her cousin and her betrothed
were together.

Mary thought her cousin rude and petulant ; but the true cause
of the change never occurred to her. Accustomed to the high-toned
courtesy of well-bred men, which is so little practised in the middle
class of English society, it never suggested itself, that placing her
chair, or opening the door for her to go out, or rising courteously
when she came into a room, was more than, as a lady, she had a
right to expect ; in truth, she did not notice it at all ; but she did
notice and feel deeply her cousin's alternate coldness and snappishness
of manner. " I would not," thouglil Mary, " have behaved so to her
if she had been left desolate ; but in a little time, when my mother is
more content, I will leave Repton, and become independent by my
talents." Never did she think of the power delegated to her by the
Almighty without feeling herself raised — ay, higlier than she had ever
been in the days of her splendour — in the scale of moral usefulness ;
as every one must feel whose mind is rightly framed. She had not
yet known what it was to have her abilities trampled on or insulted ;
she had never experienced the bitterness consequent upon having the
acquirements — which in the days of her prosperity commanded silence
and admiration — sneered at or openly ridiculed. She had yet to
learn that the Solons, the lawgivers of English society, lavish their
attentions and praise upon those who learn, not upon those who teach.

Mary had not been six months fatherless, when she was astonished
first by a letter, and then by a visit, from her former lover ; he came
to renew his engagement, and to wed her even then if she would have
him; but Mary's high principle was stronger than he imagined. " No,"
she said; " you are not independent of your father, and whatever I feel,
I have no right to draw you down into poverty. You may fancy now
that you could bear it, but a time would come — if not to you, to me —
when the utter selfishness of such conduct would goad me to a death
of early misery." The young man appealed to her uncle, who thought
her feelings overstrained, but respected her for it nevertheless ; and in

THE WISDOM OF FORETHOUGHT. 363

the warmth of his admiration, he communicated the circumstance to
his wife and daufijhter.

•' Refuse her old lover under present circumstances," repeated lier
cousin to herself as she left the room ; " there must be some other
reason than that ; she could not be so foolish as to reject such an
offer at such a time." Unfortunately, she saw Edwin Lechmere
walking l)y Mary's side, under the shadow of some trees. She
watclicd tliem until the foliage screened them from her sight, and
then she shut herself into her own room, and yielded to a long and
violent burst of tears. " It is not enough," she exclaimed, in the
bitterness of her feehngs, *' that the comforts of my parents' declining
years should be abridged by the overwhelming burden to their exer-
tions — another family added to their own : it is not enou<jh that an
uncomfortable feeling has grown between my father and motiier on
this account, and that cold looks and sharp words have come where
they nevrr came before, but my peace of mind must be destroyed.
Gladly would I have taken a smaller portion, if I could have kejjt the
affections which I see but too plainly my cousin has stolen from me.
And my thoughtless aunt to say, only yesterday, that * at all events
her husband was no man's enemy lut his own.' Has not his want of
prudent forethought been the ruin of his own children ? and will my
parents ever recover the anxiety, the pain, the sacrifices, brought on
them by one man's culpable neglect ? Oh, uncle I if you could look from
your grave upon the misery you have caused ! " — and then, exhausted
by h«'r own emotion, the affectionate but jealous girl began to (juesiion
herself as to what she should do. After what she considered mature
deliberation, she mridc tip her mind to u]tl)raid lu-r cousin with
treachery, and •he j)ut her design into execution that same evening.

It was no easy matter to ol)lige her cousin to understand what she
meant ; but at List the declaration, that she had refused her old lover
becatiHC hhe had placed her affections U])on Kdtvin L«'climere, whom
iihc was endeavouring l<i " entrap," was not to l)e mistaken ; and the
country girl was altogether unprepared for the burst of indignant
feeling, mingled with nnirh bitterness, which repelled the untruth. A
strong fit of hysterics into which Mary Charles worked herself was

36-1 woman's trials.

terminated by a scene of the most painful kind, her father being
upbraided by her mother with " loving other people's children better
than his own," while the curate himself knelt by the side of his
betrothed, assuring her of his unaltered affection. From such a scene
Miss Adams hastened with a throbbing brow and a burstinsr heart.
She had no one to counsel or console her ; no one to whom she could
apply for aid. For the first time since she had experienced her
uncle's tenderness, she felt she had been the means of disturbing his
domestic peace ; the knowledge of the burden she was, and the burden
she and hers were considered, weighed her to the earth ; and in a
paroxysm of anguish, she fell on her knees, exclaiming, " Oh, why
are the dependant born into the world ! Father, father, why did you
leave us, whom you so loved, to such a fate!" And then she reproached
herself for having uttered a word reflecting on his memory. One of
the every-day occurrences of life — so common as to be hardly ob-
served — is to find really kind good-natured people not " weary of
well-doing." " Oh, really I was worn out with so and so ; they are
so decidedly unfortunate that it is impossible to help them," is a
general excuse for deserting those whose continuing misfortunes ought
to render them greater objects of sympathy.

Mr. Charles Adams was, as has been shown in our little narrative,
a kind-hearted man. Estranged as his brother and himself had been
for a number of years, he had done much to forward, and still more
to protect, his children. At first, this was a pleasure; but somehow
his "benevolence," and "kindness," and "generosity," had been so
talked about, so eulogised, and he had been so seriously inconvenienced
by the waywardness of his nephews, the thoughtless pride of his sister-
in-law, the helplessness of his younger nieces, as to feel seriously
oppressed by his responsibility. And now the one who had never
given him aught but pleasure, seemed, according to his daughter's
representations, to be the cause of increased sorrow, the destroyer of
his dear child's happiness. What to do he could not tell. His
(laughter, wrought upon by her own jealousy, had evinced, under
its influence, so much temper she had never displayed before, that it
seemed more than likely the cherished match would be broken oflT.

His high-niituled niece saved him any farther anxiety as far as slie was
concerned. She sent for and convinced liim fully and entirely of her
total freedom from the base design imputed to her. " Was it likely,"
she said, " that I should reject the man I love lest I should drag him
into poverty, and plunge at once with one I do not care for into the
abyss I dread? This is the common sense view of the case; but there
is yet another. Is it to be borne that I would seek to rob your child
of her happiness? The supposition is an insult too gross to be endured.
I will kave my mother to-morrow. An old schoolfellow, older and
more fortunate than mvself, wished me to educate her little fjirl. I had
one or two strong objections to living in her house ; but the desire to
be independent and away has overcome them." She then, with many
tears, entreated her uncle still to protect her mother ; urged how she
had been sorely tried ; and communicated fears, she had reason to
believe were too well founded, that her eldest brother, feeling the
reverse more than he could bear, had deserted from his regiment.

Charles Adams was dee])ly moved by the nobleness of his niece,
and reproved his daughter more harshly than he had ever done before,
for the feebleness that created so strong and unjust a passion. This
had the contrary effect to that which he had hoped : she did not hesitate
to say that her cousin liad endeavoured to rob her both of the aflection
of her lover and her father. The injured cousin left Htjjton bowed
beneath an accumulation of troubles, not one of which was of her own
creating, not one of which she deserved ; and all springing from the
unproviding nature of him who, Iiad he been asked the question, would
have declared himself ready to sacilice his own life for the advantage
of that daughter, now compelled to work for her own bread. To trace
the career of .Mary .Ailams in her new calling, would be to repent what
I have .laid before. 'I'he niore refined, the more informed the governess,
the more she suffers. Ueing with one whom she had known in better
dayn, made it even more harti to l)end ; yet she did her «liity, and that
is one of the highest privileges a woman can enjoy.

Leaving Mary for a moment, let us return to Hrpton. Here
discord having once rnlcrrd, wan making sa«l ravages, and all were
siifl'ering from it. It was hut too true that the eldest of the Adamses

366 woman's trials.

had deserted ; his mother, clinging with a parent's fondness to her child,
concealed him, and thus offended Charles Adams beyond all recon-
ciliation. The third lad, who was walking the London hospitals, and
exerting himself beyond his strength, was everything that a youth
could be ; but his declining health was represented to his uncle, by one
of those whom his mother's pride had insulted, as a cloak for indolence.
In short, before another year had quite passed, the family of the once
rich and fashionable Dr. Adams had shared the fate of all dependants —
worn out the benevolence, or patience, or whatever it really is, of their
" best friends." Nor was this the only consequence of the physician's
neglect of a duty due alike to God and to society ; his brother had really
done so much for the bereaved family, as to give what the world called
"just grounds" for Mrs. Charles Adams's repeated complaints, "that
now her husband was ruining his industrious family to keep the lazy
widow of his spendthrift brother and her favourite children in idleness.
Why could she not live upon the ' fine folk' she was always throwing
in their faces ?" Their daughter, too, of whose approaching union the
fond father had been so proud, was now, like her cousin whom she had
wronged by her mean suspicions, deserted ; the match broken off after
much bickering ; one quarrel having brought on another, until they
separated by mutual consent. Her temper and her health were both
materially impaired, and her beauty was converted into harshness
and acidity.

Oh ! how utterly groundless is the idea, tliat in our social state,
where one human being must so much depend upon another, any man,
neglecting his positive duties, can be called " only his own enemy."
What misery had not Dr. Adams's neglect entailed, not alone on his
immediate family, but on that of his brother. Besides, there were
ramifications of distress ; he had died even more embarrassed than his
brother had at first believed, and some tradespeople were consequently
embarrassed ; but the deep misery fell upon his children. Meanwhile,
Mrs. Dr. Adams had left Repton with her younger children, to be the
dependants of Mary in London.

It was not until a fatal disease had seized upon her mother, that
Mary ventured to appeal again to her uncle's generosity. " My second

THE WISDOM OF FORETHOUGHT. 367

brother," she said, " lias out of liis small means remitted her five
poiiiuls. My eldest brother seems altogether to have disappeared from
amongst us ; finding that his unhajipy presence had occasioned so fatal
a separation between his mother and you — a disunion which I saw was
the effect of many sm;dl causes, rather than one great one — lie left us,
and we cannot trace him. This has broken my poor mother's heart ;
he was the cherished one of all her children. My youngest brother
has been for the last month an inmate of one of the hospitals which my
poor father attended for so many years, and where his word was law.
My sister Rosa, she upon whom my poor father poured, if possible,
more of his affection than he bestowed upon me — my lovely sister, of
whom even in our poverty, I was so proud — so young, only upon the
vcr.'e of womanhood — has, you already know, left us. Would to God
that it had been for her grave, rather than her destroyer! — a fellow-
student of that poor youth, who, if he dreamt of her dishonour, would
stagger like a spectre from what will be liis death-bed to avenge her.
Poverty is one of tlie surest guides to dishonour; tliose ulu) have not
been tenipted know nothing of it. It is one thing to see it, another to
feel it. Do not think her altogether base, because she had not the
strength of a heroine. I have been obliged to resign my situation to
attend my mother, and the only income we have is what I earn by
giving lessons on the harp and piano. I give, for tn'o .s/iiHiiigs, the
same instruction for which my father jjaid half-a-guinea a lesson ; if I
did not I shoidd have no pupils. It is more than a month since my
mother left her bed ; and my youngest sister, bending beneath increased
delicacy of health, is her only attendant. I know her mind to be so
tortured, and her body so convulsed by pain, that I h.ive iir.tyed to
(Jod to render her lit for Heaven, and take her from her sufli rings.
Imagine the weight of sorrow that crusht-d me to my knees with such
n p< tition as that. I know nil you have d.«iu', and yet I ask y«)u now,
in remnnlirance of the l)oyish love that bound you and my father
together, to leH»on her bfxiily anguish by the sacrifice of a little more ;
that shr, nurHcd in the lap of luxury, may not pass fr<ini life with
slnrvalioi) as her companion. M> lirother's gift i-. expendi d ; and
during the last ihrri? weeks, I have earned l>ul twelve nhillings ; my

368 woman's trials.

pupils are out of town. Do, for a moment, remember what I was, and
tliink how humbled I must be to frame this supplication ; but it is
a child that petitions for a parent, and I know I have never forfeited
your esteem. In a few weeks, perhaps in a few days, my brother and
my mother will meet my poor father face to face. Oh ! that I could
be assured that reproach and bitterness for the past do not pass the
portals of the grave. Forgive me this, as you have already forgiven
me much. Alas ! I know too well that our misfortunes drew misfor-
tunes upon others. 1 was the unhappy but innocent cause of much
sorrow at the Grange ; but, oh ! do not refuse the last request that I
will ever make." The letter was blotted by tears.

Charles Adams was from home when it arrived, and his wife,
knowing the handwriting, and having made a resolution never to open
a letter " from that branch of the family," did not send it after her
husband, " lest it might tease him." Ten days elapsed before he
received it ; and when he did, he could not be content with writing, but
lost not a moment in hastening to the address. Irritated and dis-
appointed that what he really had done should have been so little
appreciated, when every hour of his life he was smarting in one way or
other from his exertions — broken-hearted at his daughter's blighted
health and happiness — angered by the reckless wildness of one nephew,
and what he believed was the idleness of another — and convinced that
Rosa's fearful step was owing to the pampering and mismanagement of
her foolish mother — Charles Adams satisfied himself that, as he did not
hear to the contrary from Mary, all things were going on well, or at
least not ill. He thought as little about them as he could ; but the
letter of his favourite niece spoke strongly to his heart, and in two
hours after his return home, he set forth for the London suburb from
whence the letter was dated.

" Is Miss Adams at home ? " inquired her uncle of a woman leaning
against the door of a miserable house.

" I don't know ; she went to the hospital this morning ; but I'm not
sure she's in ; it's the second pair back ; it's easy known, for the sob
has not ceased there these two nights ; some people do take on so — "

Charles Adams did not hear the concluding sentence, but sought

THE WISDOM or FORETHOUGHT. 369

the room ; tlje door would not close, and he heard a low sobbing
sound from within ; he paused, but his step had aroused the mourner
— " Come in, Mary — come in ; I know how it is," said a young voice ;
"he is dead; one grave for mother and son— one grave for mother
and son ! I see your shadow, dark as it is."

Charles Adams entered the room ; but his sudden appearance in
the twilight, and evidently not knowing him, overcame the girl, his
youngest niece, so much, that she screamed, and fell on her knees by
her mother's corpse. He called for lights, and was speedily obeyed,
for he put a piece of gold in the woman's hand; she turned it over, and
as she hastened from the room, muttered, " If this had come sooner,
she'd not have died of starvation or burdened the parish for a shroud ;
it's hard the rich can't look to their own."

Wlicn Mary returned, she was fearfully calm. " Xo, her broilier
was not dead," she said; "the young were longer dying than those
whom the world had worn out ; the young knew so little of the world,
they thought it hard to leave it ; " and she took off her bonnet, and sat
down ; and while her uncle explained why lie had not written, she
looked at him with eyes so fixed and cold, that he paused, hoping she
would speak, so painfid was their stony expression ; but she let him go
on, without oHering a word ; and when she stooped to adjust a portion
of the coarse ; ]>laiting of the shroud — that mockery of " the purple and
fine linen of living days" — her uncle saw that her hair, lur luxuriant
hair, was striped with white.

" There is no need for words now," she said at last ; " no need. I
thought you woidd have sent; she rcipiired but little — but very little;
the <luHt rublx'd from the gold she once had would have been riches : but
the little t,hv did retpiirc she had not, and so she died ; but that which
WfigliH heaviest ujM)n njy mind was her calling so continually on my
fitlier, to know nhi/ \\c had (Ksorted her; slu- attached no bl.tme
latterly to any one, only calle«l <lay and night ujmmi him. Oli ' it \\:\n
hard to bear — it wan very hard to lu-ar."

" I will M-nd a proper p4-r<ion in (he morning to arrange that she
may Ik- placed with my brother," nnid Charle*.

" No," reitumed .Mary, " let the parish bury her ; even its officers

3 »

370 WOMAN S TRIALS.

were kind ; and if you bury her, or they, it is still a pauper's funeral.
I see all these things clearly now; death, while it closes the eyes of
some, opens the eyes of others ; it has opened mine."

But why should I prolong this sad story. It is not the tale of one,
but of many. There are dozens, scores, hundreds of instances of the
same kind, arising from the same cause, in our broad islands. In the
lunatic asylum where that poor girl, even Mary Adams, has found
refuge during tlie past two years, there are many cases of insanity arising
from change of circumstances, where a fifty pounds' annual insurance
would have set such maddening distress at defiance. I know that her
brother died in the hospital within a few days ; and the pale sunken-
eyed girl, whose damp yellow hair and thin white hand are so eagerly
kissed by the gentle maniac when she visits her, month by month, is
the youngest, and, I believe, the last of her family, at least the last in
England. Oh, that those who foolishly boast that their actions only
aflect themselves, would look carefully abroad, and if they doubt what
I have faithfully told, examine into the causes which crowd the world
with cases even worse than I have liere recorded !

T II p; I) \ I I. Y (i ()\ i: i( N i< ss.

i I KV larly, every mnrnin;^, she passes our
; Kale ; Heldoin a minute later tliau a quarter
u before eij^lit. The cook at tin- pretty " lios-
lelry " «)f "tlic Hoop and Toy'" knew iliis so well,
' ^yi '''''•' "I"' **'• il't* kitchen clock hy "the younj^ Indy
in the cotta<;o l>onnet." I must pause to lament that
the old-f.ishioned wayside inn, as you see it here
piclure<l, exist* no longer: it has been swept nway by
the Itrick-and-mortar — that %n rapidly tlestroys nil relics of the past.
We used to boast that we resided in one of the most rural .'ind

372 woman's trials.

quaint districts in the neighbourhood of London ; we were so fond of
our green lanes — our hedge-rows, so thick and trim, through which
the most beautiful wild flowers wreathed and clustered, bordering the
footways leading by such prolonged " short cuts " from Fulham and
Chelsea to Brompton and Kensington. We were so proud of our old
houses! Among them were "Cromwell House" — tall and ghastly
as a ghost, cold and self-contained as the old Covenanter — alone in its
tangled grounds, to which the wayfarer could discern no entrance ;
" Burleigh House" — desecrated to be sure, modernized, and, as the
decorators' phrase goes, " beautified," and called Brompton Hall, but
once the veritable dwelling of the great Lord Burleigh; the preserved
relic of the " Queen's Elm," beneath which our royal Tiger-Queen
Elizabeth sheltered ; poor, erring, generous Nell Gwynne's house at
Sandy End ; a regular chapter of antiquities in Church Street and
Cheyne Walk ; and in the Fulham Road, the mansion where Locke
wrote and Shaftesbury resided ; in the quiet Palatine burying-ground,
the precious relic of Sir Thomas More's dwelling, close by the water-
garden where lie took boat on many a pleasant summer evening. I
cannot help thinking that we had good cause for pride; our neighbour-
hood was crowded with old records — in walls and ruins, and long
chimneys and high gables ; and in more recent times the Prince of
Wales (they say) often looked forth from a little abutting window
belonging to a narrow rambling tenement, where our good neighbour
the carpenter stores his chips. Moore, the poet, wrote some of his
most loving and lovely songs in an erect, unpoetical-looking house in
the Fulham Road, overlooking the nursery -grounds, nearly opposite
the new hospital ; and within a few doors of it, Curran breathed his
last ! To recur to more courtly matters — In the small parlour of
" The Grange," where Braliam lived and entertained so sumptuously —
the Prince of Wales and Mrs. Fitzherbert parted for the last time.

Our neighbourhood was rich in memorials — now it is only rich

in memories. The building mania has seized upon our lanes and
" chases." Where the "bird-catcher" warned off the birds from the
young grain, and the fields echoed the labourer's song, we hear the
"click" of the stonemason's trowel, and the monotonous "knock" of

THE DAILY GOVERNESS. 373

the persevering carpenter. "Essex House" has given place to small
tenements in brick and mortar; "Burleigh House" is stared out of
countenance by stucco and plaster ; " Shaftesbury House " is the refuge
of age and infancy — the nursery and hospital of St. George's parish ;
"The Grange" is multiplied into villas; Canning's house, where of
old the lovely Duchess of Gloucester resided, wlien the Gloucester
Road was called Flogmore Lane, is yielding foot by foot to the
ravages of " insect architecture," if we may so call the dry rot, by
which it is infected ; and, to speak last of our own small domestic
troubles, the back windows of an overgrown square, that has sprung
up like a mushroom in our bright "back field," are playing at bo-peep
through our taller trees, and looking down with contempt upon our
ancient mulberry — one of the few remaining, said to have been planted
by command of the first James, who desired to feed silkworms in his
" mild and sheltering park at Brompton."

But I must return to tl.e " Daily Governess."

All the winter we could tell her approach by the plashing of her
clogs, in the wet unrepaired piece of path at the corner, a standing
disgrace to our highway inspectors — I was going to write them "high-
waymen," for they take our rates and do not mend our ways. And
here she passes noiselessly, as our summer flowers grow ; but, like
them, neither unr)bservcd nor unremembered. IKr bonnet is a coarse
Dunstal)le ; within the Inst week, the moronc-coloured ribbands have
been replaced by those of rrt/)fHr; but they were both plainly put on.
The ruche beneath is ornamented with a very little wreath of ]>ale
primr<».ses ; the black veil is stdl worn ; but a parasol (not one of
thoHc fawn-coloured, baby-like fairy mushrooms of the present season,
hut a large, full-grown parasol, two years old at the very least), has
replaced the heavy, brown cotton uml)rt'll.i, «h()se weight her thin
wliile wrist seemed hardly able to sustain. The broiUnr on her collar
iH coarse, but the collar nits smoothly, and is very white ; her shawl —
what a usi-ful shawl it ban been! With the assistance of n boa she
iieemed to think it a HulHcient protection against last winter's cold,
and jet now, thrown a little open at the throat, and with the relief of
a white collar, how well it l.ioks I Her dress thru was Merino, now

374 woman's trials.

it is muslin-de-laine ; her boots are exchanged for strong prunella
slippers, fitting nicely ; and she generally rests a roll of music or one
or two books in the bend of the arm, the hand of which carries the
parasol. I must not forget her brown silk bag — what odds and ends
peep out of it at times, when 'tis over-full ; slireds of German wool ;
paper patterns ; netting, knotting, and knitting needles ; half-a-dozen
new pens, the nibs out, to avoid the risk of injury — or a round ruler ;
in short, let it be filled with what it will, the bag is never empty ; and
yet if you could only see the threadbare purse within, worn out, not
by money, but by time — three pennies worth of halfpence at one end,
and a silver foiu-pence and a shilling in the other — you would under-
stand that the daily governess is anything but rich. She is not,
strictly speaking, handsome, but she would be so, if the weight of
anxiety that presses upon her broad, polished brow were removed.
That countenance (the thoughtless would say) wants expression — it
wants variety of expression, but the prevailing one is that of pallid,
silent resignation ; her eyes have an earnest, gentle look, when they
raise the silken curtains that veil, not their brightness, but their
sadness ; and her smile, if a passer-by inquire the way, is as gentle
as her eyes. She is neither short nor tall, dark nor fair ; but her
cheek is pale, not the palor of absolute ill health, for she is fortunate
in being obliged to walk twice a-day through our still green and
cheerful hedge-rows ; it wears the hue of oppressed spirits. She is
young, and might be mirthful— if she were not a Daily Governess.

She knows enough to know, that if she had been taught a little
more of all, or of one, of the accomplishments she is obliged to teach,
she might command a higher salary; " finish young ladies," instead of
trud^jinc on with little children ; but her mother is an officer's widow,
and could not spend a great deal upon one, when she had three
children to educate and send into the world. She looks neither to
the right nor to the left, except perhaps to glance, when she gels
beyond the lane, at our church clock ; but she finds she has no need
to hasten her steps unless when her mother is ill — she is always in
time. Perhaps she casts a wistful eye towards (he bookseller's placard,
telling of her greatest luxury — a new book ; or at the linen draper's.

