w 
 
 «»c^ 
 
 /
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
 r 
 
 .U
 
 T A L E S 
 
 OF 
 
 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 
 
 53 
 
 III. THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. I ^'■'''^■" ^J' J- Fiianklin . . 
 
 I Engraver, J. G. NiCHOLLb . 
 
 83 
 
 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 
 
 y
 
 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. '
 
 16 
 
 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. 
 
 35 
 
 • 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 
 
 H
 
 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
 
 82 
 
 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. 
 
 U* 
 
 v^ 
 
 ^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 !
 
 
 li 
 
 T II p; I) \ I I. Y (i ()\ i: i( N i< ss. 
 
 >i 
 
 // 
 
 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 
 
 % /..
 
 >:.T 
 
 ■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. 
 
 1^
 
 (( 
 
 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.
 
 I 
 
 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 
 
 s 
 
 "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. " 
 
 SX
 
 " 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. 
 
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 Cook iind Co. I'rint<T<i, 76, Flcn Sirfl, Ixmdiin.
 
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