TIIK PAll-Y GOVERNESS. 375

with an undefined hope, tliat by the time she receives her next month's
salary she may seek a clieap Challis amongst his winter stock, now
selling off, that would do very well for summer ; dark colours are best
for the street ; ribbons do nut attract her; she has trimmed her bonnet,
and learnt the blessings that arise from thrift, not extravagance.

She reaches her destination, and knocks at the door, not with a
tremulous hand, for it is practised in such indications of her humble
arrival, but with the modest certainty that she will soon be admitted,
because she is wanted. The footman hears the sound, but does not
hurry to answer the daili/ iroccnicss : because he knows she is beloved
by the nurse-girl, on whom she smiles, and to whom she speaks kindly:
and the girl's home and parents are far in Cumberland. The daily
gorerness can appreciate even the nurse-girl's attention. The children
she has to instruct in this presuming mansion, are wayward and rude ;
but they are nevertheless affectionate, and would be what are called
" good," if they were properly managed "out of school hours;" as it
is, they have too much of their own way, and their mamma " rates "
the daily governess before tfuvi, for their faults.

" Miss Grey, you must be firm and detcruiined ; Gertrude com-
plains of her eyes. So, if you coidd manage to stay and teach her
lessons, after three, for about half an hour, to prevent her poring over
her l>ook, she could repeat them the next morning. Poor darling ! we
must take care of her eyes."

The doily tTorvnitss knows, if she perform this daily duly, she
will lose a music pupil, to whom she gives a lesson, commencing at
half-past three, for the sum of one and sixpence; but this family live
in a large house, and have promised to recommenil lur. The daily
governess must pay tlif usual slave-tribute for patroungc.

" Mi*s (irey, it will not do to tt-aeh djncing, without doing the
figureM yourncl/ very olU-n before the children."

" Mins Grey, .Mieia'H nIiouIiUth are growing round."

" Mini Grey, Alfreil muHt not ink his tuckers."

" .Miss Grey, |»oor little Louisn cannot fmi.Hh the Urn-»land ; pray
take it home and fnunh it for her."

l*t)or Misn Grey! her patirncr. gentlcnc«.s, and all she has really

376 WOMAN S TRIALS.

done to improve tliose cliiklren, remains unapproved ; but the faults of
her eleves rise trumpet-tongued against her, when in reality she is in no
way to blame ; the affections and tenderness which her gentle heart
yearns to bestow, is thrown back upon her. She is a daily governess !
What sympathies can they have in common ?

It was nine when she knocked at the door — it is now three. She
was asked to take something at one, and she had a morsel of bread
with a ijlass of milk and water. She remains with Miss Gertrude
until half-past three, and then walks half a mile farther to give an
eighteenpenny music lesson. She is in excellent spirits when it is
over, for they will wait the extra time, rather than change. She says
" they are very good." Why, the mother of the musical young lady
knows she could not get such another lesson from any other teacher for
less than half-a-crown. This is a busy day, it is half-past six, and the
daily governess has not yet returned.

She had another lesson to give in the same street — not a music
lesson, though the echo of " one, two, three," in her head seemed for
eternity, but to read English for an hour with a young French lady,
who met her at the door, kissed her on both cheeks, made her drink a
cup of coffee— real coffee — and eat a biscuit, and then sat patiently
" doing her translation " into such pretty non-descript English, that the
daily governess chid and smiled until a peal of merry and mingled
lausihter rana throu<ih the room ! but the iau'di was succeeded on the
part of the governess, by such weariness, that the kind foreigner would
have detained lier longer, not to read, but to rest, were it not that, she
told her, her mother would be uneasy ; and then the lady, with a
pretty air of mystery, opened her desk, and held up before her eyes a
concert ticket — a real concert ticket — for two ; it was to be her's, and
would enable her and her mother to go together the next evening,
which they would be sure to do, for to-morrow would not be a busy
day, and they could walk there very well, and leave their bonnets at
the entrance, or slide them off, and let tliem hang down by their sides
— "so" — no one would notice them. Oh, it would be such pleasure —
such dear pleasure ! to hear sweet music, and her mother was so fond
of music, her mother would enjoy it so much, she was very — very

THE DAILY GOVERNESS. 377

grateful. The French hidy regretted tliat tlie distance was so great.
The daily governess said, they would not mind that ; they were only a
mile and a half from Hyde Park corner — her mother coidd walk that
— and then an eightpenny drive would bring them to the concert-rooms.
Those fly-cabs were so respectable and convenient — it would be
charming; — she did not mind fatigue; and Miss Grey commenced her
return with a quick step and a flushed cheek. She thought, poor
thing ! though she had been teaching since nine, and it was now nearly
half-past six — she thought it had been a very happy day. As she
walked rather quickly, some impertinent fellows attempted to peep
under her bonnet ; but she poked the big parasol very low at that side,
and walked on ; if the attempt was repeated, lier cheek flushed, lier
heart beat more quickly, and her eyes filled with tears. Then, indeed,
she felt she had no one to protect her.

She stopped at a shop at Lowndes Terrace, where black silk and
white kid gloves are only a shilling a pair. Slie feared they were not
very good, not as good as at Challacombes', but then they were very
cheap, and she fidgelted her j)urse nearly out of the bag — then paused,
and considered a moment or two; — so much consideration for a single
shilling! Those only who work f(ir a sliilling know how necessary
it is to ponder how it should l)e spent. She looked through the
window at them — hesitated, and walkeil on ; perhaps she will wait till
her mother is with her, the following evening, and then she can choose
for her. JVhat her mother chooses, is always best. She has passed
our gate. She is evidently very much fatigued, her steps lag heavily ;
she lo<lges with her mother in that little cottage, for the benefit of the
soft pure air of goo<l old Itronipton. .And now you see the widow's cap
through the young stems ami leaves of the jessamine. The daily
f^ovcrncss (|uickt-ns her step ; — . she pulls from her bosom the concert
ticket ; and arter she ban received her mother's kiss — lufore her
mother')! hands can unli«' her l)onnet — she holds it up before her!
Oh, how very much a little drop of innon-nt pleasure swertrns the cup
of toil ! Drink nf it, long, and det-ply, it will not become bitter on the
tongue, nor evil to the heart.

A daily governcit has, at least, her evenings. Sometimes, not

378

WOMAN S TRIALS.

I often, a friend drops in. To-night our patient, good, industrious girl
has thrust her pretty swollen feet into her mother's easy shoes ; and
while the widow reads, or pours out their frugal tea, she is quilling, or
snipping, or arranging something white — a little finery for "to-morrow"
evenino'. And now the work and books are put by — the candle snuffed
— they read and pray — not long, but fervently, and then to bed, despite
the labour, which, fair reader, you shudder even to think upon. The
daily governess sleeps soundly, and will awake as sweet, as patient,
and as gentle— and it may be, a trifle more cheerful, — to-morrow, than
she was to-day.

Til !•: MOTH KR

OR once only I saw (ho Lady Elizahotli
Montapiio aiij^ry ; and tlii-n it appi-arcd
but n slij^lit tiling which excited her (hs-
pleasiire. She had been called t(i London on
some business of moment, and the housekeeper
took ndvantaj^e of the opportunity to (hist and
irranj^c tlie favourite sittinp-rooin. Tlie crimson
velvet curtains were withthawn from th<'ir gohh-n bands,
and the rich carpet, that had embedtUd in its hixuriancc
many a silk-clad foot, was sultjected lo the rude l>rushes
of two experienced housemaids. Nor was this all — the pictures were

380 woman's trials.

taken down ; and not a few spider's-webs dislodged from the gilt
cornice and the curious carvings of the frame-work that encircled the
apartment. In replacing the pictures, the housekeeper unfortunately
displaced two miniatures, which had hung the one over the other ; they
were portraits, so alike in age, features, colour, and size, that it
required a quick memory to call to mind that one of them had worn
powder: I have since learned, that the frame of the "powdered"
picture was of pure gold, that of the other only gilt. The one
represented a gentleman of some two or three and twenty years old, of
a handsome and gracious countenance, with deep blue eyes, and an
expanded brow. Perhaps there might have been a more daring look
portrayed in the features of the other ; but it may be that my imagina-
tion conjured up this character, after hearing the histories of both.
They had hung, as I have said, one above the other, in a little niche,
appropriated to them alone — and very pretty they looked — and so
thought the housekeeper, good soul I after she had re-arranged them.

" My lady will never know they have been touched," she said to
me ; " but, poor dear lady, I don't think she sees the dust as clearly as
she used forty years ago, when first she came here, the most beautiful
bride that ever the sun shone upon — it's a great blessing to have good
eye-sight ! and if I don't need it, nobody does, that has so many
trolloping hussies to look after. — But, as I live, here's my Lady's
carriage — well, if ever ! — but all's right — I guess I should have got it
if the miniatures had not been in their places."

And away hurried Mistress Margery Rolls, at the head of the
household, to welcome home her mistress. Presently I saw the Lady
Elizabeth descend the steps of her old-fashioned carriage. A footman,
upon whose arm she rested, remained uncovered as she entered the
great hall. I fancied her step was feeble ; yet it abated nothing of the
proud dignity of lier carriage — and, in another instant, her voice
sounded along the gallery leading to the crimson room, as her favourite
sitting-chamber was called. After exchanging a brief, but kind,
salutation, with one who believes she held much of the favour of this
extraordinary woman, her eye rested on the miniatures.

" Who has done this?" she inquired. " Who has presumed to do

THE MOTHER. 381

this ? " The housekeeper, trembling — for it was her lady's looks more
than her words that alarmed her — confessed something touching " dust
and dusting." Lady Elizabeth heeded nothing of her confession, but,
with her own hands, which vibrated with agitation to her finger's ends,
altered the position of the miniatures, placing the one with powder
above the other. Siie then left the apartment, and I did not see her
again until the hour of dinner.

There was something so elevated and noble in all the arrangements
of Montague House, that it invariably called up the visions of those
days, when the baronial hospitality of England formed the theme of
harp and song : the magnificent broad oaken staircase, dimly lighted by
deep arched windows of coloured glass ; the dense dull figures, that
seemed to smile grimly from their ancient frames as you descended or
ascended the polished stairs ; the long intricate galleries, Uading from
right to left, intersected wiiii nooks, and crossings, and passages, that
could not fail to perplex ; the superb hangings of the vaiious sleeping
apartments, that fiasheil ujjon you through the opening doors : some of
curiously wrought green velvet patterns, on a white satin ground, which
the tint of years had sobered, but not destroyed: others, of crimson,
lined with yellow, the draperies folding round the pillars of some
ancient bed, rich in »iiite and gold relief; tlu- ancient chapel, where
the devotions of the nol)le Montagues of many a by-gone century had
been strangely mingled with the pomps and vanities of this world : the
knee, it is true, knelt at the altar, but the hand and eye traced the
armorial bearings, in all their intricate and mysterious emblazonings, in
the very place where such bravery should be all forgotten ; the banner
an<l the flag hung mouldering from the walls ; and the moth foimd a
dwelling and a fea.st, within the time-honoured hassocks, where royalty,
if report .ipcaks true, ha«l often j)rayed ; then the superb, and yet
grave-hK)king, ro«mis, leading to each other, the wintlows opening into
n park, where wwmI and water, hill and dale, vied to take from England
its reprtKich of insipidity ; the towering walls, hung with the arts of
kin;;doin» ; the pure, and almost embodied, portraits of Vanilykc, Lilly,
Ileynolds, and the gentlemanly Lawrence, and the placid landscapes of
(Jainsborough, all claiming altenlion. and demanding tribute from the

382 woman's trials.

eye and heart ; the cold but magnificent sculpture, standing out, I had
almost said, in native grandeur, and rebuking, in its silent dignity, the
thoughts that wander to less holy things ; the library, stored to the very
ceiling with books, those moral treasures of the world, that would fain
teach us the sweets of wisdom without giving us to taste of the bitter
waters of experience — and then the troops of venerable domestics,
silent of foot and lip, attentive both with eye and ear.

The Lady Elizabeth herself — the great — the rich — the noble — or,
better still, as she was emphatically called by her people — the good
Lady Elizabeth, was in admirable keeping with Montague House. At
the time I tell of, she had completed her sixtieth birth-day. She was
tall of stature, and what her figure wanted in roundness, was concealed
by the ample folds of her black satin robe, Avhich opened down the
front, over a petticoat of the same material ; — her sleeves were confined
at the elbows, by cordons of bullion, and the lower portion was open
half-way up the arm, so that a full inner sleeve of most exquisite
cambric was seen descending to the hand, where it was terminated by
a frill of the richest lace; — her cap was ever of peculiar fashion; and
yet, from the fact of its being so adapted to her age and countenance,
it excited no observation, except in commendation of its fitness; it
was something shaped like the head-dress of Mary Stuart, but a band
of crimped crape encircled the under portion of her countenance ; —
her own hair, of a perfect whiteness, separated over a high but
wrinkled brow, and she wore no ornament, except a cliain of the
finest gold, united at intervals by stars of diamonds, rivalling all I
had ever seen in brilliancy and quality. It was a noble sight to see
that aged lady rise from the head of her table, after dealing forth
hospitality to some of the greatest in the land, and sweep through
troops of ancient servitors, accompanied by youth, and love, and
beauty, across her marble and golden halls — the dispenser of good
and of happiness to all around her.

You ask, " Was not she happy? '

" She was a widow — and childless ! "

* * * * *

m * * * * *

THE MOTHER. 383

" You now know, " continued Lady Elizabeth, " wliy I replaced
the miniatures : and this manuscript will convince you that, as all is
not gold that glitters, so all is not happiness that smiles. You say,
you thought me the most enviable person you ever knew ; — decide if
such be the case, when you liave read what I have written. But
never look upon human nature without calling to mind a beautiful
fable, tlie spirit of which I remember, though its words have escaped
my memory. Jupiter once gave permission to a number of repining
mortals to lay down their troul)les, provided they agreed to bear,
each, the misfortune of his neighbour: to this they joyfully consented;
but, when they came to weigh and consider the nature of the new
burdens they begged that Jove would permit them to resume their
own. — Lady Elizabeth Montague," continued tlie lady, " never intends
to appear before the world as the author of her own life ; but you are
a professed studier of human nature — it is the book you love to read
— and, if not read deeply, it is a (juestion with me, whether it ought
to be perused at all. I have written all I suffered— and much that I
thought — during a long half-century. I should have suffered less, had
I not inherited, with vast possessions, the distinguishing characteristic
of my race" — the old lady drew herself up with the dignity of an
empress, who would use earth as a footstool — "I was proi^d!"

I saw that pride had indeed be«;n her besetting sin, for there was
a feeling of unequalled pride in tin- confession ; and Iiardly knowing
wliat to say, I obsi-rvod, *' It was the sin by which angels fell." Lady
Elizabeth turned the light of her flashing eye upon me; for a moment
it gl«-amcd with unusual brightness, and a smile of mingled scorn and
triumph fliltt-d over her aristocratic (ratures ; l)ui the flashing of her
eye quenched within its own deep socket, and the smile faded, as
pressing my arm witli her long thin fmgers, she replied, '* And the sin
by which devils triumphed."

The manuHcript was wriUrn in a fair Italian hand — stiffand lormal ;
but exact and equal in its proportions. I perused it to the end with
an interest which only the real occurrences of life can excite.

• •••••

" I was the sole child of a proud and nol)le family, branches of

384 woman's trials.

which liad intermarried, at different periods, not only into many royal
continental families, but had mingled hand and blood with the Tudors,
the Plantagcnets, and the unfortmiate house of Stuart. My mother
never forgave either herself or me for that I was born a female, when
a heir was so much more desired: but, my father! — my beloved father
loved me for myself — and he loved me, too, because, unlike my mother,
I delighted in the pursuits he cherished.

" My mother's pride was of the abstract and more narrow kind ;
it was a small weak pride — she was charmed at being a countess, and
vexed because, if her husband died, I could not be an earl ; but that
was all. She had wedded my father for the distinction of a coronet,
and he selected her because she was pretty, and belonged to a family
which, in the time of the Tudors, had been connected with ours ;
consequently, my father's honour was concerned in keeping up the
dignity of his relatives. I was fashioned according to the habits of
the young ladies of my time, but readily gave in to my father's love of
heraldry and history.

" When I was fifteen, my mother died, and I sorrowed for her,
more because England had lost a countess, than that I had been
deprived of a parent. I thought it was dreadful that we should be
subjected to a shroud — a pall — a coffin ! And more than once the
question was debated within my own mind, whether my mother was a
countess in the spirit world ; if she was not, I felt assured she would
be very miserable. It must not be inferred from this, that I was
ignorant of the grand points and principles of Christianity. Religion,
the established religion of England, was a portion of our prerogative :
the chaplain read prayers daily in our ancient and beautiful chapel,
and said grace after meals, with a correctness which, in due time,
entitled him to a rectory ; when another succeeded, who performed
equally well the duties of his station. A young heiress of sixteen is
seldom given to theological controversy ; I had every reason to be
happy and satisfied with the dispensation of good — I knew of no evil
— for my father had a bountiful hand and a liberal heart, and there
was neither poverty nor want within our towns or villages. We
passed among our people, and blessings greeted us on every side.

THi: MOTHER. 885

To the poor he was ever condescending — they were his equals and
his superiors who called him proud. Once only, during his life-time,
I went to Court ; and though my wealth, and what was deemed my
beauty, created a great sensation, and the nobles of the land vied for
the heiress of Montague, yet we returned within a month to our
country halls. The truth is, he was not there lord paramount, — in a
Court crowded witli men of equal rank, and doubtless better skilled
as courtiers; he could not exist without the homage of the lip — he
missed the salutations and the deserved blessings of his tenants — and,
having trained me in a strange mixture of pride and usefulness, he
expected that I was to be totally unmindful of the adulations and
attentions which have so many charms for a young, and not unhand-
some woman.

" Offer after offer was rejected, either by my fatlicr or myself.
I liked to feel my power over hearts as well as acres ; and, 1 confess,
I gloried not a little in my triumphs. Yet was I neither a flirt nor a
coquette. I was too well principled I'di- the former — too proud to
condescend to the latter ; and, at one-and-twenty 1 remained in a state
of sin<'le blessedness.

"On the day I came of age, my cousin, Edward Montague, arrived
at Montague House. He had been abroad for many years, and we
had not met since my days of childhood. It was in the carved hall
that the dance and the festa was prepared to do me honour. I sat
on an elevated seat at the upper end, surroimded by six young ladies
of the first families in the county, who had requested pcrnnssion to
act as my atti-ndants. Tiny were dressed in the costume of the Court
of Louis the l-'ourleenth, the period chosen by me as best calculated
to display the gorgi-ous and brilliant jewels of our house. A tiara of
diamonds sparkh-d on my brow ; my zone and armlets were of the
name fashion and <piality ; and tassels of the finest gold, » nrielie<l with
gems, de»cende«l from the zone to my feet. Children, habiled as the
slavcf of eastern lanils, moved about the room, flinging incense from
their goldon censers, and presenting the most «Mlorou8 flowers to our
guests. From Inliind a curtain of thin crimson sdk, at the bark of
tin- orchestra, jM>ured forth a floo<l of liglit which enchante<l every

a n

38G woman's trials.

eye; while the liarpists, and players on the most exquisite instruments,
appropriately dressed, appeared as if amid clouds tinted with the
most delicate luies of the rainbow. It was, in truth, a gorgeous
scene, and one I still love to think upon ; for tliere, elated by the
homage of hundreds of friends — (friends ! ?) — ray father presented my
cousin, Edward Montague, to my remembrance. He had passed, as
I have said, many years abroad, and, I knew, had been received with
flattering distinctions at almost all the European courts. His person
was everywhere admired, but his learning and chivalrous honour
claimed from all the highest consideration. From the moment he
first entered, I felt anxious to gain his good opinion, a feeling I had
never known before ; for it appeared to me as if I had inherited the
suffrages of all mankind. ' And so,' he said ' you are really my
little cousin, Elizabeth. Lady Elizabetli — I remember, you were
always too stately as a child to play; now, doubtless, you are too
stately as a woman to smile.

" ' The lady spares her smiles, in pity to her slaves,' said one of my
flatterers.

" I shall never forget the look of contempt thrown by my cousin
on the speaker ; I thought it perfectly uncalled for — indeed, I won-
dered how any one could feel displeasure in my presence. I spoke
to Edward of the ladies of Italy — he praised their grace, their noble
yet gentle manners ; of the ladies of France — he commended their
sprightliness and freedom from affectation ; of the German ladies —
he told of their good sense and matronly habits, of their prudence
and homely virtues. Had I talked of the Esquimaux, he would
have found something to approve ; and yet — he approved not me.
It was evident that he debated, within his own mind, whether my
jewels or myself deserved the most admiration — his eye glanced
coldly over both ; and he spoke, notwithstanding the festivity, in
a voice which fell sadly, yet sweetly, on my ear.

" I thought the halls and the company less and less brilliant as
the evening advanced ; heaviness came over all — the lights seemed
dim unto mine eyes — the music tuneless to my ears. I sought,
eagerly and earnestly, for his approbation, but he gave it not. I went

THE MOTHER. 387

dispirited to my chamber ; and, as my maids unclasped the coronet
from my brows, I remembered the text of Scripture : it was —

"'All is vanity and vexation of spirit.'

" How often since havt- I proved its truth ! Days and weeks
passed, and Edward remained our guest, often annoying the heiress
of Montague by claiming her respect— a troublesome feeling to one
who demanded homasje from all the world. I was seated one morninfj
in the embrasure of one of the library windows, when Edward,
accompanied by his favourite friend. Sir Frederick Monson, entered,
deeply engaged in conversation. The first sentence nailed me to my
scat — I had no power either to move or speak. It was the voice of
Sir Frederick.

"'I only wish Lady Elizabtth paid nie half the attention she
does you — I should need no further encouragement.'

"How the blood mounted to my cheeks! my tem])les throbbed
intensely ; and I fancied they must have heard the beating of my
heart.

"'You are wrong, Sir Frederick,' replied my cousin, 'you are
very wrong ; the Lady Elizabeth regards herself too much to think
of any other human being, eitlu-r in the way of alfection or ad-
miration. Charitable she is, from her love of patronage ; beauty she
possesses in a dangerous degree ; wit, and much nobleness of soul,
are hers ; but all— all overgrown by the rankest pride that ever had
root in woman's heart I'

"'The greater, then, your triumph, fair gentleman, who have
con(|uered it.'

"'I dt-ny that I have done so; 1 tlislulieve the possiliility *>f
such a triumph : but, even if it were the ease, could any free-born
m:in submit to her caprices ? No, no? — for n gentle, a true, woman,
I could live and die ; and, were Elixabeth poor, and a trifle hinnble,
with thai elevated soul, that exquisite beauty, and my own small
but inde|H-nilent fortune, I woidd lln-n act — with a diflerence. .NLirry,
she may — nn emprror, if she can get liim — but there is no r(H»m in
her heart for l(»ve. Why, every day, she sits at dinner a moving mass
of jewels.'

388 woman's trials.

" That day I made my appearance with a white rose only in
my hair, and Edward comph'mented me for the first time. I resolved
to attempt a conquest, simply because I thought myself scorned,
and was determined to be victorious. I discovered, ere many weeks,
that I had absolutely rivetted chains around my own heart, instead
of enchaining another. Bitter was my anguish ; my proud heart felt
crushed within me. If I could have discovered that he regarded me
with the least affection, I should have been satisfied ; but thus to be
won unsought! — it was a dagger planted — rankling — festering — in my
bosom. Bitterly did I weep over what I considered a degradation ;
when the sudden and unanticipated death of my beloved parent
brought to light, that I had both a friend and lover in my cousin
Edward. . . . Enough of this. We were married when two
years of mourning for my father had expired. Married ! — what an
infinity of meaning is comprised in these three little syllables — what a
quantity of hope and fear, of happiness or misery, do they imply !
My husband was a Montague, so that the honours of our house
remained fresh as ever ; he was one, too, who rather increased than
diminished the very quality he so earnestly condemned ; for I was
more proud of Edward Montague than of either my riches or my
ancestry. I felt myself elevated, indeed, in the scale of moral
existence, when honoured by his love ; and well I might, for a more
noble, a more glorious creature never lived : he dwelt upon the earth
without being contaminated by its baseness ; his mind was a treasure-
house, filled with all that was admirable in ancient or modern times ;
and his knowledge was blended with a taste so refined, yet so true,
that it consecrated whatever it arranged. Nor was this all : his
temper was of so gentle a nature that the lamb might lick his hand,
and ringdoves nestle in his bosom ; yet, being justly angered, he
carried himself with such veritable bravery, that his enemies (if,
indeed, he had any) would quail beneath the lightning of his deep
blue eye. With what a holy, yet decided, spirit would he reprove
my faults, teaching me humility by his own example, and the wisdom
of holiness by his own life ! Obedience to him was no task : I
looked — and looked — and loved ; loved! — that is too cold a phrase —

THE MOTHER. 389

may God forgive me for it — I worsliipped ! — worshipped my husband
as devoutly as ever I worshipped my Creator ! Hitherto, happiness
had fenced me in on every side ; tl)e little I had suffered rendered
my blessings all the brighter, and still my joyfulness increased — for I
became a mother!

" Poets have written, and may write— write on for ever— but they
never can portray, never convey even an idea, to those who have not
experienced them, what a mother's feelings are at the first faint cry of
her first-born child ! the creature of her love — the cause of her late
agony — breathes — lives; the infant's feeble wail is as the trumpet of
hope sounding to her heart, of days — months— ages — of happiness.
She looks on the faint tracery of its features, and discovers a beauty
seen by no other eye ; she trembles lest her embrace of love should
injure its delicate limbs ; she places it on her husband's bosom, and,
if she never prayed before, she prays then ; what she prays she hardly
knows, but the Almighty hears, and notes her petition ; and my
belief is, that, if fitting, it is always granted at such an hour. O that
a woman's prayer was ever — 'Lord, this babe is thine I do thou
what is best ami meetest for it !' Such is the prayer of the humble
and believing Christian— such was my husband's prayer — but such,
I fear me, was not mine.

" Our boy grew ; and another child came— a little delicate girl,
*vho was enveloped in cotton, and sheltered even from the sunmier
air ; — but she, too, lived, and danced after butterflies on our shaven
lawn, and wa.s a sweet, soft, silent thing ; yet, when she tossed her
yellow hair from off her small and lovely fealun-s, it was as if a
gleaui of HuiLshine sparkU-d, tiu-n nitt«-d front your sight. A proud
woman exults in her sons, but a tender father loveth best the imploring
wrakness of a delicate girl. She is a renewal of the poetry of his
youth — a sort of living dream — shadowy and trembling like a moon-
beam — which he may wake and lose in a brief moment ;— and, my
Otympia was loHt ! In the morning she had played at our feet with her
brother— hIic ha<l chased the shadows over the green turf— hIu- had
watched the bee collecting honey for its cell, and had strewed the
■wcetest ilowiTs in its path, that, as she said, 'it might not work so

390 woman's trials.

hard' — she Iiad done all this, and her father noted, that her voice
sounded more of joy, in its quiet laughter, than it had ever done
before. That night his beloved, his cherished one, was a cold corpse —
she sickened and died within a few short hours. My husband sat witli
her on his knees in tearless agony — for me, I wept. You see me stern,
severe, and cold — sorrow has hung its icicles on my heart. Ay, despite
our golden pageantry, grim Death will come — 'tis a sad truth for those
who live on gold ; and even now, I love not much to think of it —
and why ? There is another text which I remember —

" ' Tt is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle,
than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.'

" If God had taken all my purpled state, I think I could have
borne it ; my heart might have rebelled, but my lips would not have
murmured — would not, as they have done, have disturbed the night
from its allegiance to repose. Great was my pride, and great has been
my penalty. Yet, still I ask — "

Here a considerable quantity of the manuscript was effaced ; and,
if I noted right, the paper was blistered by tears. What would she
have asked ? I longed — but dreaded to inquire. I fear me 'twas not
mercy ; for, though she liad quailed, she had not sunk, before sorrow ;
and her lofty carriage, her proud, yet generous conduct, and, above all,
the quick rich glance of her eagle eye, recorded a spirit glorying in
earthly dominion. With how blind a zeal do we carve out our own
misery, magnifying, by a singular and pernicious effort of human
skill, the trials of a sensitive imagination into the real miseries of
life ! The trials and troubles of this golden lady were not, however,
imaginary — they were real,

I continued.

" For some time previous to the loss of my little girl, I had
observed, with breathless anxiety, a sort of morbid, dreamy habit,
in which my husband seemed often to indulge. It was too restless

THE MOTHER. 391

to be calkil nielanclioly— too intense to be disturbed witliout consider-
able care. I have sat for hours together, watching his eyes fixed on
vacancy, and his lips moving occasionally in abstracted motion : at
such times, I have recalled his attention by singing, at first in a low
tone, snatches of his favourite songs ; sometimes a sentiment appeared
to rivet his attention,— at another period it was the melody that re-
called his wandering thoughts. I would often inquire what he had
been thinking of; but he invariably parried my question, and atoned
for his inattention by redoubled vivacity — a vivacity which I well knew
was foreign to his nature. My blessed husband ! Years and years
have passed ; many of unutterable happiness, a greater number of
intense misery— misery which the shining of my jewelled state increased
a thousand-fi)ld ; for obscurity would have softened and concealed my
sorrow, but the glare and the glitter of situation held it up, as a light
set upon a hill, to illumine the humble as to the wretchedness of rank.
Years have, indeed, passed ; and my hair is grey, my step feeble, my
eyes have melted their lustre into tears ; and I am an aged woman,
tottering on the brink of my ancestors' vaulted graves! Yet, Edward,
thou art with me still I In the deep hours of midnight I listen to thy
counsel ; thy shadow comes before mc in all the beauty of feeling and
! expression; the reproofs so wisely timed that, even to my proud ears,
i they sounded more like praise than censure; the gentle firmness,
j blending the husband and the friend in one ; the quiet eye— I see it
i now as when in life— so still, and yet so dignified ! Never does a
proud tlntught grow into action, or a scornful word rise to my lip, that
his eye comes not upon me ; and its behest is done— for the action is
' repented of— the word suppressrd !

" Have mercy, Heavin I those are the rinu'ml)ran(ts of my earlier
' days ; but there are others of far ililVerent import. I nineniber after
Olympia's death, ho*v Ills nl)straction increased, until — b«il the records,
the pul)lic papt-rs, ihone chartered chroniclers of whatever chances of
evil — ihcy told the news!— they surmised upon it — the court chattered
of it — the mcmlHTu of the house that had often rung with acclamations,
an his fine voice, rolling like a IIckmI of light, dispersed the mista fr«)m
their nonds, and sent conviction to their stubborn hearts— the very

392 woman's trials.

members of that house had learned to prate of him as ' poor Edward
Montague ! ' I could not understand how it was — but the Almighty
had taken the soul before the body had yielded to corruption.

*' He knew me not — my husband looked into in^j face and did not
Jcnow me — he did not know his own child ! I could have borne the
revilings, the wildness, of a madman ; but the helpless, hopeless — Alas!
alas ! that ever I was born !

*******

" My son — I lived for him ! Time was gaining upon him, as upon
us all ; but as yet he had the advantage of the destroyer — he distanced
him in the race, for his intellects were far beyond his age : his beauty !
— but it was enough for me that he was like his father ; he was in every
respect— in almost every respect — all that I could desire; and, with all
the devotedness of a mother, I looked forward to what he would be
hereafter ; the staff of a noble house, the observed of all observers. I
did perpetual violence to my own feelings, by endeavouring to nip
every bud that promised a blossom of pride ; for, though my husband
had restrained the haughtiness of my nature, and though. Heaven
knows, he was himself a living illustration of what may chance to the
best and greatest, yet I cannot now deceive myself into the belief that
restraint is conquest ; and my poor boy inherited, to the full, his
mother's pride ! His temper was violent in the extreme ; and, with
his father's affliction ever before mine eyes, I yielded to, rather than
opposed, his paroxysms of rage. I dreaded lest I might, by contra-
diction, bring forward some dormant malady that would, a second
time, destroy my hopes of everything like happiness. Time ! that bane
and blessing of existence — that purveyor of good and evil, softened
much of the agony I at first endured ; it taught me patience. My
husband never left his own dwelling ; a separate wing of Montague
House was appropriated to his sole use ; and, though he did not know
me, he was evidently pleased and comforted by my attentions. His
wanderings ! — I will not stamp upon this silent paper : the wanderings
of a maniac should be as sacred a deposit with a wife as her husband's
faults ; a woman forgets rvhat is due to herself when she condescends to
that refuge of weakness— a confidant : a wife's bosom should be the

tomb of her husband's faiUngs, and his character far more valuable, in
her estimation, than his life. If this be not the case, she pollutes her

marriage vow.

" I have said that time softened my sorrow — it did more — it created
new hopes. At Harrow, my son carried all before him — his abilities
were acknowledged my masters and pupils ; but, with all my partiality,
I saw that his temper, instead of being improved, had acquired strength
by frequent victory.

" The heir of forty thousand a-year is seldom kept in order at a
public school, except by a lad who has fifty in prospective.

" I learned that my son had constantly conquered ; that he had
been first of the first ; tliat, in mind, he was witiiout a competitor, and
that he had distanced all his compeers in manly and atldetic exercises.
Previous to his going to Oxford, it was determined that he should
spend some months at home ; tlie truth was, I feared that his health
might suffer from continued application, and I wished also to scan more
distinctly into his character.

" My fears were soon aroused, and my perceptions (juiekened.

"Of his classical attainments I was no competent judge; but,
certainly, extreme quickness ofken, too often, I iliotight, superseded
the necessity f»r study. He wrote verses with great facility; but I
saw, with feelings that cannot be described, that his models were
the most licentious of our English poets. Of his taste for what he
termed 'old English sports,' he gave sulHcient proof, by living more in
the teimis-court and stal)les thnn in flu- liliiaiy or drawing-room. lie
heard mr reprove and reason, reason and reprove, with tolerable
paliencf ; liut, when I k<'pt him longer than lu" deemed necessary,
there grew a wild impatience in his eye that made me shudder and
be Rilent.

** ' Kalph !' I iieard him say, one evening, to iiis favourite companion,
after I had endeavoured to convince him of the necessity for closer
study, and oxtorlc<l sometliing like a promise of obedience to my
request, ' Kalph, ilo you know how I silence I.ady I'-lizabelh ? / tip her
till- vmdmnn* rijr — to — and she turnit quite pale.''

" Merciful heavens I was it poH<iibh' that my son could jest at his

.') K

304 woman's trials.

father's infirmity — could make sport of his mother's feelings! I knew
not what to do or what to say. Was this indeed my son — my first-
born — my only one — him on whom I had poured out the full torrent
of maternal affection — the being of my dreams — the son of him who
was all benevolence and honourable deeds, who abhorred deceit, and
scorned all things unworthy! Alfred's extravagance and utter heedless-
ness I little thought of, for I entertained the opinion, that they are the
strongest and noblest trees which require the most pruning — but the
expedient, to rid himself of my reproofs by such a means ! — When, in
the twilight of that same evening, I sat gazing from hour to hour upon
my poor senseless husband, who, silently and with folded arms, paced
up and down the long verandah, which I had built to enable him to
exercise in all weathers; when I marked his eye, still exquisite in form,
but mantled by the dread disease, shorn of its beams, yet looking
towards the heavens, and pointing with childish glee to the stars as,
one by one, they left their mysterious caverns and paced the paths
allotted to them by the great Architect of all immensity ; when, I say,
I looked at that human wreck, I trembled — I shuddered to think upon
the frail bark about to launch on the ocean of public life.

My husband had been struck by Heaven ; but my son ! — I dreaded
he would fall by earthly means — become contaminated by the low and
base, the prey of designing sharpers and knaves. Feeling, I was but
too well convinced, he lacked ; and I doubted his principles — I feared
their stability ; I dreaded that those born of noble parents were subject
to the self-same vices as those in less exalted spheres ; and, thoroughly
alive to the belief that the disgrace of the child is the completion of a
parent's misery, no matter what her foi-mer trials may have been, I
prayed, while drops of agony burst upon my brow, that I might be
spared the dreadful results that would arise if my son should be
unworthy of his name. I brooded in silence over the disappointment
which I already felt ; I mixed still less in society, and restrained my
son, perhaps too much, from the sports and company of youths of bis
own age : — perhaps, had I yielded on minor points, and indulged him
in' trifles, he might not have run so restive in matters of greater
consequence. I was mortified that a Montague should require the

THE MOTHER, 395

same pastime as a Jones or a Jolinson ; I thought of the proud days of
my own youth, and, soured rather than humbled by the trials I had
experienced, I made but small allowance for the difterence between a
girl and boy, and, I fear me, too Itttle for the deteriorating influence of
the times. The people now-a-days look upon nobility as a thir)g to be
talked with — used and abused — as if it were of themselves ; and though
my son's pride eflectually prevented him from entering into this belief,
it was of tlie spurious kind that too frequently mistakes insolence for
dignity ; so that I was often as much shocked at his assumption of
greatness, where it was uncalled for, as at his want of it where it was
necessary to his state.

" He went to Oxford ; and I was richly complimented on my son's
beauty, wit, and talent. I was told that he excelled in the (lualifica-
tious so necessary for a true gentleman ; and I resolved to supply him
liberally with money, and such advice as I could ofler. The knowledge
of his faults was locked within my own bosom ; and ihi- world — our
world — were loud in their applause. Mothers, rich and titled ones,
told me that they envied my happiness in having such a son. In tlie
masquerade of life, how little we know of what we do envy !

'• It was a (|uiit, still evening, and I had retired to my chamber,
after being as usual with my husband, until the hour when he went to
rest. In two months more my son would be of age ; and I looked
forward to the time with an anxiety in which none but mothers can
sympaihi/.e. I knew that he had cultivated his oratorical talents with
more than usual care ; and, despite his faults, it was impossible to look
uj)on his youthful demeanour without feelings of admiration. .My
thoughts pasHed rapidly over my former years ; and, though I dreamed
not of happinesH, I dreamed of triumph. Again I triumphi'd in my
son, — but my dream was disturbed at its eonunencement, — for .Alfred,
flushed with wine, and under strong excitement, rushed, unannoimced,
into my chamber.

" ' MotlM'r!' he exclaimctl ; * mother, I mu.<jt have money. Money,
and instantly, for here I cannot stay ! ' I looked on him, over-

39G woman's trials.

come by terror and anxiety, while he reiterated his demand for
money.

" Why, — why need I dwell upon it? I discovered he had gambled.
Again and again liad he indulged in this dreadful propensity. The
sums — the enormous sums — forwarded to Oxford for his authorized
wants and desires, had been squandered away in pi'ofligate company.
And then he came before me, reiterating his demand for money. He
had been publicly arrested by a tradesman ; and not only that, but

scorned and scouted by his oldest companions for ; but he

deserved it all — all — not only for his want of conduct, but his want of
candour. He placed no confidence in me, — me — his mother, who
would have died to secure his honour ; and now I was indebted to cir-
cumstances, not to himself, for the disclosure of his disgrace — disgrace!
— black and bitter disgrace ! But he did not feel it — that was but too
evident. — He talked of his coming of age putting an end to his
difficulties — rendering everything smooth — preventing his affairs
spreading ; and passed from purpose to purpose, from scheme to
scheme, with a terrific rapidity. I saw that no time was to be lost. I
found he had already been in the hands of money-lenders ; and that
even now he would have resorted to them, had it not been impossible
for him to raise fresh funds without my consent. But I cared nothing
for the paltry gold. Of what value was it to me ? And though
the sum necessary was tremendous, I would have increased it ten-fold,
to prevent the possibility of the distress of a Montague gaining the
public ear.

" The next morning the following paragraph met my eye in a
conspicuous part of a fasliionable journal : —

" ' We understand that a certain scion of a noble house has been
coolly looked upon at Oxford, as not fulfilling his pecuniary engage-
ments, and neglecting his debts of honour. We regret this, more
particularly, as we know it is his intention to start for the County
after his coming of age. And we would remind those who are most
severe in their animadversions on the gentleman in question, that there
viay he, — we do not say there is, we only say there may he, — a cause
for his eccentricities, which we should deeply regret.'

THE MOTHER. 397

" Here followed immediately, but apparently without connexion,
another paragraph : —

" ' We hear the Hon. E. Montague continues in excellent bodily
health: this, under existing circumstances, is hardly to be desired.'

" O for the obscurity of Smiths, and Brownes, and Bungays! Who
would have observed their 'eccentricities,' or cared for their 'existing
circumstances,' or taken the pains to pen a paragraph to enlighten the
world on their movements ? But the vulgar love to hear and tell
some new thing respecting the 'nobility;' — they gape for, and swallow,
all the falsehoods put forth as facts, of their frailties and tluir habits ;
and whoever invents most, is, consequently, the most popular.

" How my heart bled at this fresh wound, and the tearing open of
the old and rankling sore ! Merciful Heaven ! how many wounds are
inflicted on a proud heart, which the humble-minded can never under-
stand !

" I wished — yet dreaded — that my son should see this reference to
him. I afterwards learned that he had seen it, and laughed it to scorn.

" Whatevir I might endure from repeated disappointments, I kept
my feelings to myself. How have I prayed that my husband had been
spared, to direct by his wisdom, and render virtue still more lovely by
example! How have I regretted my poor buried girl ! Alas I alas!
I felt more di-eply every hour of my existence, the force of that text,
which, like a knell, often rang mournfully on my heart — ' All is vanity
and vexation of spirit.' Yet I clung to it — to the pomp, and jiageantry,
and state. I cliuig to it, proudly — earnestly; and, throwing aside my
retired habits, I resolvetl to celebrate n)y son's coming of age wiih
fcHtivities ; not at Montague House, for I could not support the idea
of mirth and music in those halls where the p(H)r maniac w;uidercd !
He, whosi- lamp once shone so brightly; it would have I)ei'n an insult
to hi.H alHiction to bring festivity within his dwelling. And yet it was
necessary ; no Montague, for centuries, had come of age lUisung,
uncelebrated. And the idea of such an event being unrecorded,
woidd have confirmed nil the reports circulated, — and circulated but
too truly, to his disadvantagr. Totally reckle».s of what was said or
thought, for nearly n mouth previous he was busiecl in arranging a

398 woman's trials.

series of fetes and amusements for his birth-day : and I endeavoured
to enter into those plans, and to argue myself into the belief, that now
he would see the error of his ways, become careful of his society, and
do as much credit to his name, by deeds of honour and charity, as his
manners and personal beauty did to his descent. — It was a fallacious
hope !

" At Alfred Park, another of our estates, were assembled the
descendants of, as well as numbers of those, who, on a former
occasion — then many years passed — assembled to celebrate my age
of womanhood. Some I had not seen for years ; and sufficient of
woman's vanity rested round my heart to make me feel a hope that
I was not so changed — so very much changed — as many I observed
around me.

" We are so apt to compare ourselves with what we were a month
— a week ago, that time works its furrows without our heeding its
progress.

" The dinner, and its attendant ball — a hal masque, — passed off

with much noise and ; but I was not calculated to judge of its

effects. My son spoke and acquitted himself so well, that while
listening to the music of his voice — while contemplating the grace of
his movements, the dignity of his address, and the purity, both in
style and sentiment, of his eloquence — I forgot all — every thing —
except that he was my son.

" Agreeably to a determination I had formed, of never sleeping
from under the same roof that canopied, what I may too truly call my
husband's remains, I got into my carriage as the morning dawned ;
and, just as tlie horses were setting off, a letter was thrown in at the
window, which — God help me ! — I read by the light of the blessed
sun, before it was half risen.

" At the very time when the veins on my forehead were swelled
to intense torture by the perusal of that unfortunate paper, tlie elite
of tliree counties were discussing — my jewels — my equipage — and my
happiness ! I laughed convulsively as this thought crossed my mind ;
for I saw the impression my son had made on all, by the grace and
suavity of his manners. Even those (and they were not a few) who

THE MOTHER. 399

had come prepared lo dislike him, went away convinced, that 'report'
was a false liar, and that Alfred Montague was worthy of his name!
I knew all this — and more. I knew that Alfred Montague was — what
I dare not write — what I dare not, even now, though the grave has
closed over my child ; and though the fair hand that, urged both by
destitution and despair, traced those faint lines to me, in her extreme
necessity, is a crumbling skeleton in the consecrated ground, wliich
my charity, not his justice, bestowed — I dare not, though they are all
gone, think upon what I read that morning, while the beams of the
rising sun pried through my crimson blinds ! O, who would wish to
be a mother, if they knew a mother's trials ! But the worst was yet
to come ! I had to endure the laugh of contempt — the sneer — when
I repeated to him the tale of distress created by his own depravity.
I had to listen to the defence of a heartless libertine, and that liber-
tine — my own son. I was forced, by my love of justice and of mercy,
to visit the victim of his sin, to catch the last faint sighs of her
departing breath, and to hear hi-r pray — poor girl — that God would
bless her destroyer, and save him from the wrath to come!

" Her devotion, her nol)le sentiments, her Christian fortitude, her
pure charity, her freedom from selfishness, rendered her, in my esti-
mation— pof)r pale departing flower that she was — fit mate for any
noble in the land. Deception visits not the couch of death ; it is no
place for a bland smile — no refuge for pride — no temple for extrava-
gance ; there is a stern reality in the silent slnnilK^r, a truth in the
sobbing breath ; the pall may be of silver or of serge, but death, the
name death, is beneath both. My little girl departed in a quiet sleep,
an<I woke in heaven. lUit this woman was in the blossom of her
iK-auty and her y«)uth ; and, though the spirit m.iy bend to the decrees
of the Almighty, yet the flesh will battle with the destroying angel —
will struggle in his grasp. I witnessed her convulsions and her death!
It was n Ainall, a wretched r(M)m, an«l she was nearlv starved ; and I
.saw /lis last letter ; it lay M/)<»n her heart ; and, cruel as it was, she

kissed it, ere she died. Ami in it he advised ! Now may the

r<<>rd forgive him, for it was n foul insult lo the faithful dovv, who had
Irlt her parents' lionie, and braved the world, for him !

400 woman's trials.

" The cliurch clock of the neighbouring village struck nine. At
this same hour, the previous night, I had been entranced by his
eloquence. I had argued myself into the belief that his faults were
venial ; but before me lay the proof of cool and deliberate vice. She
had suffered and sacrificed for him her good name ; and yet he had,
when tired of his victim, refused her even the means of existence.
He did not think I would have sought her out ; he thought me all too
proud for such a course. He did not know his mother !

" T cut off a tress of the long black hair which swept round her
like a shroud. I thoudit that that might move him. He was still
my child, the chikl of my beloved husband ; and if he did repent— if
a single tear even stood in his eye — I could almost have forgiven him ;
for in him, my pride, my love, was but one feeling — he was my only
child.

" I directed that everything should be done in a fitting manner for
her burial : and I was descending the narrow stairs, when an aged man,
travel-soiled and worn, stood at the door, and asked some questions of
the woman of the house. They were soon answered ; and the old man
staggered so impetuously up the creaking stairs, that I was obliged to
re-enter the chamber of death.

" He gazed for a moment upon the pale corse ; and then, throwing
from liim his hat and staff, knelt by the side of the wretched bed, and
buried his face in the streaming hair of what had been his child !

" Here was fresh agony for me ! The father had become rigid and
insensil)le, and it was nearly an hour before he recovered from a state
of frightful torpor. He seemed ashamed of the emotion he had
betrayed. His features, though venerable, were stern and harsh ; his
brow wrinkled ; groans and tears struggled within his bosom ; yet he
would not let diem forth. He looked at me — I almost thought suspi-
ciously ;— but when the woman of the cottage named my name (for I
was too near my own neighbourhood to be concealed), the miserable
parent burst forth into a torrent of reproaches upon mine, and me.
He told me of my pride. He declared that on the only interview he
had ever obtained with my son, after his daughter's destruction, he had
said that it was his mother's pride alone that prevented his marrying

TIIK MOTH Ell. 401

' Mary.' The afHicted man spoke in a harsh, suppressed, grating
voice, grinding out his words, and then bursting forth his anger like
a torrent over a rugged rock. I could not gainsay the opinion he
had formed of Alfred. I could only for myself say, that I knew nought
of the attachment.

" He knelt again ; but it was to pronounce a curse— the curse of
a desolate parent upon my wretched son. I was not too proud to
siipplicate— to implore him to restrain his imprecations. ' I will not
commit murder,' he said ; ' but I call to God for vengeance on the
head of the destroyer. The law of man cannot attach his crime, but
God can, and will, punish!'

" I trembled violently while he continued ; the cold dew stood like
hail upon my brow, — my blood curdled and crept slowly through my
distended veins,— my tongue clave to my lips, as the curse of the
desolate father mounted to the throne of the Almighty. Again I
supplicated. I was mad enough to offer gold to quell a parent's
grief! ' And you, that are a mother, think gold can yield consolation
to one bereaved like mc ! — to one, whose only child lies there ! O,
Mary, Mary, why did you not return I I would not have chided.
We would have prayed together as we used. We would have mingled
tears at the footstool of the Lord, and I should once more have heard
you murmur. Father I Hut now, Mary, my child, you arc dead, and
I am desolate ! ' A burst of natural grief succeeded, and I entered
my splendid ((piipage with a bursting heart. O, misery unspeak-
able ! I knew that old man's curse was registered in heaven, for it
was deserved !

" As I entered the hall, 1 encountt red a drputation, at that unsea-
sonal)le hour, consisting of some of the principal persons of the county,
nho Ii.'mI come to announce to my son the sudden death of one of the
members of the sliire, nntl to request that he woidd innuediately solicit
the sulFrages of ibe electors.

" I (bought I thould have sunk mio the earth while receiving the
compliments of those men. I crept to my chamber like a guilty thing;
an<l, dismisidng my ntlmdants, desired my son's presence. I (old him
what I had witnessed. I dart-d not trust myself with reproaches, for,

.1 I-

4-02 WOMAN S TRIALS.

if I had, they would have known no bounds. He hstened to my tale
without emotion. I drew forth the silken braid of her beautiful hair.
He grew pale — his lip quivered — his eyes filled with tears. Thank
God ! he was not entirely lost ; for, though he expressed nothing, he
was moved. Even as a drowning man grapples at a floating straw, so
will a mother seize any indication of mere humanity in a profligate
child, as a symbol of returning virtue.

"A few days after this, my dear, my venerated husband, was, by
an easy and painless transition, wafted to eternity. He regained his
senses nearly two hours before his death. He called for me ; yet,
when I came, at first he knew me not. He had not traced the gradual
changes in my face, and now they took him by surprise. Soon he was
all himself; — spoke of his illness — of Olympia's death, as things of
recent date. But what was most strange, never inquired for his son.
This, in one respect, was happy ; for he was absent, canvassing the
county, soliciting the ' most sweet voices' of high and low, and leading
the innocents of tliose days to believe that he was a miracle of
patriotism and virtue. But this assumption did not pass with me ;
both my maternal love and my maternal pride had been blasted ; and
the curse, the fearful curse, still rang upon my ear.

" He behaved with tolerable decency on his father's death, which
opened afresh the wounds I had received when first reason departed
from him, I had often thought that I could have better suj)ported his
death tlian his intellectual prostration; but I was mistaken. The adage,
' While there is life, there is hope,' was most true in my case. While
he was before me, I hoped, in the very jaws of despair ; but the vault
was now closed, and hope had indeed departed I

"My son was elected without opposition; and though there were
many rumours afloat to his disadvantage, still, patronage and popu-
larity — and above all, gold, worked their way. There was seldom
more rioting, or more excess, committed in the neighbouring town,
than on the day wlien he was declared representative of the county.

" I was sick at heart, and happy tliat my husband's recent death

THE MOTHER. 403

afforded sufBcient reason for my remaining in strict seclusion. One of
the windows of my chamber overlooked the park gates, and as the
shouts of the half-drunken electors came madly on the air, I glanced
for an instant over the scene — it was no delusion — there stood ' Mary's'
father, leaning, like Jacob of old, on tiie ' top of his staff',' his eye fixed
upon my window, while a smile of scorn and contempt curved his
chiselled lip, and lighted his hollow eye with an expression most hard
to bear. I was rivetted to the spot. Some fools among the crowd
espied me, and called for ' three cheers for the Noble Lady Elizabeth.'
How I hated popularity ! I hastened from the window, but yet con-
tinued long enough to see the old man lift his hat, in mockery, from
his head, while his hair streamed in the wind like the pennon of a

phantom ship.

• «•«»•

• •••••

" I remained too proud (my foes would say) to permit the world
to know that any difference existed between my son and myself. He
had now entered fully upon his political career ; and though the party
his ancestors, for a scries of years, had invariably supported, were
then out of pf)wer, still his eloquence commanded attention, and his
steadiness to his friends, respect.

" Tlie dignity of political consistency was then appreciated as it
ought to be. Men — or thiuffs called men — were not whirled about
by every blast of interest or wind of doctrine, to serve or bow to the
mania of ill-groiuxK-d opinion. It was sonuthing to be a statesman
in those <lays. — I will n(»t say what it is now ; because political dis-
cussions are opposed lo i)oth the delicacy and dignity of a wfll-l)orn
woman. Knough for her that slie venerates the Church ami honours
the King. This will hufHciently exercise her love and faith — a woman's
best and dearest qualities. At least, I argued with myself, the world
known nought of what »o rankles in njy heart, and even if it did .

"Alfred Montague was dreHHed after — courted — flattered — wor-
Bhipi>ed. I low little is the world ac(|uainted with its idols — how little
do we know what we admire! \V»> imagine a deity — clothe it «ith our
fancy — then fix uj>on »ome living teniple for our creali<ui to inhabit,

•toi woman's trials.

and call it 'perfection.' Yet was I not insensible to the homage paid
to my son. Next to deserving, there is nothing so sweet as receiving,
praise ; though I knew his moral hoUowness, I clung to the belief that
he was politically honest. And were it not for that old man's curse,
I woulil have hoped — ay, hoped for him for ever. What a blessed
thing it is for humanity, that hope, like the fabled Phoenix, springs
anew from its own ashes !

" I was one morning startled by the intelligence that Lord L

wished to see me immediately. I well knew this sudden visit boded
no good. He thought my son was at Montague House. He was
told so by his servants in town. Three nights he had been absent
from the House when questions interesting to his constituents were
debated. He was looked for everywhere, and certain rumours had

aroused Lord L ; who, from an old friendship subsisting between

our families, as well as from other motives, watched my son's career
with as much anxiety as if he had been his own. He came to me to
inquire if he were wavering. I said I would stake my life on his
integrity. He shook his head.

" I ordered my carriage, resolved to find my son, and know the
truth at once. Had the party his father and all his family so long
supported been in power, I could have forgiven his defalcation, but to
desert their cause when his support was needed ! Memory whispered
that he had deserted a once dear object, when most she wanted his
assistance. Ay, but his political honour, his fame, the disgrace!

" I arrived at four o'clock at Alfred Park. I learned there that
my son had only left about an hour for town. Was any one with him ?
Yes ; it was one of the leading members of the administration.

" My brain burned. I ordered fresh horses — post horses ; and,
without aligliting, proceeded to London. It was night as we drove
past Hyde Park Corner, and the rain pattered heavily against the
carriage windows, the ponderous knocker echoed through the aristo-
cratic silence of St. James's Square.

" ' Mr. Montague had just gone down to the House. He had not
set off three minutes.*

" ' Was any one with him ?'

THE MOTHER. 405

" * Yes ; the same cabinet minister who had been with him at
Alfred Park ! '

" I drove to the House of Commons, and was informed by the
usher that Mr. Montague had not arriveil, hut that he doubtless soon
would, as a very important motion was to be brought on by the oppo-
sition.

" While I was yet speaking, Alfred would have passed. I believe
he did not know me. He said he did not. I went witli him into
one of the ante rooms, and at once charged him with dishonour and
desertion. He endeavoured to avoid reply, and stamuHTcd forth
something about change of times and prejudices, and all the jargon
of those who fmd it convenient to desert their friends in their neces-
sities. I argued, I entreated, I endeavoured to arouse his priile. I
spoke to him of his father, of his family. 1 implored his attention. I
pictured his falsehootl, the scorn of his partisans, the contempt of his
new friends. I Lilked of the virtues of those of ancient days, who h;id
died to uphold the welfare of their country. 1 reminded him of the
time when he used to sit u])<)ii my knee, and read of the heroes of old,
whose religion was patriotism. I wept — positively wept — burning,
scalding tears, into his bosom. And he promised — swore by all that
was sacred in heaven and earth, that he would not swerve from
his old party.

" I met Lord L , and tuld him of my triumph. Nor was this

all. I determined to ascend to the ventilator, and there exult in the
disappointment of that 'dog in ollice,' who had tempted him to disgrace.
There wtre a good many ladies in that elevated pest-room, but they
made way for me, and I was stationed on the self-same spot, where,
many years before, I had oik-n listened to the soimd — 1 may truly call
it 'music' — of his father's voice. I know not win) s|M)ke, nor what
wan said. 1 only know how fatally I distinguished one person — one
event.

" My wm enterc*], in a state of intoxication, with his new 'leader;'
l(K)k a teat behind the treasury l>enth ; and, not satisfied with silent
disgrace, npuke, ny, Hp<ike (would that he had been lM>rn dumb!)
.igaiiust the principles of his ancchtors. I li- spoke ns will as he could

406 woman's trials.

speak under such circumstances, for his desertion and his intoxication
were evident to the whole house. Groans from one side, and a species
of half-applause from his new friends, were his reward — the only
reward he obtained; for, before the ratification of the appointment he
was to receive as the recompence of his apostacy, his party went out

of power, and Lord L , our old and valued friend, was appointed

premier.

" ' I regret, dear Lady Elizabeth,' said this excellent man to me,
' that I cannot do as I would desire for your son.'

" ' Sir,' I replied, ' the man who is once untrue to his party, should
never again be trusted. I desire none of my country's privileges for
the unworthy scion of our once noble house.'

" As I am a born and living lady, I felt ashamed to return to
Montague House. What could I say to the electors ? How could I
look, or speak, or act? Was I not an apostate's mother? Was not the
finger of scorn everywhere pointed, at * Montague, the fool and the
betrayer ? ' Was not the county in an uproar ? Was he not obliged to
accept the ' Chiltern Hundreds ? ' Did not tlie papers surfeit with
lampoons, and the print-shops with caricatures ? And were there not
many, friends they called themselves, who dared to send me those
symbols of his disgrace, expressing their concern — their pity even — at
' what had occurred.'

" My grief was augmented, my degradation made more complete,
by the contrast, so often forced upon me, of my son with my husband;
the one, all probity, virtue, bravery, and soul-honour ; the other, lost
to all the loftier principles of nature, and utterly unworthy the high
order to which he belonged.

" In the midst of all these realities, would come the remembrance
of that poor, pale, skeleton girl ; and her father's curse, ringing in
mine ears. And then, because of his unpopularity, the ' Oxford
business' became the subject of county animadversion; — and — I
went to Italy.

" Let no one desire children. Lot no one wish to have the quiver
filled with those living arrows. I shall die childless — as a punishment
for my pride. If great was my sin, great has been my tribulation.

THE MOTHER. 407

'* My son, too, went abroad, to blot out the inemory of past
offences by the coinmittal of fresh faults : — and one night, at Naples,
he was borne into my palazzo, killed, like a dog, in the streets, by
some villain's stiletto, in a drunken brawl — the last of his line : — a
creature of talent, of beauty, of extraordinary powers, yet wanting in
those requisites which, I have observed, are often granted to those of
much commoner capacity.

" It was night, and I heard the sound of many voices in the
dissonant tones of drunkenness beneath my palace windows — and his
voice among the rest — and a scuffle, and then all was still. Suddenly,
a rush of men, a glare of lights, and my poor, erring, sinful son, lay on
the marble floor, the red blood oozing to my feet; and I kissed his lips,
his brow, his check — for, oh, was he not my child !

" For several days I knew not what they did to him or me ; but
one night I heard a noise of nails and screws — and then it ceased — and
the knowledge of the dread reality was with me. And when they
slept, I stole into his chamber — the attendants there slept also — and
the coffin was fastened down, covered with black velvet, decked with
the solemn magnificence of woe. I knew that there he was at rest. —
Rest! — did I say rest! God grant it! How blessed is repose after
this world's turmoil !

" Now Heaven shield me from superstition! After I had remained
awhile over that dismal sight, a thin and vapoury cloud arose at the
coffin's foot ; grey it was, as a moimtain mist, and clear, for I saw the
tapers burning through it, and the sleeping watchers in their repose.
Hut tlu-re it stayed, gradually moulded by some unseen power, into the
semblance of a human being, undefmed, and yet distinct ; it was a
fearful creation, towering to the vaulted roof — a bloodless, colourless,
thing — fading, yet remaining, to my sight. Anil --.Almighty Powers!
— ere it vanished, it nsstmied the form and seml)!ance of poor Mary's
father !

" This was no dream. AKxh! I wa.s but too awake to misery !"

408

WOMAN S TRIALS.

Here was another break in this " Tale of Woman's Trials," and I

was thankful for it ; for I had read enough of her misfortunes-

many

of which would not, perhaps, have happened to one less proud. I
knew the rest; for I had often heard, that on her return from Italy, it
was feared that her reason had been impaired by the apostacy and
death of her son. She never spoke of him — hardly ever alluded to
"the past" — and though neither the present nor the future seemed to
have any hope for her, they were more endurable than the memory of
her life. She was unlike any of her associates ; stately and cold, yet
much given to the noblest acts of charity — a charity which usually
concealed the giver from the receiver. I often think of her as a
beneficent and glorious relic of the olden time, and a living proof, that
no situation, however exalted, can shield us from the ills and turmoils
of this state of existence, in which we are doomed to work our pil-
grimage to another and a different world, where " sorrow and sighing
shall be no more."

/ 6

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■loTiiEMEfjo^

.■.c.Ar^i

2^^^

1 11 !•: YOVNfi V KUSON.

^"^^c^NDFR any circuiiistancos, " tlic yoiini^ j)crson "
]r would liave intcrt'strjl mc imitli. She is of the
middle si/«', sh^tlit and uell-proporlioiu-d ; her
nLj^ , ' * features art- jHrfrct in fi)riii, hut wantiiif^ the

|P^,\ .^ ^, ^\ moral dcvt-hipiiu-nt which frttdom of thought
TV /k ' ' "d action gives to i-very fare ; ht-rs have been
tutored into subjection, conse<|uently their in-
vnruible exprenNion in that of patient, self-denying enihirance. I liave
sometimes observed n smile relax her well-formed mouth, l)ut it was
always followed by a half-born sigh ; to sigli outright wouM be a
hivury " the young jicrson" does not drenm of.

410

WOMAN S TUIALS.

I was going to write as I feel, and call " the young person" my
voting friend ; but the lady who considers her lier own especial
property would never recognise her by that name. " The young
person," then, moves so silently in, out, and about, that you never
know when or how she comes or goes. She is never missed or
inquired for, unless she is wanted ; never considered as a being
endowed with reason and feeling, except when her reason and feeling
are necessary to the comforts and convenience of any individual of
the dwelling — save herself.

The mistress looks upon her as a necessary evil ; the master pulls
off his coat and shoes while she is in the room ; the children torment
her, though they cannot help loving the thing they tease ; the servants
consider her a spy, and hold her up to contempt, because she wears
" cast clothes ;" the lap-dog snarls if she j)uts her foot on the hearth-
rug ; perhaps the old house-dog is the only living thing that sym-
pathises with her ; his services, as well as hers, are forgotten ; and
the creature licks her hand ; and while she " does up " the house-
keeper's caps, sits with his head in her lap, and his almost sightless
eyes fixed on her plaintive face.

You may recognise this "young person" in the street by her
painful anxiety not to be observed, and to keep out of everybody's
way ; by her manifest desire to get whatever business she has on hand
performed as quickly as possible. Her dress has so evidently seen
better days, that you know she never had it when it was new. Her
gloves have been carefully mended ; and if the wind blows, you per-
ceive that her stockings are darned above the shoe. The trimmings
on her bonnet are faded ; and it always happens that in summer '* the
young person" wears something belonging to the past season; while,
in winter, instead of cloths, and furs, and velvets, she trembles in
washed mousselines and foulards.

Shop-boys and attorneys' clerks look under her bonnet as she
passes, and because she is alone, deem her a fit object for insult ;
but high-born gentlemen see an unprotected woman, and therefore
consider her entitled to respect. The spirit of chivalry is not yet
dead in England.

THE YOUNG PERSON. HI

My particular specimen of this no-class, and yet numerous body,
belongs to a family of consideration ; consequently tliere is an air of
humble dij^nity about her, which both fits and unfits her for her
situation. It nnist not be imagined that only the rich and pros-
perous permit " young persons," like her whom I so frequently think
of, to move within their orbit; you see them in all grades of society,
but, as I have said, acknowledged by none.

The green-grocer down the lane has one — a slip-shod, soikd-looking
girl, with tawny jdaits hanging down her cheeks, and tiid by bits of
black strings, that have not been untied for a week.

" Is that girl your daughter, Mrs. Green ?"

"Oh, la! no, ma'am; my daughter's at the imanar, with Miss
j Grubb, the butcher's niece."

" Your servant, then?"

" No, ma'am, my servant never waits in the shop ; she's oidy a
'young person' — a 'young person' Mr. Green likes me to have;
nothing, ma'am, but a ' young person." "

Probably in this sphere, as well as in other s])hcies of life, that
hapless, helpless thing — a poor relation. Dressmakers invariably de-
signate their j)upils as " yoimg persons ;" and upon them all faults are
placed. *' I was not so fortunate, ma'am, as to take your pattern
myself, and my forewoman was ill ; so I sent a ifi)itn<r person on whom
! I thought I could depend, but, oh dear!" and then "the yoiuig
I person," some lone and lovely girl, who has had but little opportunity
I as yet to learn how to " take a pattern," and who nnist be a slave
until her talent enabh-s lu-r in her turn to l)ee<)ine a tvrant, is sent
j for, and scolded, and insidted, until you forget the ill- (it in com-
passion to " the voimg person's" tears.

The governess to a family of the middle rank of society is some-
times happily circumstanced— that middle class in Kngland has made
a rapid stride ni mental improvement during the last ten years ; its
mind has enlarged, its prejudices have decreased, it has gained an ad-
dition of true dignity; a little more, ond it will not <»idy be able to stand
alone, but lo walk alone; where to— is a matter I leave wiser heads
than mine to determine; — in that class a governess is usually v«Ty

412 woman's trials.

well treated, but a "young person" is there almost as badly off as in
any other grade of society. She is with it but not of it; if she is asked
to sing, the men of the family talk louder than they did when she was
silent. She is expected to refuse jelly if there is but one shape on the
table ; to prefer cold meat to hot ; and drumsticks to wings ; to laugh at
the old gentleman's jokes, and never to dress like the young ladies —
her hair I mean ; of course she has no opportunity of wearing the
same sort of clothes. She never dances but when required to make up
a set ; and it is an understood thing that when visiters come in she is
to go out. Fortunately for herself, she is seldom of so refined a nature
as tlie " young person" of whom I liave already spoken; every other
heart has its green spots upon which memory lingers — the plough-
share and the harrow have passed over hers.

I paid a visit the other morning where one of these " young per-
sons " was sometimes seen dusting the ornaments, or copying music —
nobody ever heard her play. The family consists of two daughters
and a mother ; a rich cousin, " cousin Edward," was an occasional
visiter — the betrothed, it was whispered, of the elder of the young
ladies. The footman looked perplexed as he opened the drawing-
room door, and there was a painful flutter in mamma's manner while
she desired "John" to tell the young ladies w'ho their visiter was.

*' You are a neighbour, and must have heard the news, of course."

" No, I have heard no news — I am a bad newsmonger."

" I really did not think the world was so wicked as it is," she
commenced. " You knew that ' young person ? ' "

" I have caught a glimpse of a young lady."

" My dear madam, she was no young lady, she was only a ' young
person ; ' the fact of it was, having her in the house at all was an
indiscretion."

We both paused, and I began examining the trimming of my hand-
kerchief, for the observation was " peculiar."

" Oh ! nothing disgraceful — but not a stiver in the world had she."

" Iler eyes were fine ! "

" Ah ! " she exclaimed, spitefully ; " she was clear-sighted enough,
not that we care at all about it ; girls with ten thousand pounds each

THE YOUNG PERSON. 413

and expectations, have no need to go a-bcgging — only for the honour
of the family, one does not like those sort of things to happen, and if
his poor dear father, could only look out of his grave, and see — "
** See what I " I inquired.

" Why, see his son, cousin Edward, married to a ' young person ! ' "
I certainly rejoiced at this poor girl's good fortune, which made me
think, still more, of my too refined and susceptible favourite, whose
lot has been far ditterently cast. A lady's-maid without the salary or
the credit, amanuensis and reader, winder and worker of silks — to all
appearance a mere automaton ; yet gifted with a heart that will throb,
a head that will ache — with knowledge and memory : — memory, the
joy of the haj)py ; but! oh, what was memory to her, the once-cherished
bird of those, whose eyes filled with love, whenever they named her
name ! When she is ill, and unable to rise from her bed ; then, indeed,
thoughts, like dreams, so crowd upon her, that for a time they bring
back scenes a ml voices — gone from her for ever — here. Her young
father, pale from study and fatigue, the curate of a large parish, teaching
her, his cherished one, that learning, and that love, which is often rather
a bane than a blessing to woman, A little music, a little French, some
dancing, and a very little Italian, and she might have been a governess,
tinislied young ladies in what she herself did not understand. Hut why
did h»T father teach her the uncompromising dignity of truth ? Why
call things by those plain, unvarnished names of vice and virtue? Why
draw the line between right and wrong with so firm a hand that she
never could — never did, mistake the one for the other ? Truly, that
fatlur must have been a man of most unwordly mind. .\nd so he was;
for ill addition to this, he taught her the exceeding beauty in woman, of
a submissive .spirit. II' taught it so well, that, looking clearly .ind
Hiradily licyond this world — its gauds, its paltry, unworthy ambitions,
itii child-like pageants, its gilded, yet decaying dross ; looking not only
above and beyond these, but beyond and al)ove death and the oravk j
— »lie, " the young person," in Iut loiu-ly attic, is a h.ippirr, and far
holier creaturi- — oh I a thou.san<l tinu-s — than the pr<»ud l)aroness she
■erveji. When »hc recovers, nn<l is able to c<»me do«n again, she is very
grateful for every look and wortl of kiixlncss. Shv bears harshness

•114

WOMAN S TRIALS.

at all times like a heroine, but tenderness overpowers her. Speak to
her kindly, and tears overflow her cheeks. I think she is paler, more
shadowy than ever, her eyes are bright, and there is a bright pink spot
on either cheek, which bodes no good. And yet I never saw her look
so happy as slie did last Sunday evening as I came out of church.
She was reading an inscription on a tomb-stone, setting forth, that the
girl who was buried there had died young. " What a sweet quiet spot it
is!" she said, looking round; "how very tranquil! — I should so like
to be buried under that humble willow-tree, though I shall have no
choice — have no one to choose for me ! "

How glorious it is to see the power of mind overcoming all other
influences ; to witness the triumph of faith, to feel assured that no
worldly circumstances can change or subdue the Soul ! Nobody could
dream of making the " young person" a heroine ; but she is something
better. When she reached the end of the church avenue, she turned
to look back — the setting sun shone full upon her face, and it seemed
bright as that of an angel. She will soon be one — I am sure of that.

((

BEAR AM) roiMiEAK."

PART TUK FUIST,

osf.ni, my dear, ' said .Mrs. Sinitli to lirr Iiiisl)an(l.
rt-placin^ litT watcli ; Mr. Sinitli was rcadinj^ in a
vi'ry iiidolfiit-loukiiii; l()un^iii<{ cliair, .ind took no
notice wliatevcr of the ti-ndt'r fpitlu-t tliat so
lovinf^ly glided from liis fair lady's lips.
a " .My love," she liaiil, ami now a delicate ear
^ could diHtuijiiiish that her voice was raised a semi-
tone hij^luT than it was when she 8ai«l " my dear ;"
yrt still Mr. Sniilh made no reply, thou<^h he
wielded the paper-knife to accelerate his studies.

416

WOMAN S TRIALS.

Mrs. Sniitli — Mrs. Joseph Smith, I should say — was as pretty and
pettish a little lady as could be found between Hyde Park corner and
the noisy end of Sloane Street ; and Mr. Joseph Smith was as dreamy
and absent in mind and habits as his lady was irritable, " fussy," and
particular. He was very absent, sometimes mistaking his wife's bonnet
for his own hat — putting a white waistcoat over a black one —
remembering everything, in fact, that ought to be forgotten, and
forgetting everything that ought to be remembered — building castles
in the air, and paying no attention, that he could possibly avoid, to the
earthly castle (a gaily-furnished house) in which they resided. He was
fond of reading, and fancied he understood moral philosophy.

" Joseph," said Mrs. Smith, and her voice was now so decidedly
elevated, that the little spaniel, who was pretending to sleep on the
hearth-rug, opened his eyes, yawned, and stretching himself, walked
over to his mistress, who next, in a really angry tone, exclaimed,
" Mr. Smith ! " Still the reader made no reply ; and the lady, after
darting a look of bitter scorn at the insensible gentleman, flounced out
of the room, "banging" the door, while the little fat spaniel stood
looking after her in stupid astonishment.

Mr. Smith remained alone for about twenty minutes, quite uncon-
scious of his lady's departure. At last, starting suddenly up from his
book, he exclaimed, " My dear Lizzy, I have made a great moral
discovery, which, if acted upon, will revolutionise society. I cannot
explain it to you just yet, but you may guess its magnitude and

importance, when I tell you it will render mankind honest. They

but are you there, my dear?" He walked to the bay window, where,
half-shaded by the curtain, the lady generally sat, so that she could
see, as she said, her work and the street, and whatever was going on
in the room, at the same time ; he then opened the drawing-room door,
and called " Lizzy " and " my love " repeatedly ; there was no answer;
he rang the bell. " My mistress is gone out, sir," was the foot-
man's reply.

" Did she leave any message for me ? "

" Not that I know of, sir."

" That will do," said Mr. Smith ; and then he thought to himself,

BEAK AND FORBEAR. 417

" it was very strange of her to go out without saying a word to me on
the subject ; and she knows we had agreed to go somewhere — I really
forgot to find out wlierc — together, and to be there exactly at two."
He looked at his watch, and found tl)at, having forgotten to wind it, it
did not go ; he then cast his eyes on the time-piece ; tJiat being under
Mrs. Smith's care, was clicking away merrily ; it was then ten minutes
after the appointed time. " Dear me," thought Mr. Smitli, " I daresay
she is gone to the appointment. How very odd that she should not
have called me;" he repeated this several times to himself, for he was
sadly perplexed at finding his wife quite out of the way when he
wanted her ; and when his habits and ideas were disturbed, he always
continued fidgelty and uncomfortal)le until again ciiained down by
reverting to some old, or commencing some new, dream. Starting, as
if from the action of a galvanic battery, he caused the bell to ring a
peal through the house. " Till the cook," he said to the footman,
" there are two gentlemen to dine here at seven."

'• Please, sir, my mistress ordered dinner at half-past five, as she
said she was going to the theatre."

" Very awkward," muttered Mr. Smith ; " I remember she said
something about that ; but I thought it was to-morrow. Howt-ver,
it nuist be seven, and a proper dinner — fish, soup — you under-
stand me ?"

About five o'clock Mrs. Smith returned in high spirits ; she had
been to a delightful little concert — the engagement her absent husband
had forgotten. Her apparently unaccountable absence had put him
out of temper. " So," he said, " you are come back : and really,
Elizabeth, I think it was very wrong of you to go out, and by yourself
too, witliout saying a word to me, particularly as ui' wire going to the
Diorama, or some such place, together."

** Now, really, that is very crutl of you, Joseph," answered the
lady, withdrawing the check she had hehl down for a kiss ; *' I called
you four times, and you sat there like a stock or a stone, minding me
no more than if / wore a stock or a stone. I knew my ^nu^in would
be waiting for me; as the concert was early "

•' You know very well," interrupted her hii:>li.ind, " you never

3 II

418

WOMAN S TRIALS.

called me. Now, I remember I particularly wanted to go to a concert,
and you knew it."

" You never told me so."

" Psha!" exclaimed Mr. Smith.

Mrs. Smith stamped her little foot as she rang the bell. Bells are
ill-used thin<TS where there is much domestic contention ; and now the
wire reeved and cracked, and the tongue rattled violently within its
brazen mouth. " Is dinner ready ? " she inquired. The man looked
at his master.

" No," said Mr. Smith, and there was much strength and decision
in the little monosyllable. " Mr. Orepoint and Mr. Harrison dine
here at seven. I remember having forgotten to tell you that, though I
did tell you of my wish to go to the concert."

But Mrs. Smith made no retort touching the concert. She seemed
petrified at something her husband had said, until at last she burst
into tears, sobbing forth, she did not know what she had done, that he
should insult her so. Mr. Smith looked astonished, and inquired what
she meant ; and she reminded him that Mr. Orepoint was " the man "
who had jilted her poor sister Amelia ; that it was impossible he (Mr.
Smith) could have forgotten the circumstance, as he had heard it so
often ; and that, for her part, she would not stay in the house with
such a wretch as Orepoint. The moment he came in she would go
out ; she had made up her mind to that. The absent Mr. Smith was
overwhelmed; the little resolution he indulged in vanished. He
remembered the circumstance when it was too late, reminded his wife
of his forgetful habit, and said he " would do anything he could."
Mrs. Smith dried her tears a little, and replied, that he must write and
"say anything" to put Orepoint off; and then he found he had
forgotten Mr. Orepoint's address.

Never was unfortunate husband in a greater fever of perplexity than
Mr. Smith during the next hour and a-half Finding that, often as he
addressed his wife, she in her turn made no reply, he went into his
little dressing-room, with a vague idea that he had something to do.
His reflection in the looking-glass reminded him that he was not
dressed for dinner. He went through the duties of the toilet with a

BEAR AND FORBEAR. 419

perfect attention to what he was about, and was selecting from a
cabinet a table snuff-box, which contained some peculiar snuff, when a
loud double knock caused him to hasten down with the first box he
met with in his hand, without taking another peep at his pretty little
sulky wife ; if he had, he would have found that her sulks were gone,
and that she was preparing to do the honours of the house. Mrs. Smith
was not in any degree husband-hunting for her sister Amelia; but it
occurred to her that Mr. Orcpoint would not have accepted the invita-
tion, if he had not some desire to renew the intimacy that once existed
between the families. He was still a bon parti, older by six years than
when he jilted Amelia; and she thought Amelia had never loved any
one so well since. Besides, Amelia had been a flirt ; she knew that ;
and fancied her judgment on Mr. Orepoint was sudden. Nor did she
like sitting for four or five hours by herself; and perhaps, after all, she
had been more vexed at not going to the play than at Mr. Orepoint's
coming to diimer. So just as Mr. Smith had fniished an apology
concerning her absence, she entered the room, and thus afforded fresh
ground for displeasure. A little forbearance, and she could have made
all smooth, but her pettishness was again in the ascendant. The dinner
increased the formality, which the flirting Mr. Orepoint had it not in
his power to assuage. In his difliculty of knowing what to talk about,
he inquired after "her fair sister ;" and Mrs. .Smith, while her husband
was describing to .Mr. Harrison the proposed workings of his new-
moral theory, managed to draw him into a conversation as to old times,
that was proceeding (piitc in accordance with her desire.

Just at that moment Mr. .'^M»ilh, with the suddeiuiess which charac-
terised all his movenient-s, asked .Mr. Orepoint if he were particular in
the flavour nf his snutV, and Mr. Smith sent up liis snuff-box; it
had hardly glided over the snowy d.-imank to its destination, when
the mistaking .Smith exclaimed, " Not that box, .Mr. Orepoint ; not t/uil.
Do me the favour to return it ; that is not the one I intended."

"Ami why n«»l ? " replied the bland gentleman — "why not? Here
is a charming likenens of your lady and her sister, most excpiiKitely
paintetl, and superbly set, the beauty of the one doing justice to the
beauty of the other."

420 woman's trials.

"Ah!" said the absent man, "I thought it might revive the

memory of " Mrs. Smith, by a sudden effort, managed to interrupt

the rest of the sentence. Mr. Smith ralhed, but was again stopped by
a timely interruption. " Mr. Smith, you are throwing your walnut
shells on the carpet, and they crush into it and cut it so, that I must
beg you to be more careful."

" I declare most solemnly," said the husband, " I have not cracked
a single walnut yet ; I was only twisting the nut-crackers."

" You say anything to gain your point," muttered the lady, but not
so low as to escape her husband's ear, who — like the animals in the
menageries, when " poked up " that they may waken and show off their
nature, such as it is — was on the qui vive for an attack. Without
waiting for a reply, she rose from her seat, and in leaving the table,
had the address to carry off', unnoticed, the unfortunate box to her own
apartment.

It was a damp, drizzling evening, and the church clocks had just
" gone" a quarter past ten, when a carriage stopped at the door of a
handsome house in one of the gorgeous streets that have arisen out of
the damps and ditches of the " Five Fields." From this carriage Mrs.
Joseph Smith alighted, and rushing up her cousin Mrs. Mansfield's
stairs, did not wait for the servant's announcement. The lady whom
she sought, after her day's ill-managed fever, was very different in
character and conduct from the petted pettish little creature who,
full of bitterness and vexation, flew to her for the advice she
persuaded herself she required from " her dear Madeline;" but
pretty Mrs. Smith always made up her mind — not a very large thing
to make up — and acted upon her resolve, before she look counsel
at all.

Mrs. Mansfield was sitting in her splendid drawing-room alone ;
her embroidery frame stood beside her chair ; and the bright and dead
gold she was working into a satin scarf for her husband glittered
beneath the light of the beautiful lamp, that shone without dazzling or
disturbing the stately character of the apartment. " Oh ! " she ex-
claimed, as she rose to meet her cousin — " oh ! your knock set my
heart beating; I thought it was Edward."

BEAR AND FORBEAR. 421

" What ! " inquired Elizabeth, " has he not been home since the
concert? He told you to wait dinner."

"So I did until half-past seven; but he does not wish me to wait
beyond that."

"Then," exclaimed Mrs. Smith, "if he did not wish me to wait,
that's the very reason I would wait; if he served me as he lias been
serving you these six years, the un "

"Hush, Elizabeth," said her cousin; and her "hush" was decisive,
both from its tone and the expression that accompanied it. " I allow
no one to cast reflections on my husband. Pray, sit down, and tell me
what fresh annoyance has brought you here this evening ? You told
me of your great trouble this morning ; how that my good friend
Joseph would not answer when spoken to. As you have known that
habit as long as you have known him, I was somewhat astonished at
your making a complaint of it now ; and I told you to resort to your
old practice, and jog his elbow ; Joseph will fcil the shake when he
does not hear the words."

" Well, and so I did when I went home ; but he was as rude as a
bear ; insisted that he wished to have been at the concert, and had told
me so, which he never did."

" He thought he had, and that should have made you endure the
assertion. You know he is quite incapable of intended falsehood."

"I cannot describe his conduct. He invited that Mr. Orepoint
with Harrison to dinner, and he knew I was going to the play."

" He forgot it," munnured Mrs. Mansfield.

" Orc|)oint, who behaved so ill to Amelia," continued Mrs. Smith ;
" and I refused to meet him at dinner ; and then I thought better of it,
and (lri>s.Hed and came down ; and instead of being grateful for my
doing so, Smith looked thunders when I entered the drawing-room."

"One kind word from you would have smoothed it all; but you
arc so touchy, that instead of forbearing, you said something ru<le or
o«ld ? " obiervcd .Madeline.

" I uid nothing to hhn, nt all event!!," she continued. " He knows
I am hasty."

" (Jrnnlcd : and vou know he !•> absent."

4^2 woman's trials.

" My goodness, Madeline ! you speak as if all the duty was on one
side."

" Not at all ; the truest and only rule to render married life happy
— the law, divine as well as moral, "bear and forbear," is imperative
on both."

" Then it should be practised by both," said Lizzy.

" Granted most fully," answered her cousin ; " and in your case it
is simply because it is practised by neither, that you spend your days
loitering about the straws of life."

" How you talk, Madeline. Straws indeed. Would you believe
it — he was going to tell the strange odd-sounding story of the foreigner
who painted Amelia's miniature and mine on the box, whom we believed
to be a count, and — a — desirable person ; in short, one who might have
done for Amelia; and how we found him out. Well, he was absolutely
going to tell the whole of that to Orepoint, and before Harrison, too,
who is a sort of patent reporter."

" Oh, you could have turned the conversation," said Madeline.

" My dear, I tried ; but it only made matters worse."

** How unfortunate. Well, my motto, remember, is ' Bear and
Forbear.' You know what I have often told you, that I never knew
a matrimonial quarrel where all the wrong was on one side."

" But, Madeline," exclaimed Mrs. Smith, " it's all very well for the
woman to forbear if the man will bear, or vice versa; but I cannot
understand why a woman is to be trampled on."

" Nor I ; if a woman perform her duty, she cannot be trampled on.
There is no mention in the marriage ceremonial of a wife's being
obedient if the husband be affectionate, or of the husband's protecting
and cherishing if the wife be obedient. No matter how the husband
performs his portion of the compact, the wife is bound to perform hers.''

" The men ought to be mightily obliged to you," said Mrs. Smith,
sarcastically.

" Not so much as the women," answered Madeline. " I love to
see a woman treading the high and holy path of duty, unblinded by
the sunshine, unscared by the storm. There are hundreds who do so
from the cradle to the grave — heroines of endurance, of whom the

BEAR AND FORBEAB. 423

world has never heard, but wliose names" — and, carried away by the
enthusiasm of the feeling, she clasped her hands together — " but whose
names will be bright hereafter, even beside the brightness of angels.
Lizzy, it grieves me to see you frittering away your happiness. You
are married to a man without faults — generous, faithful, and wonder-
fully patient ; domestic, and yet leaving you mistress of your house
and actions."

*' When he prevents my going to the play, and insults nic at a
horrid seven o'clock dinner ?" thrust in poor Mrs. Smith.

"Oil, nonsense, dearest; mere fibres upon which to hang a quarrel;
he has heaps of peculiarities, I know ; and you have only to laugh and
humour them, as you used to do about two years ago, to be as happy
as a summer day is long; but beware! if you get into a quarrelling
habit, he will do the same ; a straw has a tube large enough to contain
gunpowdir: a few more such quarrels as that which must have occurred
to drive you at this hour from your house, wIkii you ought to be in
your drawing-room, would destroy the happiness of any iiome. Go
back, till him you are sorry for the quarrel, and never mind whether
l>e says, or does not say, he is sorry ; but don't strive to find out who
began it, or who did not. You arc sorry for the quarn-l, arc you not?"
There was an increase of pout, but no reply. " Elizabeth, I am older,
and you say wiser than you ; do not, I entreat you, thrust your happi-
ness from you ; if you do so in the days of your early marriage, you
may hunt after it in vain. It is a foolish saying that tlu- quarrels of
lovers arc the renewal of love ; but this I tell you, wedded quarrels
arc the knell of love. Go home, dearest cousin ; forget your oflended
dignity ; remembtr liow tender your husband has been to you in sick-
ness ; recall not how much of your waywardness he has resented, liut
how much he has cndurwl ; think how he provided for your brother,
nnd his liberality to your family — these are great things to set against
nmnll vexations. The idea of quarrelling with a husband l)ecause he
sometimcH ha* n little mental wandering, nnd does not imnuHliately
hear what you nay, or because he drops walnut shells on the carpet, is
really too absurd. C>o home, my dear, like a goo<l wife, and think no
more of this nonwnw."

424 woman's trials.

Mrs. Mansfield was now alone, and alone she remained, until the
chimes of the time-piece arrested her attention — it was a quarter past
one. She rang the bell, directed the footman to desire her maid to go
to bed, and ordered that all the servants should retire. In a few
minutes an old and faithful domestic who had attended Mr. Mansfield
from his boyhood, and was now half-valet half-steward, entered the
room, and told his mistress that he hoped she did not mean him to go
to bed ? " I've sat up many a night for my master, and for his father
before him," said the man, " and never rose the later for it ; and I
hope you will let me wait now as well as ever ? I am sure, late or
early, I am never tired. The air is cold, and it looks — I beg your
pardon for saying so — strange to the other servants for their mistress
to open the door : I will only do that, ma'am. I wish I could do
anything to show my gratitude for those who have done so much for
me.' Incidents sometimes occur at war with all forms, that touch the
heart deeply ; there was so much kindness and delicacy in these few
words, that Madeline thanked Lewis, and told him he might wait up
if he pleased. Mr. Mansfield was a man of station, wealth — or reputed
wealth — and talents — the peculiar talents so much admired in society ;
his humour was buoyant, graceful, and accompanied by a constitutional
good temper, that cheered others while it was refreshing to himself;
but with all his accomplishments, he had one serious fault — in his
character there was no stability ; his good resolutions melted away
before the first temptation, and his want of fixed principles rendered
him the easy captive of the last passion or the last speaker. He was
so courted abroad, that if his home had been neglected, or his wife
other than she was, he would never have been seen at his own house.
Mrs. Mansfield, loving her husband with more than the usual love
even of woman, had latterly entertained the ambition of being her
husband's friend; to accomplish this, she sacrificed all small feelings,
stifled at their birth all petty, or what many women would consider
anything but petty, grievances, and determined to watch and wait for
an opportunity to withdraw him from the vortex of fashion, folly, and,
it might be, worse, into which he was plunged.

She had observed lately that her husband shunned her more than

BEAR AND FORBEAR. 425

usual. He avoided their being alone, though he treated her witli more
than usual tenderness. He was connected, she knew, with many spe-
culations ; and she had heard of the failure of one or two houses,
whose principals frequently dined at their table. She knew that
he had lost at Epsom, but of thut they had spoken. Mrs. Mansfield
was too wise to set herself against her husband's amusements. In
reality, nothing could give him ))leasure without interesting her ; and
besides, she dreaded the coldness which so frequently arises in wedded
life from the wife playing the monitor instead of the companion — the
former destroying, the latter promoting that interchange of feelings
and opinions beneficial to botli husband and wife. She watched for his
return on this particular night with more than her usual anxiety ; she
had ample cause for this and other sensations. She was less composed
than she thought she had ever bciii before, had less command over
herself; and thus it was she wished to have filt that every eye in the
house was closed, every ear deaf except her own, when he returned.
At last, when another and another hour had passed into eternity,
she lit a taper, and stole silently, as mothers steal, into the nursery.
Her boy was not asleep; his hands were hot and feverish; and when
he satv her, he sprang up in his little bed, and clasped his arms round
her neck. '* I cannot sleep, mamma, I am so hot and thirsty ; but I
did not like to waken nurse. Take me into your cold room, mamma ;
do, dear manuna, and I will not wake papa ; you see I did not wake
nurse." Madeline was delighted with the child's consideration, and,
alarmed at liis evident illness, she carried him into her room, and laid
him cm the IkmI, while she found him something to drink. " Where is
papa?" incpiired the boy; "the stars are going out, and the sky will
sfxin be red before the Hun gets up. Where is papa ?"

A loud knock replied to the )>oy's question ; the child drank
eagerly ; and .Mnt. Mansfii-hl w.ts hastening across the staircase with
him in her arni<i, when her husband, rushing up stairs, called to her
to iilop. Mr. Mansfield was far Iim> refmi-d to yield to a habit of
intoxication, but he was then unsteady from the elVects of wine.

** Is (!harl( H ill f" he in<piired.

"He is a little hot and feverish, dear Mansfield," replied his

42G

WOMAN S TRIALS.

mother ; " and I think tlie nursery is too close ; he will be better for
this little change of air."

Mr. Mansfield stooped to kiss him. " It is you who are hot, I
think," said the child, peevishly, putting up his little hand to push
away his father's face ; " your breath is so hot — there, don't kiss me
any more;" and he nestled his head on his mother's shoulder.

Mr. Mansfield scowled upon both, as Madeline had never seen
him do before. " The child has been taught that," he said, bitterly.

Madeline raised her eyes to his ; she made no reply : nor did a
reproachful expression rest upon her features. Their eyes met : it
would be impossible to describe her look, so clear, so full of truth.
There was evidently a struggle in her husband's mind between his real
nature and the occurrences and habits of the time ; but his better
angel triumphed. He kissed her cheek ; she made no allusion to the
injustice of his words, but returned his caress as affectionately as if
they had not been spoken.

PART THE SECOND.

AFMARKABi.E for oarly risiii{T Mrs. Joseph
Smith never was ; and on the niornin;^ after
the incidents we have related, she did not
descend to the Ijreakfast table till her husband
Iiad half (iiiished his breakfast.

" Von had l)etter ring, my dear," he said,
" and have some fresli tea made."

" Yon know I never take tea. Now,

when <hd you ever see me take tea ? You aro so very

forgetful ; you know I always take chocolate."

Q'yj "So much the l>etter, my love," replied the good-

y tempered husband, " fctr then my being obliged to hurry

into town will not inconvenience you."

'• It it very di.'Wigreenble to breakfast alone," she muttered.

" Then y«»u might rise earlier," he said, tpiietly. Mrs. Smith

428 woman's trials.

opened wide lier l)riglit round eyes. Mr. Smith followed up the
stroke bravely. " No household was ever well-managed where the
mistress lies in bed till noon." The poor man was fearful he had
gone too far, said too much, hurt her feehngs ; and as he really loved
the pretty fool, who seemed to lack the instinctive knowledge of caring
for her own happiness, he paused, and added, " Surely, my love,
illness cannot be your excuse, for in all my life I never saw you look
better than you do at this moment."

"Look better!" repeated the little lady — "look better! So
much for man's consistency of opinion. Why, look at this dress :
you always said this dress disfigured me — that you hated it — that
was the reason why I put it on this morning ; and now you say I am
looking well,"

" A proof you look well in everything, my dear," said Mr. Smith,
tapping his second egg."

" You are breaking that egg at the wrong end, Mr. Smith,"
recommenced the provoking wife ; " it is very odd you cannot
remember that the round end is the end to break an egg. Well, it is
strange ; you know liow these little things annoy me, yet you persist in
doing them."

Mr. Smith restrained himself, for peace' sake ; but he continued
breaking the egg at the sharp end, and having eaten it, rang the bell.
" Do not forget to stop the omnibus," he said to the servant.

" The 'buss you go by, sir, to the city, has been gone an hour :
I told you the time, sir, while you were reading," replied the
servant.

Mr. Smith was provoked, perhaps, with himself, but he looked
first at the servant and then at his wife, who was dividing her toast
into very small particles, and throwing it at the little spaniel. " Well,"
she exclaimed, " that was not my fault, I'm sure. I had nothing to do
with your delay !"

" I did not say you had, Mrs. Smith," he answered.

"No, but you looked — you looked, sir!" Then, with a perfect
change of voice, she whined out, " God help us poor women 1 We
little know what we may live to endure ! "

BEAR AND FOUBEAR. 429

"StiifT!" murmured the angry gentleman, drawing on his gloves,
and marching out of the room.

Mrs. Smith poised her spoon over her cup of chocolate. " He will
hardly go," she thought, " without saying good-bye ; he never did thai
yet." She listened, and certainly the hall-door did not either open or
shut. His step paused — it returned — a smile of petty triumph
agitated her lips. No, he went up stairs. The smile, however,
increased, for slu- knew he would look in as he came down. He
did look in.

" Can I do anything in the city for you?"

Mrs. Smith sipped her chocolate, as if unconscious of iier luishand
presence or his words.

" Elizabeth, do you want anything from the city ?"

" If I did, you would forget to bring it."

" Well, jierhaps so. I shall be home to dinner at five."

" I wish — though I suppose it is little use mij wishing — but I do
wish that you would sometimes dine at the rluh. Now, last night, i(
you had invited those men to dine with you at tlie club, you would have
enjoyed yourself more, and I should not have felt the poor casUiway I
did." Mrs. Smith intended this as a bit of touching eloquence, but she
had undermined her own influence by a system of annoyance which
some women fancy augments, when it really destroys, their power.

"Are you in earnest?" inquired Mr. Smith, advancing into the
room, and looking steadfastly at his wife — "an- you in earnest in
saying that you wish I would dine at the club?"

" Why, ye.s ; you wouhl git better dinners there; and you an- hard
to plea.He in that way ;" and slu- looked down at her chocolate with a
pretty mincing expression of countenance.

" Very well, Klizabeth," he replied, " I will dine there to-d.iy. It
in at your request ; my memory, will l)e clear enough to renjember
that;" and without another wor«l he left the house-, and his lady to the
cxercinc of her temper and imagination. WInle ICli/.abelh Smith wa.s
thinking her Nmnll thoughts, and arranging her Hniall ways, Madeline
Manwfieid wan seated by her hunband'n side ; his face wan turne<l from
her, no as to conceal what he did not wish her tn obs4TVC.

430 woman's trials.

" What you say, Madeline," he answered at last to much that she
had spoken — "what you say is true; I grant you that; but it is
impossible. If I were to change my style of living, it would be talked
of at tlie clubs, wliere things small, as well as things great, are
canvassed, the one with as much eagerness as the other. My credit
would be shaken."

" It is shaken already, Mansfield," she interrupted. "Now do not
shrink from or shudder at it ; I knoiv it is shaken. If it were not, do
you think I should have heard it ? But shrinking will not re-establish
it, nor will bravado ; difficulties must be encountered, to be overcome.
I am sure," she added with admirable tact, " I have heard you say
so many times — be they as bad as they can be, they must be met?"

" You are going out of your usual track," said her husband in
a severe voice, and evidently anxious to escape from her and from
himself.

" I am doing," she replied, " as I have ever done ; I am following
in yours. I have shared your heart, Mansfield, and your prosperity ;
and if adversity — — "

" Why," he interrupted — " why say if adversity ? Madeline, you
are a very raven this morning. Who dared to speak of adversity ? It
cannot come. Your marriage settlement would protect you and our
child. Ad%'ersity ! — like all women, you speak as if a temporary
inconvenience were decided ruin. Wfio has dared to bandy my name
in this manner?" He rose from his chair, and seizing his hat, would
have left tlie room, had not his wife prevented him.

"You will not hear me, Mansfield, will not confide in me; but
although you do not know me, you believe in me. You know I would
not breathe, much less tell, an untruth. I will not detain you : only
this, whatever may occur, there is my settlement to prop your credit.
I can live and rejoice in poverty, but I could not bear your tarnished
name. Do not hesitate to consider mine, in every sense of the word,
yours. If you would only allow me, there are a thousand things I
could retrench in."

Mr. Mansfield looked at her steadily, and then said, " Would you
consent to relinquish this house?"

BEAK AND FORBEAR. 431

" Most willingly — house, carriage, all — go to a suburban cottage at
once. There would be nothing strange in that. I have been ill, and
need change, and pure air, and quiet. Indeed that would be no sacri-
fice," was her reply in a cheerful voice.

" Would you take our boy and go abroad," he persisted, " for two
or three years ?"

Madeline's colour came and wont rapidly. "Without you?"
she faltered.

" Certainly — there would be nothing strange in your going abroad ;
the boy would improve rapidly in languages ; and you would (if the
crisis came which you consider so inevitable) avoid much pain.

"Mansfield!" exclaimed Madeline, panting in her utterance,
" why will you speak thus, as if we could have a divided interest '. I
could not, I do not want to, avoid pain. Even if I loved you not, the
sacred bond that binds us would prevent it. Anything but that,

Mansfield;" and she added, while a faint smile struggled on her lips,
" I am sure you did not mean it."

" We have met so seldom of late," he answered, " that I should
not think you could feel it so much." He did not venture to look at
his wife after these cold words; if he had, his heart, always moveable,
must have turned with love and sympatliy towards the struggling
agony she sought to repress. And it was her agony alone she strove
to overcome. No desire to return pain for pain arose from her
generous heart ; nor had she occasion, in this great sorrow, to resort
to the talismanic proverb which had so often taught her, on less trying
occa-sions, to " forliear."

" Vt'v have met seldom, certainly," she saiil, and tin- composure of
lier manner and the trem))Iing of her voice were at sad variance ; " and
I confess that I have Nutfcred much in consequence ; but I knew, day
by day, that you were wrll ; I knew you wore annised. ll" I did not
always sec you, I heard your voic«- or your step ; aiul if you did not
come, I coidd still exiH-cl you ; l»ut I cannot leave you. I have never
been oiHcious — never craved for attention, highly as I value it — never,
never disturbed your nrr.ing<-mentH, or pushed myself into secrets it
ivoidd have ^ivrn you pain to have revealed. Oh. Mansfield ! let

tS^ woman's trials.

what will liappen, do not thrust me from you." The idea of parting
from her husband overcame every other feeling ; and her deep and
earnest love, of which Mansfield felt he was everyway unworthy,
recalled much of his past affection. He left her with the assurance of
attending to her wishes, of steadily investigating his affairs, of looking
all difficulties in the face boldly and at once, and, above all, promising
never to hint even at the idea of their separation again. All this, and
more, he promised, and all this he intended at the moment to perform ;
but when his cab drove from the door, Madeline felt the oak upon
which she leaned changing into a reed ; for all her love could not blind
her to the fact of Mansfield's vacillation. It was well that she had the
truest Comforter to resort to. She knew that a married woman ought
to have no friend, in the highest acceptation of the word — no one to
whom she can open her heart fully and entirely — except her husband.
Her mother was dead, and her only near relative — a warm-hearted old
bachelor uncle — Uncle Oliver — had all the confidence she deemed it
right to give to any ; but she had no thought of complaining of her
husband to any human being.

Before the sound of Mr. Mansfield's wheels had died on his wife's
ears, her faith in his promises was gone. It was in vain she recalled
them ; and the experience of the days and weeks that followed, only
proved the total want of firmness of purpose in him she loved. Instead
of retrenching, he seemed to rush more wildly than ever he had done
before through the whirl of the world ; and her inquiries were avoided
with a wild burst of gaiety, or some bitter words, that were replied to
only by unseen tears. She frequently blamed herself for not more
firmly withstanding what she considered wrong; but her position was
one of extreme difficulty. If she were sure of her husband's affection,
she would have been better able to stem the destruction, whose course
she watched as tiie devoted villagers watch the stream of lava that
must overwhelm them in the end. Sometimes his mad gaiety would
flash like a meteor through the house ; at others he was so moody, so
reserved, so evidently in a state of mental and bodily suffering, that all
she could do was to attend to and console him ; and this he would not
always permit. She was watching for him one night — longing for, yet

BEAR AND FORBEAR. 433

dreading the knock that would announce his arrival — when the servant
brouf^ht her a letter, a few hurried lines, saying he was suddenly called
by business to Antwerp, but she should hear from him in a few days.
A line at the bottom of the scrawl implored Heaven to bless her and
her child. The next day passed. She told her servant she would not
be at home to any one. She might have spared the command, for no
one called ; it was a damp, misty, cliilling day ; the fog entered the
drawing-room ; and spread its hazy curtain over the looking-glasses,
and mirrors, and windows, and crept about the marble tables and
bronzes, making them feel clammy to the touch.

The following day was bright, and full of sunshine : she ordered her
carriage, and drove into the Park. She was seeking refujje from
herself She bowed eagerly to all she knew, and her salutations were
always respectfully and warmly returned ; but she tliouglil people
seemed astonished to see her there. " /'y. she could not tell, but she
pulled the check and said " Home." Her uncle was in tin- drawing-
room ; she saw his face at the window, where she had looked expecting
to see her boy ; but before she was on the stairs, the old gentleman
met her — nay more, he kissed her, and led her into the library. There
was something so melancholy in his eyes as he gazed on hor, that she
felt suffocated ; and unclasping her cloak, and throwing b.ick her
bonnet, she said, as calmly as she could — '* You have something more,
dear uncle, than mere town-talk to tell me to-day. Is Mansfuld dl ?"

"The rascal!" exclaimed Uncle Oliver — "the most desperate
rascal I "

'* Voii are sure he is not ill ?" she persisted, greatly relieved, and
for a moment losing sight uf the injurious epithet in her deep anxiety
for him she loved.

" III I — not he — such rascals arc never ill."

" Thank God ! " Hhe ejaculated ; and covering her face with her
hanilN, iolibetl bitterly for a few moments.

"I vMsh," thought Uncle Oliver, as he paced up ;uul «lown the
room — *' I wifih I knew exactly what I ought to «ny, and what I ought
to do. With any other woman, the diirirulty would be how to keep
her down ; but with her, it wdl br how to gel her up. "

" Don't cry, Madeline ; don't cry," lie said at last ; " I am sure
the involvements are greatly exaggerated ; and, after all, there is not
so much to regret, for he was never at home ; so cheer up, my dear
niece. I should be as happy as a prince," he muttered to himself;
" quite, if she would only call him a rascal."

" Whatever there is to tell," slie said, " tell me now; I can bear it.
I would not seek any whom we know, lest I should hear ill of him. I
dreaded lest some one should come and tell me evil ; but I do not mind
you — I never minded you. Uncle Oliver."

The old man looked sadly perplexed ; he did not know how to say
what he felt he must communicate. He began by talking of Mr.
Mansfield's embarrassments, and follies, and extravagances. Of all
these, Madeline assured him, he might spare himself the mention : she
knew all. Yes, she believed every one; and she thought she saw a
clear and direct way to avert the disgrace, though not the ruin. Her
relative looked astonished. " Then you know," he inquired, " the
cause of his journey; do you not?"

" Business, uncle, I suppose ; business," was her answer.

" Most villanous business," he said. " Have you had no suspicion
that he loved you less than formerly ? — have you had no reason to
believe why ?"

Madeline grew deadly pale. " It cannot be, uncle," she said, " that
you come to me, in this hour of trial, to insult me by the gossiping
reports of the town ? "

He placed a letter in her hands ; it was directed to him from
her husband, signed by his name, entreating him to go at once to
" poor Madeline," and cursing his evil destiny. It left no doubt as to
who was the companion of his flight; no doubt as to his having violated
the laws of God and man. Madeline folded up the letter deliberately,
but, in tlie act of returning it to her uncle, she fell on the floor. I'here
was neither scream nor tear; she fell as one struck off the life- roll into
eternity. When she recovered her reason, she asked if Mr. Oliver were
in tiie house. He was soon by her side ; but, contrary to his expecta-
tions, contrary to his hopes, deep and bitter as were Mrs. Mansfield's
feelings, no word of censure towards her husband escaped her lips.

BEAR AND FOKUEAR. 435

"I am nut able to tljink ytt," slie said ; "I c;iii ou]y fir I ; l)iit
to-morrow I shall be better. Come to me to-morrow at two, and pray
for me, dear uncle ; I need the prayers of the good and gracious
creatures of the world." The poor old gentleman brushed many tears
away from his furrowed cheeks, and drove immediately to those who
could give him information as to the real state of Mansfield's affairs.
He found they were by no means in so bad a state as he had heaid at
first ; that if the heedless man had possessed the moral courage to
investigate them steadily, some outlay at the present, and retrenchment
for the future, would brinj; theuj round. But it was in vain he sou<iht
to discover what spell could have deprived Mansfield of his reason, and
tempted him to outrage all honour as he had done; indeed Mr. Oliver
was so incensed at Mansfield, that he seemed to retain only what told
most against him. And what was there that did nol tell against him .'
That a foreigner, who.se code of morals falls far short of our English
standard, and whose profession extracts the l)lush from the purest
cheek that braves the glare of footlights and men's eyes — that such a
one should have admired the gay, the witty, the handsome Mansfield,
was no wonder. She had no position to sacrifice, no scruple to over-
come ; but that lie should have been so infatuated, was past all under-
standing. 'Jhe next morning, although he was rather before than after
his appointment, Mrs. Mansfield had been in consultation for .some
hours with her husband's *' man of business." When she rose to meet
her uncle, he was .shocked at the change which a few hours had
wrought ; but she was perfectly calm, and the lofty purj)ose that filled
lur min«l imparted a more than usual dignity to her manner. She left
the room to procure some papers, and the lawyer, addressing her uncle,
Maid, " Her going out, sir, is n relief to me. I never undersKMxl what
woman c<»uld do before. She gives up the tr/iuli- of her own property
— tlic ic/tolr, sir, without reserve, (o free her husband ; :ind this, mind
you, unconJitionnlli/. She is devoted, heart and soul, (o Have /<(.«
credit — never thinks of the privations, or the loss of position, or (he
confined niiani, which such a voluntary sncrifu-e will oblige ihem to
submit to for some years."

" Nor of her child ?" (pie)ttu>ned the old genileman.

436 woman's trials.

" I spoke of him," was the reply, "and she said the proudest event
of her hfe was being able to save his father's name from reproach."

" Her head is not cool ! " exclaimed her imcle. *' No woman's
head can be cool whose life has been but one entire sacrifice to an
ungrateful rascal, working up her maxim of " bear and forbear" until

it brings "

" Peace in the end, believe me," added Madeline, who had returned
unperceived by her uncle. " Believe me, for whatever I suffer, I shall
be greatly rewarded — rewarded as women deserve to be, when they do
their duty.''

"Duty!" repeated Uncle Oliver — "duty! Stuff! A scoundrel,
to desert "

" Uncle, uncle," interposed Madeline ; " this house is his — I am
his wife ; and before me no one — not even you, who are my nearest
and dearest kinsman — not even you — shall utter one disrespectful word
of my husband."

The lawyer thought it better to withdraw, promising to do every-
thing that could be done, and to see her again as soon as possible.
Uncle Oliver remonstrated, and stormed, or tried to storm ; but his
anger dissolved under the influence of her gentle words. She could
not, indeed, trust herself to name her husband's name ; but she spoke
of what a happy thing it was that she could do so much ; and she
entreated her uncle to bear with her if he loved her, and to believe that
she should yet be very happy — and here tears denied the assertion of
her lips — and she would have said a great deal more perhaps, avoiding,
yet returning to, the subject of her sorrow, but she heard Mrs. Joseph
Smith's voice upon the stairs, and hastily retired into another room.

Mrs. Smith hoped her cousin would see her. How sorry she was;
every one said how it would be from the first, with her yielding quiet
way, suffering herself to be trampled on, grudging herself every little
indulgence, while for gloves and flowers alone Mr. Mansfield squan-
dered in one day upon "the creature" eight-and-thirty pounds. She
would take care not to be such a patient fool ; and so ran on the little
lady, repeating all, or at least all she had heard of, the on dits of the
town, concerning what, fresh as it was at that moment, would never

BEAU AM) FORBEAR. 437

extend to a nine days' wonder. Now, Uncle Oliver could find fault
with Mrs. Mansfield himself, and say more than Lizzy had ventured
to say, but he would suffer no one else to do so. He told her that if
the town talked of Madeline's forbearance, they would never have an
opportunity of talking of /jt^rs; and that she was more inclined, if " the
town" said truly, to emulate the gentleman than the lady. He road
her a long lecture ; told her she had cast God's goodness from her ;
and ended by oft'ering to see her home, " where she would," he added,
" do well to remain more constantly, except when escorted thence by
her husband." Indeed it was painful to see how the easy quiet nature
of Mr. Smith, disturbed out of its usual course by the perpetual annoy-
ances of a silly wife, sought the comfortable refuge of his gilded club,
"soaking" away existence, and becoming more and more attached to the
creature-comforts, as opposed to the intellectual — of which clubs are
not the nurseries. He became, perhaps, on the whole, as little inclined
to bear as she was to forbear; in all domestic matters, instead of draw-
ing togfthiT, running full tilt against each other; sometimes with only
straws, it is true, but still opposed. Mrs. Smith was ever whining
about her husband's continual absence froni honie ; and when lu- did
come, he more tban once expressed his displeasure, of course at tin-
wrong time, at Mr. Orepoint's being installed "as the friend of llie
family." The world brgan to talk — the ladies, of course, finding fault
with the woman, and the gentlemen laughing at botli. In this war,
conmienced of nothing, the happiness of both was wrecked.

After a fi-w weeks had ])assed, Uncle Oliver received an unexpected
letter from .Mrs. .Mansfield. She expressed much gratitude to him
for the atl'ectiunate tenderness he evinced towards her, and eontinuid,
" Finding that my husband wUl not return to ICngland, yet that wc nnist
together ni^n variouH papers, so as to realise a liutlicient sum of money
to (liMcharge all that is necessary, I have determined to g(» at once to
Paris, where I find he in, and let the lawyers meet mi (perhaps I sluudd
write me) there. Is it not unaccountably strange, my ilear uncle, ih.it
he should |N>rKist in refusing to 'rob' tnc, ns he calls it, when in reality
the only jewel I prized — himself — is gone ? IndejH nclent of all businciis-
niotives, I feel it is my duty to endeavour to wui him back. I c.nuiot

438

WOMAN S TRIALS.

])ope that the love which deserted me, when I was still what he once
admired, will retin-n; but I know that my devotion and desire to make
him happy may withdraw him from what, sooner or later, must bring
its punishment. In this great trial I have some consolation. I cannot
call to mind having ever driven him from home by any disturbing or
fretful conduct ; my exceeding love for him made my enjoyment so
perfect, that, whatever cause I might have for discontent, vanished at
the bare echo of his voice. But although I cannot accuse myself of a
word that made him frown, I remember how much he must have
lacked amusement from one whose love, though deep, was silent ; and
whose anxious thoughtful character, united to delicate health, rendered
her an unassuming companion for one so sought after, so admired, so
brilliant as Mansfield. Men have greater temptations than ever, of
late years, to lure them from their homes. Those garish clubs! where
everything is done to render a man perfectly and entirely independent
of his own house ! People little consider how a separation in amuse-
ments leads to a separation of interests. I tried to enter into his, and,
strange as it will sound to you, though I am now deserted, I feel
assured my duties have been so fulfilled, he cannot fail to remember,
at one time or other, that he has one unchanging friend, whose lip
never spoke reproach — whose heart never beat but with love for him.
I fear you will hardly understand me when I say that in this is
my unspeakable consolation — in this, forsaken as I am now, shall I
triumph in the end. Yes, my dear uncle, if women have patience to
endure, they may die, but they must conquer. Do not mistake me —
I mean by conquer, the achievement of no command, the exercise of no
authority ; but I do mean that it will be their exceeding glory to win
back the wanderer — to find him return — to save him for time, and,
through God's blessing, for eternity. This is a Christian woman's
triumph — a triumph in which angels will rejoice. I do not say I shall
achieve this noiv with Mansfield — he is still in the toils ; but when
passion fades, and reason and affection return, he will return with
them. Do not think I do not feel what all women must, under such
circumstances; nor do not give me more merit than I deserve. I love
him — that of itself is sufficient to keep me in the path of duty ; but

BEAR AND FORBEAR. 439

even it' I did not, I would, I liope, do from principle uliat I now do
from affection. It is only tlicn I should deserve praise. Poor Mans-
field ! he will have that to contend with hereafter that will bitterly try
his temper and character — the fallin;^ away of summer friends, which,
like summer flies, vanish at the first chill of winter — the loneliness and
self-reproach — the restricted means — the impossibility of indulgence in
tastes and refinements which habit has rendered necessary — the cold-
ness of the few whom he respects. These form his future — a future
that would drive him to utter despair, or more degraded sin, unless
some haven be opened to receive him."

There was nmch more, but this is all that need i)e quoted from a
letter that startled and astonished him much — by which her feelings
could not be comprehended, nor her mind understood. She was already
pone when Uncle Oliver received the letter — gone with her child, his
maid, and the faithftd Leu is.

" Have you heard the news?" exclaimed Mrs. .Joseph Smith, as a
lady of her acquaintance entered the drawing-roou), an«l discovered
Mr. Orcpoint holding a skein of worsted wiiich she was winding
for her " crochet." " I inn really (|uite broken-hearted and half-
ashamed that one so nearly related to me should be so tried, and so
lost, because there never wax anything so foolish. Madeline Mansfii Id
has given up the whole of her marriage settlement to clear away all the
debts an«l things that tormcnti'd her good-for-nothing husband. So
much; but that is not all. lie woidd not come back to sign the
papers which were necessary, and so she is quietly gone to find liiui.
Now, did you ever in all your lil'e hear of such a thing? — putting in
practice what we read i»f in ol<l InHiks-diily meant to be riad, not
doiu', you know, niy dear. I never could have believed suih lolly ;
the fiM>liHh, foolinh woman ; and for such a husband ! "

" .Most true," said Mr. Orepoint, while working wiih marvellous
induHtry at a knot in (he lamb'H-wdol ; " for such a husband — or for
any huiband ! "

" I wnntcd lo ank yt»u," returned the visiter, " if then- will In- an
auction at the |M)or ManHfieldH' ' It is a matter in winch I feel (he
derpi-»t intercsl."

" I don't know ; but if there should be, and I could get Smith, by
some miracle, into a good humour, I should like that harp — it is such
a love ! "

" I shall certainly go and see the things, whether I buy or not,"
half-yawned Mr. Orepoint. " I always doubted the console-tables
being real mosaic ; and I must ascertain, as I have a bet at the club
about them."

" Everything in the house was real," said Mrs. Smith, bridling a
little — for she fancied the observation a "slap" at the family — "I assure
you everything in the house was real."

"Except the happiness," sneered the man about town — ^^ except
the happiness."

PAIIT Till. rillKI).

ooR Madeline! slic had overrated her strensjtlj
>>Yv'lk ,, «Tid powers of endurance ; the nearer she drew
t ) Paris the more nervous she became — tlie less
fitted for the task she had set herself. At one
time she would order the postilions to double
J.-*) tijcir -speed, and the next direct them to ^'o slower, for
that she was distracted iiy the rapidity of movement.
f' -§ .More than once she felt she hud done foolishly in bringinj;
■ :i} her chihl with her. She enterlnine<l no idea of u-iinjj him, as
m a drama, to draw her husband back. She knew this to be
««pially mean as UHchni, and that nothinj^ but time could restore her
hukband to himself and to her.

An tlie carriage whirled throuj^h the slreel* of Paris, Madeline's
heart bc.it no (piickly. that she could hardly breathe: even the servants
iieemwl loo abwirlM-d to note ihv strangeness of the motley city.

.J ».

442 woman's trials.

Artliur had been some time asleep, and when the postilions drew up
at the hotel, Mrs. Mansfield felt completely paralysed ; she could not
move. Her blood, stagnant for a moment, rushed suddenly to her
head, which swam and reeled ; and although her maid assured the
servants that her mistress was only suffering from fatigue, she feared
she was actually dying.

The next day, when bodily exertion had somewhat abated,
Madeline collected her thoughts, and endeavoured to arrange the
best, because the most effective, mode of appealing to her husband.
Slie ascertained that he was still in Paris. The lawyer was expected
to arrive that evening, or the next morning. Should she suffer him to
see Mansfield first, or should she go herself to her husband ? There
would have been no cause for deliberation, if she was certain of seeing
only him. She would go at once; but could she bear to meet another ?
" Nothing will happen me, good Lewis," she said, in reply to his
respectful protest, — "nothing, believe me. Let the man drive on."
The servant bowed ; and the uneasy machine, lined with crimson-
velvet — a specimen of finery and discomfort — proceeded to rattle over
the ill-paved streets. " Open the door, Lewis," she said ; " I will
myself inquire."

" May God protect her ! " muttered the old servant ; " how pale
and resolute she looks, and yet how gentle !"

To Madeline's inquiries, the attendant who answered said that
Monsieur was out, but " Madame" was at breakfast. Mrs. Mansfield
j)aused, and the repeated question of " Who shall I say wishes to see
her ? " fell unheard upon her ear. She walked on.

It was a strange, 1 had almost written an unnatural, meeting — vice
and virtue face to face — and yet such scenes occur almost daily in this
great world, without many taking note of them. The unhappy woman,
whom Madeline found reading one of the frivolous journals of the day,
rose to receive her with an ease and grace of manner which, at any
other time, or from any other person, would have at once prepossessed
her in her favour. She requested her to sit, but Mrs. Mansfield was
for a few moments incapable of motion. She stood with her eyes
fixed upon the frail and delicate-looking Italian songstress, and at

BEAR AND FORBEAK. •1-43

last, in as firm a voice as she could command, said, " My name is
Mansfield." A tremor, sudden and violent, agitated tlic frame of the
stranger ; she attempted to ring the bell, but her arm fell powerless at
her side ; her lips moved, but no sound escaped them ; and at length,
after various ineffectual struggles, she fainted. Mrs. Mansfield moved
to where she had fallen upon the couch, from which she had risen
on her entrance. She looked at her pale face, and, u|)turned as it then
was to the light, she saw how much older she was than she had
imagined, and what strong lines, passion and — it might be her imagina-
tion, but she thought — sorrow had eaten into her excjuisite and delicate
features. She poured over her brow some can de Cologne from a
Jlaijon that stood on the table, and pushed a pillow beneath her head.
As she gazed on one who had done so much to destroy her peace, she
felt suflbcated ; acute pains darted through her irame, and her head
and temples throbbed violently. She was there, alune and powerless —
her for whom she had been deserted. All that Maileline had i vt r
lieard or read of demons taking possession of the human form crowded
her confused mind. How beautifully hideous the woman became the
longer she gazed ! .She bent over her to examine more keenly the
features she hoped never again to see, and her eyes wandered to an
ornament that, suspended from a black velvet ribbon, glittered on her
bosom — it was her hushaniVs ininiature ! If a serpent had stung her,
she could not have wrilhe<l luider a more bitter pang. Strange it
was that she, knowing all she did, should in a nionuiit l)ecome s<i i
changed. Strange that a disposition to revenue shouUt rush through i
her heart and brain, nerving her arm, so that she could have clutched
and used n dagger in the w dd anguish of that fearful moment. As if
the fleml h.nd fully prepared for that tc-rrd)le passage of her feveretl
life, almost beneath her hand, close to where the insensible «<unan lay,
iienide the very pillow, was a glittering stilitlo, one «>f those with
j«-welled handles which are us<'d up«in the stage; but the momentary
frenzy {MsimmI nwny na rapidly almost as it cnnie. Hewddered by its
unknown violence, dreading herself, chilled in <'very p<»re, as if the
burning fever of the past emotion li.i«I drawn vitality even fr«»m her
hliivering heart, she nlnggered to the uintlow, and throwing up

444 woman's trials.

the cumbrous frame, gasped in the reviving air, as if she had never
breathed it before.

When she recovered herself, she saw the stranger looking around
with a distrait air, rising slowly from the couch, and passing her hand
repeatedly across her brow, as if she was recalling the events
of the minutes past. When she perceived Madeline, she clasped
her hands and screamed. JNIrs. Mansfield, perfectly restored, said,
" Make no noise ; you shall hear me ; you owe me more than a few
moment's silence."

*' You will not hurt me," exclaimed the trembling foreigner — *' you
will not hurt me."

" May God forbid that I should hurt you ! I would rather save
you from yourself," was the reply. When Madeline recommenced,
her voice was weak and feeble, but it gained strength as she continued.
The Italian listened at first with compressed lips, a haughty and
determined gathering of her brows, and her small hands so tightly
clasped together, that the jewels by which her fingers were encircled
pressed into the flesh, while her eyes were fixed on the ground. At
first, too, Madeline's words came slowly from her lips. She drew a
picture of a devoted wife and mother, one who loved as passionately,
as firmly, and more holily than the person she addressed could have
done — deserted by her husband and the father of her child — for whom?
She paused ; there was no reply. As she continued, she gained
strength and courage. She used no offensive word. She remembered
that the Italian was not tutored as she had been ; that she was not only
born of other blood, but educated — if such tutelage could be called
education — in a different world ; not thinking her thoughts, hardly
understanding her language. Her momentary madness overcome,
she was quite her noble self, and that self was full of the charity
" which suffercth long and is kind." She spoke of the past — of her
deep and devoted love to her husband, and of his to her ; of the
present— her utter desolation of heart and spirit, forsaken by him to
whose love and protection she had a right given her by the Almighty ;
of her child — of the effect his father's conduct must have on his after-
life ; how, despite her exertions to keep him in ignorance of his parent's

BEAK AND FOIIBEAR. 445

abandonment of lier and himself, he must know it hereafter, and grow
up with the consciousness of his father's sin ; nay, that on her would
devolve the almost impossible task of dividing the sin and the sinner —
teaching him to hate the one, and cleave to the other. She tlien
passed, by means of a few rapid but heartfelt words, to the hereafter
to which they must all come — the hereafter of thought and age —
leading to the dread hereafter of the grave. Before this, she saw-
that, however passionate and wilful, however wayward and devoid of
woman's most essential virtue, the frail creature she addressed might
he, feeling was at work within her. Her expressive features changed,
her brows relaxed, large tears trembled on her eyelashes, and her
fingers moved convulsively. Madeline said, that whatever her feelings
might l)e, whatever she felt towards her, she did not come armed with
a wife's authoritv to reproach, to wound, to insult her ; slie came
as one woman to another, to show her the ai)yss of guilt into
which she had herself plunged, and tin- misery to which she had
devoted others.

Madeline perceived that, proinpti-d by a sudden impulse, she
endeavoured to unclasp the velvet from her throat ; but her agitation
prevented her efl'ecting her purpose. She tore the band apart, flung
the miniature on the ground, then springing up, her foot was raised to
crush it int(» atoms. .Madeline held her back. " No. no," she said,
"/Art/ shall never be while I am present."

" There!" exclaimed the passionate woman; "you do not liati- him
this moment as I do--eould not cursL- him as 1 couKl."

" See," replied .Madeline, " the different character of our aflictions.
Vou, wliDUi he has ho little wronged, would curse him ; I, his forsaken
wife, the mother of his child, prny f<ir an<l bless iiim every hour
I live."

"Oh, wliyl" •ebbed the halian — "nhtj did no our tell mr ihti
brforr. I knew he had a wife, but ilid not think »he was like you;"
and flinging liertM-lf on her knees beside .Madeline, .uul hi«ling her face
in her drein, she became almost cr»nvuUe«l with weeping. It wiMild
have needed a ulerner heart ih.m Mr;*. Man»fi«ld'i» to have »nnesse«l
such sudden agony unmoved. There wa» none <»f the liardne»i« of

hopeless sin about tlie frail creature who clung to her — more as a
child clings to a mother, than as one woman supplicates another.
" Let me weep," she said ; " such tears do me good. T never shed
such tears before. I thought if you came you would kill me ; but
you forgive me. I will sin no more. If you forgive me, I will sin
no more." This, and much of the same kind, was said in the musical
tones of her native tongue ; and Madeline's emotions, strange as it may
seem to say so, might well be envied. Here was a glorious Christian
triumph. She had wrestled with and overcome herself; she had
forborne not only violence, but reproach ; and if her mission was
even still to be accomplished, she had awoke in an erring woman
a sense of wrong, a resolve of right — sentiments and feelings which, if
properly moved, would lead many a sister from sin to salvation, even
at the eleventh hour. Suddenly the Italian put her finger to her lip,
and pointed to a door which Mrs. Mansfield had not before perceived.
At the same moment she picked up the miniature, placed it in Madeline's
hand, and closing her fingers upon it, pressed them to her lips. *' He
is coming," she said in a hoarse voice ; " he was not out — not up ; that
leads to his dressing-room." She flew across the chamber to a door at
the other end, then returning and bending towards where Mrs.
Mansfield sat, overwhelmed by the expectation of seeing her husband,
she muttered something which Madeline did not understand, and,
sobbing more bitterly than ever, quitted the apartment. Mansfield
entered shortly after. Mansfield! — but how worn, how broken down
he looked ! — not as one from whom health fades gradually, not as one
whom over-labour, or over-anxiety, works down from the healthful
bright-eyed man to the bent and hollowed shadow of humanity,
struggling with the toils and troubles of life, but struggling with an
honest purpose and a clear conscience. Such a one may be bent and
bowed to the earth, but he never can have the torn, and soiled, and
haggard look that effaces God's image in the debauchee, or even in
him in whom weakness produces the effects of vice. They looked
at each other in silence. Mansfield would have returned whence
he came, if he had had the power. While she, first and most
enduring in all good deeds, advanced to meet him. She could not

BEAR AND FORBEAR. 447

speak. She extended her hands towards him — he saw the miniature.
" I have seen her," she said ; " I have exposed to her her own sin,
and she has blessed me for it ; " and this was the only allusion she
made, durinj^ that important interview, to his crime. On the contrary,
she endeavoured to draw his attention to the mere business-portion of
her mission ; but this was impossible. He could not attend ; he sank
into a paroxysm of the deepest despair — reproached himself, reproached
her — said he* could have endured anything rather than the love she
bore him — that it was a curse, a very poison. She heard all this; she
heard it all, crushing her love closer and closer into her heart —
assuming a coolness of counsel, so as to assure his mind, in its present
mood, that it was business — the advantage both would derive in the
end, the advantage their child would derive — that brought her there —
not deoying her affection, but never for a moment dwelling on it.
.Mansfield caught at the mention of the child, and inquired if he were
ill Paris. He became at once anxious to see him ; he would have him
there: but no; he would go to him. It must be evident to all, that
mere feelings and affections, however pure and kind they might be,
could never have guided .Madeline through the perils of this moment-
ous day. Her husband's eyes, unnaturally wandering, now tierce with
sudden brightness, now dim, and red, and in-looking, the shivering
despair which made him firm in the belief that nothing could save him,
the unmanly dread of investigating the dihtor and cr«'ditor cohnnns of
his accotmts ; all these called for her strength and made her, «hile she
trembled for /lis reason, exert her own. 'Ihe vacillations of the man
of fashion, from whom the gildiig is all worn ofV — the wit, whose
arrows arc no longer tipped with brilliants — ihe man, in fact, once so
rich in all but moral slnti^t/i, n<»w poor in all things, was as tenderly
beloved by his devoted wife as on the day she place«l tlicir first-born
in hii arma ; the same rich natural un.sullied love hoven d with angel
wing* above the wreck which, like the life-boat, !«he was just in time
lo save. There are passages in human nature .so difTicnIt to decipher,
that the closest obst-rver cannot account fitr the workings of the variouti
feelingn, and their ef]ect», broken up, ns they nre, by thought.^, and
motivrs, and intentions. Madeline could not understand how it uas

448 woman's trials.

that her husband left the hotel without seeming to think or care for the
creature whose image haunted her, even wliile she looked upon him.
The sight of his child subdued him altogether ; and as the little fellow
clung round his neck, its father burst into tears so rapid and violent,
that his strong frame seemed hardly able to endure the shock.
Anxiously did Madeline look for the lawyer's arrival with the ne-
cessary papers ; every carriage that drove into the courtyard drew her
to the window. She knew that if he came then, Mansfield would do
everything she required ; but (oh, the misery of having to do with the
unstable !) she could not trust him from hour to hour. She judged of
the present by the past. It was nearly night, and no lawyer had
arrived. Subdued as her husband was by the emotions of the day, he
became suddenly and alarmingly excited, talked wildly and incoherently
of his past experiences, and of what his future should be, and wanted
Madeline to go with him to the opera. This fancy seemed to have
taken possession of his mind altogether. His poor wife would as soon
almost have gone to her grave ; but he insisted, and she prepared to
dress. What a mockery it was, after what she had suffered during the
last twelve hours ! He faulted the simple arrangement of her hair.
" Flowers," he said, " must be mingled there ; she could not go with
her hair unadorned : if she had not brought them with her, she must
send out and buy them. No flowers like the French flowers : " and to
delay the time, she did as he desired. But before they were placed in
her hair to his satisfaction, the excitement deepened into disease. He
complained suddenly of the most racking pain in his head and temples ;
every soimd distracted him, and he could endure no ray of light ; then,
in the midst of his fevered description of a favourite song, he paused,
and in a voice of child-like confidence, whispered, " Let me lay my
head upon your bosom, Madeline ; there was its first peaceful repose,
and there will be its last ; " but there was no repose for a head tortured
with distracting fever of the brain. About an hour afterwards, the
lawyer arrived, to find the unhappy man in the wildest ravings. If
ever Madeline had been tempted to question the will of Providence, it
was then. Before the morning dawned, her husband had ceased to re-
cognise her ; and in his wanderings, the name of another was frequently

BEAR AND FORBtAR. 449

mingled wiili her own. The physicians said that weeks must paw
before the patient had a chance of being able to attend to business of

any kind, if and they shook their heads ; his frame was debilitated,

his constitution anything but strong; they hoped, but they also feared ;
they had never seen the disease under a worse form. It was useless
for the man of business to wait ; when needed, he woidd return. One
thing it is necessary for the honour of human nature to record ; when he
arrived in London, and stated to the various persons whom the subject
concerned, the circumstances under which he had left Mr. and Mrs.
Mansfield, they, without one single exception, expressed their deter-
mination to wait until Mrs. Mansfield should be able to act /or them,
so convinced were they of her noble mind and high integrity. This
compliment, when conveyed to her in the businesb-like letter of the
solicitor, certainly made her heart beat more fervently, though she
read it by the dim lamp-light of a chamber, sick well nigh to death.
It was matter of astonishment to .Madeline's friends how she ever
lived through a month of never-ending watching and suspense. There
was no rest— no reprieve. It was only the exchange of one anxiety
for another. The struggle between life and death, between reason
and insanity, was such, that her very devotion to the sufterer would
have tJinpted lu r to pray that he might be released, had it not been
for the blessed faith which, the greater the peril, the wilder the storm,
will of a surety go on increasing in the true believer; that which causeth
the feeble to cry to the grave for refuge. enabUlh the brave in faith
to defy death. I bus ii w;is with Madeline. 'ihe strength of the
■pirit withstood the tremor of tin- flesh. Shaken for a mom«nt, a» all
(Christians are, at times — however oppresseil, or worn, or weary, in the
twilight, in th«' n«M>n-day, in the dim midnight watcluH. even when she
del nietl him she loved in the valley of the shadow of «hath — shr nrrrr
Htmblrtlf Her worthy Uncle Oliver, much as he bl.imrd her. could
not avoid following her to Pans, wlnre. ilenpite the kindest uilrntum*
in the wnrhl. he materially incren*«d lur tlisconifort, by his «li»likr to
the country and to her hu<«band; b«H noilnng nmved her from her duty.
She wai by her husband's brtUidc one evening, when Mansfield,
who had liccn for upwurtU of three wi-rks in a stale that defiei

.1 M

450 woman's trials.

description, had fallen into a comparatively quiet sleep ; his poor
restless head was still, and his arms were quiet. Madeline was
thankful for the repose, when she thought she heard voices in the
ante-room in low but earnest discourse. The chamber of the sick
man was so spacious, that it took her some little time, stealing
alon<T on tip-toe, to reach the door. There she found Lewis op-
posing a lady's entrance ; not satisfied with his powers of persuasion,
but standing so as to prevent her from entering. Madeline at once
knew who the stranger was ; but the instant she saw Mrs. Mansfield,
she threw herself on her knees, and, in smothered accents, entreated
to see Mr. Mansfield once more. " He will not know me," she
murmured ; " and as I am returning to my own country, I could not
bear to depart without imploring you to grant me this act of mercy."
Instead of repulsing her, as Lewis expected she would have done, she
suffered her to follow her to the bedside, and though her hand
trembled, she shaded the light from his eyes — eyes that, sleeping or
waking, were unconscious of all that had occurred, and only saw the
dissolving phantoms of a heated brain. The Italian looked long and
earnestly upon him, and what passed in her mind can only be known
to the Almighty, for she spoke no word. At last, she sunk on 'her
knees by the bedside, and, pressing her face on the counterpane, wept
most bitterly. The unconscious sufferer tossed his hands, and as
one rested for an instant near her, she kissed it. Madeline turned
away. The quick Italian perceived it ; and rising, vvhispered her, " It
is the last — we shall meet no more." She drew the curtain, and
added, " And you, can you forgive me ? can you really forgive me ?
Can you think of and not curse me ? Are you really so good ? You
are not cold, but calm. Can you forgive the warm blood of the
South ? You, who know it not — have you that charity in the heart
for a sinner — you, who have walked with your God so long ? With
such murmured sentences she bent lowly before Madeline, who, deeply
affected, drew her into another room.

" I do forgive you," she said; "and to prove it, if I can, now or
hereafter, by taking from the small share of the comforts of life which
I am likely to enjoy, I will bestow on you what will save you from the

BEAR AND FOKBEAR. 451

want that is so often the parent of bin. God knows how gladly I will
do it. I would be your friend, and save you. Do not believe that, as
a woman, having sinned, you cannot be saved. There are some, even
of your own land, who would urge this as a reason for your continuing
in sin ; but I tell you it is not so ; and let this conviction be with you
night and day. I, Madeline Mansfield, have told you so — I, who ol all
others you have most wronged. I rt-jH-ai what I have learned from
the book of life ; I say, ' Neither do I condemn thee. Go and sin
no n)ore.' "

And they parted. Long after, when that ardent, erring spirit,
bright, yet spotted with both folly and crime, pursued a profession
replete with dangers and temptations to the purest and the best —
often, amid the plaudiUi of approving hands — often, in the poisoned
atnios]>here of envy, or the cloying sickliness of flattery, or the dangers
of unholy jesting, did that real scene, and those blessed words, return
to the wanderer's memory; never but to serve — often to save!
Whrn the glittering gems, false as the scenes in which they glittered,
fell front her brow, and self-reproach — for nuich that she had left
undone, and much that she had done — smote upon her heart — then
would the words of forgiveness come to her, fidl of healing. And
in lur dreams, the vision of .Madeline would stand before her — the
image of her whom, when unseen and unknown, she hated with a
southern's jealousy; Ixit who, \s hen seen, won her by conduct s<>
diti'erent from anything she had imagined possiiile, that she became
euithnntd to her poor erring spirit, as a holy ineniory, for ever.

How many are there who paits through life without noting that in
the exercise of forbearance is n mighty power — a power felt and
appreciated when the storm and the reproach would be forgotten. At
la.Ht the patient, whom .Madeline had so watched and so prayed for,
1)1 gnu to recover ; hi.H couMeiousneHs returned, and then he hung upon
Matleline's Hordit and .Mndeline'it l(M)kK wich nppnnnlly ihe same
feeling mIucIi mnke% a child cling to ii!» mother, llin mind was e>eii
more feeble than his budy. When he wa* able to endim* nn in>
crease of light in his room, he bf>gged that the curtain might
he wiihdmwn ; and .Madeline Ml writing with noiselest |mmi by

452 woman's trials.

his side. Suddenly she looked up, and saw his eyes fixed
upon her.

" Speak," he said, " speak, for I can hardly believe that you
are there."

Madeline smiled — a smile which expressed more than mere mortal
beautv ever could — and said a few fond words.

He passed his hand over her face, and amid her hair, and then felt
the arm, so thin and worn, that not a trace of its roundness remained.
'* How changed," he sighed — " how sadly changed ; and it is all my
work ! " and he sobbed and cried, covering his face with his hands.
This little scene was frequently repeated. She could not go near him
without his recalling what she was, and blaming himself; while she
assured him tlmt now, as he was recovering, she was quite happy, and
felt her happiness must increase. But time passed, and was passing,
and their affairs must be speedily arranged. The agitation might
cause a relapse, a return of inflammation of the brain, and either
destroy life or deprive her husband of reason. Still, he was much
better, and she prepared him for his lawyer's presence. He came.
But before Mansfield knew of his being in the hotel, he visited Uncle
Oliver, who was laid up with a fit of the gout. While Madeline's
husband slumbered in the easy chair, to which he had been removed,
she went to her uncle's room, and found the old gentleman in a great
state of excitement. As she entered, she heard such epithets as, " the
fool," "the idiot," "the senseless brainless fool." "It's no use, Mr.
Bramwell," quoth the old gentleman when Madeline stood at his side —
" It's no use ; but there is no such thing as a sensible woman — no
such thing. One rushes into one extreme, like Mrs. Smith ; and the
other, like Madeline — and yet, I tell you what it is, sir," he continued,
moving his gout stool with his stick — " I'll tell you what it is — (hang
this stool ; the French air, sir, has spoiled it altogether — warped the
English elm, more than it could ever do to the English oak) — I'll tell
you what it is, it does not at all signify to such a woman as Madeline
who she marries ; it is sufficient that he is her husband — that is all, sir.
If she had the misfortune to be married to a Frenchman — I put the
case as strongly as I can — if she, Madeline, had the misfortune.

BEAR AND FORBEAR. 453

though an Englishwoman, to be married to a Frcnclunan, even to
Bonaparte, my belief is, she'd have followed him into exile — there ! "
and he struck his stick violently upon the floor.

'* My dear uncle," said Madeline.

" Here, again, she gets over me, sir, with her softness, and drives
me mad with her resolution. Look at her ; the shadow of herself —
fading — faded ; nearer death at this moment than he she has been
watching over and praying for, as if he were a saint instead of
a sinner."

"A saint would not need my prayers," replied Mis. Maiislield,
parrying the old gentleman's bitterness.

'* A rascal, " persisted Uncle Oliver.

*• Uncle," interrupted Madeline, " you know I suHer neither hard
names nor hard words towards him."

" Look at her now," said the old gentlenian ; " see how crimson
her cheek is, and how her lip trembles the moment a word is said
against him ; and now, becau«e she will neither quarrel with me, nor
hear him abused, she walks out of the room. I'd give a hundred
pounds to feed the Frenchmen for one day with good roast beef,
if she would oidv call him a rascal I hut she won't — she will not.
Mansfield will sign anything she'll ask now, and so she'll give up her
property ; and when he get's better, he'll be off again. The evil spirit
is lulled, not expelled ; and then, when the devil (who likes new and
rich faces; bids him good-bye, she'll believe he is reformed. My poor
Madeline, my bright pure spirit, so like my sister! And you and I,
Hramwell, who would have made such admirable husbands — you aiul
I " — and the old gentleman shook his head.

" IJiit, sir, ol)Hcrved .Mr. liramwtll, "do you not see th.it Mrs.
.Mantlield's happincHS consiiitx in tlie very s.'icritices you deplore. She
is like ihe angeU — rejoicing over the one that re|H-ntfih ; like the
martyrs— glorying in her <luty, a« they did in their faith; and, despite
what you »ay, she will hav«' her great reward. It is a clear impossi-
bdity that such g{XKlne<if« and .such virtue will In> uiihout their recom-
|)cns€. Mr. .MaiiJilield will utrcngthen in her iitrenglh, and become a
new creature : he will nvv tlic world aji it i« — he will."

454

WOMAN S TRIALS.

" He will do no such thing," exclaimed bitter Uncle Oliver.
" When he docs I will eat my crutch ! "

" Remember your promise,' said Mr. Bramwell, laughing. Uncle
Oliver remained silent, and the lawyer again spoke. " And worn and
faded as Mrs. Mansfield looks, after sufferings that would have killed
persons with stronger bodies but weaker minds, she is not so worn and
faded as the creature who has destroyed her husband's peace and her
own by perpetual jars. Such scenes as have passed between Smith
and his wife make me bless my bachelor estate. A woman who
cannot indulge her husband, may marry a man of five-and-twenty,
but ought never to venture on five-and-thirty. We stiffen mightily
in all things after we pass thirty. Don't you think so, sir ? "

" No, sir ; / do not," said the testy Oliver. " I am an example to
the contrary. I am at sixty-six, as pliant as a willow ; if I were not,
how could I have gone through all I have, and in France too ; but I
heard that Elizabeth had been spoken lightly of, and that Joseph has
absolutely got a habit of drinking."

" They say so," observed the cautious lawyer.

" They ! " repeated Uncle Oliver, angry at what he knew was a
fact receiving confirmation. "And who are 'tliey?' Everybody —
nobody. ' They ! ' ' They ' is a regular scandal-monger — an unknown,
unacknowledged, imseen, unanswered, unauthorised creation, quoted
on all occasions, and, be he ever so great a liar, believed, while
doubted — augh ! "

" You asked me, or I should not have spoken on the subject, as
Mrs. Smith is your relation," said Mr. Bramwell.

" And what is that to me ? " exclaimed Uncle Oliver. " Do you
think I am such a fool as to care for her the more for that ? Relation-
ship is no guarantee for liking or protection ; if it were, would
Mansfield have behaved as he did to that angel?"

" On the other hand, would she behave as she does to any "

*' Not a fair answer, sir," interrupted Uncle Oliver. " She'd
behave well to every one. What do you think of her telling that

woman that she'd But it's no matter ; she little thought 1 heard

her. When I speak of Madeline, I become a fool." And the old

BEAR AND FORBEAR. 455

gentleman wiped his eyes, and then holding his stick by its crooked
head, made it perform sundry evolutions in the air until it un-
fortunately struck his gouty toe, and then he roared so loud, as
to recall his niece, and bring little Arthur scampering into the room.

Those who have not watched the fearful ravages of a disease such
as Mr. Mansfield encountered, are invariably shocked at the appearance
of the convalescent ; and while his friends, who have been with him
day and night think how much better he is, strangers believe him
to be on the brink of the grave. The witty, high-spirited, handsome
Mansfield — the man whose word established the reputation of a horse,
the character of a tailor, the excellence of a new opera or a new novel,
and whose bow, so slight, yet, when necessary, so impressive, was
reported as " the most elegant thing in the Park" — was now a worn,
attenuated, panting skeleton, unable to think, but not to feel, tears
rushing on the smallest occasion to his aching eyes; while his mind,
reeling from over-wrought excitement and disease, could not rely
upon itself. It was piteous, while he signed, and assigned, and did
as Madeline requested, to hear his child-like entreaties that she would
not wrting herself, that she would leave him to perish rather, that she
would let things take their course; while she soothed and calmed him,
fixed, in her high-mindedness, in her purpose to save his credit at the
last, and pass most likely all the remainder of her days in comparative
poverty, glorying — as she smoothed the al)undant tresses of her boy's
head — in the feeling, that her practice and precept would, l)y God's
blessing, give her such power over her son's education, that he would
feel hereafter that the glory of an honest name was better than the
glitter of dishonoureil gold.

"Did you 9VC her when her folly was completcMl .' " whispered
Uncle Oliver to .Mr. Hramwell. ** Did you ever see such a change in
a huninii being ? You w(»uld have thought j»he had just receive*!,
instead of having ju^t reHignrd, a fortune ; wlule her husband wa.1
ya-ing and lia-ing, and \vi|iing his even ; " and then Incle Oliver
wi{K-d his. " Now, I iiup|M)<(e, they will have about four hundred
a-year lo live and educate their child on. The child'ii mnid, I find, is
to return to Kngland with you ; and to-morrow, ns NLinsficId is alilc lo

be moved, tliey leave the hotel and go to Versailles. Ah, sir, she has
sold every jewel she had in the world, and offered Lewis six months'
wages to leave them ; but the old fellow fell on his knees, and entreated
to remain. Don't talk to me about the wickedness of human nature.
Sir, I glory in human nature. There are specimens of it in all ranks
of life, that should have temples built to them. Those who undervalue
it do not deserve well of it ; you may carry that as a conviction to
your grave."

" I believe you are right," said Mr. Bramwell.

" I am, sir ; I am always right ; and I am right in leaving Madeline
for a time. It breaks my heart that I have not thousands to give her.
I try her too much, and slie has plague enough without me. I want
to see after that fool Smith and his wife, and shall be in London a day
or two after you."

Madeline was now alone with her husband, suiting her expenditure
to their narrow means, and rejoicing that she had been able to defray
the cost of his illness from a fund raised by the sale of her jewels.
At first Mansfield's returning health brought back many of his old
habits, and though he tried to restrain them, the very necessity for
doing so produced an irritability of temper that would have worn
out any human being less sweet than Madeline. It is certain that we
are less grateful for large than for small sacrifices. If Mrs. Mansfield
had been content to think, " I have given up a fortune to save and to
reclaim him, and will do no more," she would never have succeeded.
A great sacrifice is very frequently felt as a reproach, when a small
one is considered a mark of affection. Once, and only once, he
questioned her as to the events of the day when she visited his hotel.
Certainly it would be easier for any woman to praise the exquisite
delicacy and truth of her statement, than to follow her example ; it is
the passage in her life which has always been to me the most exalted.
It was a glorious thing to hear her doing justice to one whom a woman
of ordinary mind would have considered a rival ; while, by her noble
conduct, she, without intending it, raised herself immeasurably above all
comparison with the Italian. Mansfield, abashed more by her heroism
of the heart, than by all her more business-like exertions or patient

BEAR AVD FORBEAR. 4.'57

endurance, implored her forgiveness, and spoke of his being so
degraded in such sinless eyes as hers, with the simplicity of a child
that makes confession at its mother's knee. She told him how the
spirit of jealousy and revenge had stirred within her, and how little
she deserved that he should rate her so highly. And now, poor as
they were, Madeline began to feel the reward of her forbearance.
Never, in the days of his early love, had Mansfield evinced the same
continuing tenderness, guarded by a watchfulness over himself, that
he did now : he seemed to look upon her as a protecting angel. When
still weak from any exertion, he leant upon her ami in their morning
and evening walks; wlien siie worked, or read, or wrote, or philoso-
phised in her own quiet way (which she could not think philosophy) I
upon past times, and tried to make Mansfield deem well of Uncle
Oliver, or play the tutor to his son, an occupation which seemed to
interest him in earnest — at all these times he gained not only strength
of body, but all unhealthy excitements being far from him, his luiiid.
refinid and polished, strengthened also. He was, like all of his
peculiar temperament, much the creature of habit, and what he did
to-day he wished to do to-morrow. II is aflairs had been at last
skilfidly managed, and he could not meet a man whom lie need have
been ashamed to look in the face. .'<lill, the idea of being called " poor
Mansfield" haunted his imagination so much, that .Madeline had never
hinted at their return to England, which she still fondly thought of as
their home. It certainly did them both honour to see how they
brought their habits to the level of their circmnstanres, enjoying
existence, notwitstanding tite sliadows lefl by the jjnst. Mausfu-M
would have been much happier, had it not occurred to him so frequently
as to rctanl his recovery, that his wife was hastening before hiin to
anotlii-r world ; and certainly those who had known her a frw m<»nths
lurforo, would hardly have recognised tlu- outline of her former self.
Tliey ha<l bet-n inhaling the Noft evening bree/.e, which ibn-s not liniig,
at with lu, thotc heavy deww fraught with danger, now sauntering along
A shaded alley, and then nitling upon the trunk ol a fallen tree, \\hen.
juit aji they were nented, tl»ey hinrd a laugh from ihr j)iiili thev Iia'l
quilted, and immc<lintely afler tlie HOund<i of Knglisli voices.

A N

458 woman's trials.

Mansfield grew at once red and then pale. " It is really too bad,"
lie exclaimed ; "we must plunge farther into the depths of France to
escape these perpetual intrusions."

Madeline's colour also heightened, but from a different cause —
she thoucht she knew the female voice. " How shall we retreat?" she
said ; we must pass them to get home."

Mr. Mansfield rose, and took hold of Arthur's hand. " If we
walk quickly," he replied, " we can pass the wood before they
leave it.'' But he miscalculated ; a group of persons emerged
from the shade as they reached the spot of which Mr. Mansfield
had spoken.

"Well, I declare!" exclaimed the lady in a loud strange tone,
" there are the poor Mansficlds !" and the same moment Mrs. Mansfield's
hand was grasped, and her cheek kissed, by little Mrs. Smith.

As well as Mr. Mansfield's confusion and annoyance permitted him
to observe, there were two ladies and two gentlemen of the party, one
of wliom was Mr. Orepoint, who advanced and held out his hand to
Mr. Mansfield.

" Well," continued Mrs. Smith, with more than her usual volubility,
'• who could have fancied meeting you here, after all that we heard ;
but, Madeline, you were always an angel." Then turning to Mansfield,
she said, holding up her finger, while her jewelled cassolette dangled
from her hand, " Ah, you naughty boy ! Indeed, you are such a
naughty man, that I don't think I shall speak to you ! You know I
am not at all like my cousin ? "

" I am quite aware of it," said Mr. Mansfield, bowing proudly.

" Not a bit. My goodness, how ill you both look ! But no
wonder, you have gone through so much. We drove down here to see
the water-works, or fire-works, or whatever they are ; but it's the
wrong day, so we must come again."

"And where is your husband?" inquired Madeline; while Mr.
Mansfield, having regained his self-possession, addressed a few words
to Mr. Orepoint.

Mrs. Smith's countenance darkened. " Oh, you need not put on
your most proper face. We go on much as usual ; but he is at the

BEAR AND FORBEAR. 459

l)lace where we dined. He remained with another of our parly
drinking brandy and water, and discussing moral theories. I tell
you frankly, Madehne, I shall not be able to bear him much
longer."

" Hush, here they come," said her companion, touching Mrs.
Smith's sleeve; "here they come; do let us run away down this
valley; I know the path. Alons, aloiis, messieurs .' "

" .'III revoir!" exclaimed Mrs. Smith, taking Mr. Orcpoint's arm,
and following the lady — " r/u revoir!"

And they did come. Joseph Smith — and his friend, I suppose I
must call him — stood, not very steadily, either the one or the other,
before the Mansfields, while tlie tone of tlie revoir fluttered and ached
in Madeline's ear.

" I l)eg your pardon," said poor Smith, lifting his hat, for he did
not recognise them inmiediately, and he looked stupidly wise while he
spoke — " I beg your pardon ; l)ut have you seen my wife?"

Few words ever caused Mrs. Mansfield a more acute pang than
these. The kind, simple, absent, and thoughtless man, so completely,
so entirely changed. There was a tipsyness about his dress and
gestures — in the way his foot moved when he meant to stand still, as if
it clawed the earth for support — in the careless rest of his hat, and the
slothful sit of the stock and half-buttoned waistcoat. Absent and
strange he had always been, but it used to l)e tlie absence of mind, not
the presence of senu-intoxication.

•• I am sure I beg your pardon," he repi-alid ; '* but have you seen
my wife ?"

" Do you not know mt?" said Mr. Mansfield.

" And me?" n«l(led .Madeline.

He was, indeed, earnestly rejoicetl to see tht ni. " I know \(iu!"
lie re|H-ate<l ; "to Iw sure I do, an«l ha\e luanl s<> inueh about you.
Why, you were town-t;dk for a month ; first abu.si-d, and then praised,
nnd then forgnllen. Know you ! "

Mnn<tfield turned nwn\, nnd Mrs. Mansfield raised her finger to
her lip. Mr. tSmilli underHtiMxl the iiign.

" I would rnther s<>c y«iu, Mi . ^l.lnslield, ili.u) any livnig cieature,"

460 WOMAN S TRIALS.

he said. " You are the only one who can do anything with her. She
is worse than ever. We separated — yes, that was it— and then it was
made up by Uncle Oliver, and I agreed to bring her here for a treat ;
but we quarrelled all the way. And here we met Orepoint — and then

— and then — these last two days she has been like But it's the

champagne," he added in a confidential tone. " She drinks — she does,
faith. She drinks — and when a woman does that, why it's impossible
to tell what a woman may do who is too fond of champagne."

" Or a man either,'' said Madeline, looking steadily at him.

" That's severe for you," he said, returning the look with his dim
and filmy eyes. " A man like me, who can propound great moral
theories, is not likely to do that ; it's contrary to all philosophy. But
she's a fool, and you cannot give to fools the understanding of the wise.
I never could comprehend myself how our little disagreements grew
into such feuds, though I had an inkling of it" — he paused with a
most painful gravity — " the Sunday before we left home, when the
rector preached about a grain of mustard seed growing into a great
tree ; that was it, our first disagreement was the grain of mustard seed,
our last, the great tree. My life is a curse to me — a deliberate curse.
Perhaps you could talk to her. But how very odd I am. I must go
and console Mansfield, and tell him all the people said."

" For Heaven's sake," interrupted the anxious wife, " do not speak
to him at all of the past ; he cannot bear it. Oh ! do understand me ;
Mansfield cannot bear to hear of the past."

" Oh, very well — as you please," answered Smith with an air of
stupid astonishment ; " as you please. Not hear of the past ; oh, very
well, I'll take care to remember that. I remember, too, what you
told me about clubs, and I told her of it; but she drove me there
to get rid of me. That's a charming thing : a man marries to
make his home comfortable, and then his wife drives him to the
club— ah ! "

Madeline could endure a great deal, but she could endure this no
longer ; it was sickening, more than she could bear. The mixture of
truth and stolidity, the aspect of the man so changed, his hanging
cheeks, and meaningless eyes, all spoke the rapid issue of what she

BEAR AND FORBEAR. 461

feared. Many persons are knitted together, and endure the tortures
(which early and steady attention to the golden rule, bear and forbear,
would prevent) for their children's sakes, but the Smiths were not bound
by any such tie, and the resalt was before her. Sad as it was to see the
wreck of such a human being, it is almost impossible to conceive the
revulsion of feeling which Madeline experienced when her eyes rested
upon her husband. Worn and ill as he still was, she thought he had
never looked so dignified, as if, having cast away all that obscured his
better qualities, he had grown above himself. Contrary to his usual
practice, Mansfield told Mr. Smith where they resided, and then they
pursued their liomeward walk; while Smith amused a party of French-
men whom he met, by asking " if they had seen his wife ?"

" Madeline," said her husband, after they entered her apartment,
" I do not think I ever felt the fulness of what you have done for me
until within the last hour. My God ! if you had been such a woman
as your cousin, what should I have been now ? How you have borne
with me, and wliy, I cannot tell. I liave been your bane, while you
have been my blessing. May He, who gave me an angel as my
guardian, make me in some degree worthy of her. Oh, if I couhl but
obliterate from your mt-mory my past neglect, my unfaitli fulness, I
should care for nothing else ; for, in all the business transactions which
you investigated, there was no dishonour!"

" Thank God." replied Madeline, " there was not, and 1 knew
there would be none; and He also knows, that my love is as deep for
you as evt-r."

" I know ihat," he repliid ; " Liit your trust is i^'owr."

She raisi'd her eyes lo his — eyes whose lustre had never been dim-
med by the least wavering of untruth.

•* /( i.n ffonr!" he repeated pa.H.sionately.

" It was gone, <lear .Mansfiell," »he answere<l. " It has returned;
it has been returning long, wluu, <lay l)y ilay, I havr hearcl you r« ad
and explain to our boy tin- words of Holy Writ. Wlun wr kmit
together in this Ian<l of a fiith foreign to our own, and prayed lo our
Creator, as I think wi- never pray»<l Ix-fure ; when 1 have seen how
eagerly you <lrank of the fountain of living waters, slrrngthrning your

462 woman's trials.

spirit, without the parade of words, or cant of reformation, oh ! liow I
have bowed in gratitude to Him who has poured his grace into your
soul ! Yes, I do trust ; for your trust is stabUshed where the powers
of evil cannot prevail against it." And Mansfield believed her. Well
he knew, that though he might deceive hinnself, Madeline would never
deceive him. Is not the establishing such gracious confidence as this
one of the best triumphs of wedded life ?

It was long since they had enjoyed such happiness ; the night was
passing, but they noted it not ; former times were talked of, but
Madeline had the blessed power of abstracting their sting. And when
she painted a future, it was not with the vividness of an exaggerating
dreamer, but with the reality of the exercise of Christian conduct,
calhng the best energies of our nature into action, in the full con-
fidence that such is the desire of God, and trusting that He will
bless them.

Mansfield hardly ventured to plan for tlie future, though his mind>
healthier than it had ever been, purified by the fire of adversity it had
passed through, was beginning to desire a more active and useful
existence. They watched the moon climbing the heavens, and the
stars silently pursuing their noiseless and appointed paths, and were
astonished when they found it was past midnight. Mansfield was
about to shut the window at which they had been seated, when they
heard a rush in the garden, and, guided by the light, footsteps ascended
to their room, and the haggard face and wild beamless eyes of poor
Smith glared upon them.

"Is she here?" he inquired breathlessly; "is my wife liere ?
Have you seen her? For the sake of mercy tell me so."

Tlie Mansfields assured him they had not ; and he then told them
that neither she nor Mr. Orepoint had returned to the hotel, although
their companions had — saying they missed them in the wood, and
expected to find them there. This intelligence completely sobered
the unfortunate husband, although it had evidently not restored him to
his senses. He sent the police in search of "his wife" in every
direction ; and then it occurred to him that it might have been only
a freak to frighten him, and that she had gone to her cousin. Pained

BEAR AND FORBEAU. 463

and distressed, the Mansficlds entreated him to remain with them until
the morning. He consented to do so, weeping hke a child, then burst-
ing forth into loud indignation. Then wailing again — " If she had only
borne my little faults — oh, if she had but borne them — instead of being
what I am — what I feel I am — I might have been honoured in a
peaceful home. Let no man say I will be honoured, I will be respected,
unless his wife wills he shall l)e so." The first light of day was stream-
ing through the sky, as they watched the unhappy man making his way
through the mazes which led to the old chateau, of which they occupied
a portion ; and as they closed the window, Madeline said, " There was
truth in what he said of the grain of mustard seed — their first quarrels
were hardly as large as that ; yet see the fearful termination. I
warned and watched, Inn her folly and obstinacy were both deaf
and blind."

Mrs. Mansfield never saw her unfortunate cousin after that night,
tliough, in three weeks, she heard she was deserted by a man wlio
never cared for anything beyond amusement, and who lamed lur
husband for life in a duel in the Hois-de-Houlogne ; and the jesters of
tlie lime called him "The Wife Iliuiter!" He is sometimes seen at
the Rritish Museum, and sometimes limping about the genuinely old
curiosity shops — having taken to anti(|uity as a solace, instead of
brandy, which he says Mrs. Mansfield pc-rsuaded him to give up^nol,
however, before it had injured his constitution.

It is time this story were concluded ; and yet how limited its spnce
to describe the events of a life. I have, after all, made but a feible
nkctch of Madeline ; and though Uncle Oliver has not ate his crutch,
he confesses he ought to have done so ; lor he has ceased to call her
husband " a rascal."

The .Mansfiflds had not been a vear ai)roa(l, ulien an excellent
ap|>ointmenl was ofierrd him in oni- of the public oHices. lie shrank
from a London residence, fearing to meet cold eyes and distant bows
from tln)*e who revelled wilh and hi his wealth. And Madelin* —
what uid »hc ? Why, «hc laughe<l, an<l said surely her husband
JcsIcmI ; if such looked cold ihrif wouhl look colder, and if a distant
Ihiw wore given, n«»t only trrin, but irith to cut the giver. .And slu"

464

WOMAN S TRIALS.

walked down tlie streets where once her carriage rolled with the
dignity of a most honoured and honourable woman ; and those who
saw it were ashamed to call them " the poor Mansfields" any longer —
for self-dignity commands even a fool's deference. And by degrees,
to the delight of the faithful Lewis, carriages drove up to their door,
and she received visiters as if they had parted but yesterday, yet
declined their invitations as cheerfully as Mansfield had declined " the
club ; " and then her son — if she had no other reward for her past
endurance, his honour and his love might have been envied by the
mother of the Gracchii ; and his father loved him as dearly, and was as
proud of him as she was — nay is ; and it is delightful to see how the
young honour her; how husbands point her to their wives, and mothers
to their daughters ; and even wliile all lament they cannot be like her,
yet all believe in her, and still she is unconscious that she deserves
either praise or admiration.

>,'«''"iVkfe^^^-^b

Cook iind Co. I'rint<T<i, 76, Flcn Sirfl, Ixmdiin.

LMVtK!>lI\ Ut CALlhOK.MA LIBKAKV

Los Angeles

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