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GRINNALDS—TWYFORD
COLLECTION PRESENTED TO THE
UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA
BY

MR. AND MRS. JEFFERSON C. GRINNALDS
AS A MEMORIAL TO HIS MOTHER
ROBERTA SARAH TWYFORDRS
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A NOVEL,

    

By THE AutuHor oF “PIQUE.

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New YORK:
THE F. M. LUPTON PUBLISHING COMPANY apeal

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CHAPTER L

weve years ago I was just fifteen years old. { took
back with dismay upon that period of my existance during
which i was “trained up in the way I should go,” after a
most orthodox fashion. For this world having a way pecu-
lar to itself of compelling individuals to go “ whither they
wou-d not,” and my retrospection dragging this fact
more prominently forward than any other, I have been for
some time past in the habit of confining myself resolutely
to the present and the future with the sort of instinct that
prompts a man who has found shelter from some terrible
tempest, to let it rage on unheeded while he makes the most
of the comfortable quarters upon which he has fallen.

It is an emotion of selfishness in both cases; but I have
lived long enough to know that selfishness is needful for
self-preservation. It is, however, something above and bes
yond this comfortable assurance that by slow degrees has
endowed me with courage to look the past boldly in the
face. I know that many are perishing in the storm by
which I was well-nigh wrecked, body and soul; I know, too,
that their chance of escape can hardly fall short of whar
mine was; but, let the worst come to the worst, I ha7e
wrested from the strong grasp of earthly oppression a con-
Niction that God will take care of his own. (19)

 

  
 
   
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
  
 
 

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SECRETS.

I am a citizen of the world, and as such [I lay claim to
aay feeling that inclines others fo glory 3

none the ae
10 their birth. Indeed, it was made so clear to me

that I never ought to have been born at all, that
I may oe be = at writing myself down a denizen of any
r land; and as I comme cnced life without right to

af C the simple one prefixed to this book, it

once that I was the first of my race.
t a “my bit ae occurred at , a cathedra)

a of f England. I believe I was as wilful and wayward in
my infan irlhood as any one could be about whose
privileg: re ane added trouble into this world there was no
question. I had my antipathies and partialities, which were,
perhaps, the more deci a 3d because they were allowed small
scope. Of th e i hree persons with whom alone I held any

 

 

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intercourse until my fifteenth year, I loved and reverenced
the first, feared the second, and thoroughly disliked the

third.
rst.cf these was my gondii Thomas Marples,
He was a verger of the cathedral, as his father had been be-

aa MEG Ba

= fore him. He was a vener able-looking old man, tall, thin,
is and slightly bent; his long white hair floated aout a coun-
a | tenance that ao been handsome, and that now beamed

with intelligence and DO, and his si ingularly large eyes had
@ mournful expression, Pe cially when they rested upon
yt aus very ear rested my attention and drew me
nan anything else, confirmed his
ntuene e over me. Those large melancholy eyes haunted
my dreams. There was a mystery in them that I could not
fathom in the days when it never occured to me to ask anv

question about mys yself, and I was busied with it in my child-

 
 

_—

- ish way till I could not at rid of the impression. I saw
C that there was some secret suffering, some hidden bleeding
E of the heart, thinly veiled from me beneath the uniform
: serenity and uncomp oe ining endurance of one who knew in
whom he had tr ie In this manner I first become

acquainted with the admo onitory heart-ache that, if only by
way of variety, comes upon us even in childhood. And as
the heart must be touched before the mind can be properly
regulated, this latent interest in himself led me to listen moreattentively to the pious instructions of my grand-f
His simple ba earnest exposition of the great plan of red
tion disclosed it to me in all its sublim ity a

iar with the histories of all civilized’ nations
before me the ex camples of the noble and good wl

apparently lived and died for the sole purpose of testing th;
great power of God to overcome pe world 1
absenve of all personal trial, there was an abundance of
imp patient energy in my spirit that led me oe sympathise with
those who had 1 thus suffered and triumphed. ‘It ne truck
me that the é principles which I could folles so well in theory
were reducible to practice: that I might show a little more
becoming submission to my imperious Art Betsy, and
endure with more patience the hard: task king and stern man-
ner of Uncle Stephen.

The latter did not reside with us. He was a bachelor:
and I first remember hi im livin
city, where he kept a silver ‘smut
afterwards gave up business and
near my grand-fa ither’s. I]

}

latter, hat he was more robu

 

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in the Hich-street of the
.h’s and jeweller’s shop. He
removed to a small house
have been as old as the

In personal appearance

2

=|

 

very different, He was short, er stout, and slightly de
formed; his head oo 3 uy n n should

ers more than usu
an iron-grey, curlec
thin, ad he had ;
the lower part of h
were small, black
ther had a strong, )
me in those earlier days as indica ins
mind, against which | was well inclin«
who sent to my grand-father’s hous:
forte—upon which | he gave me instructions

commenced teaching mie Hronch before L was two yeare
and, when I had become ON y proficient, he would
allow me to address him ix ot] guag |
he gave me a thorough Enolish datanon, and i tas a
natural talent for dra wing, which he fostered iy providing
me with all requisite materials, and the best models for copy-
ing. Four hours out of every day, morning and afternoon,

   
  

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23 FAMILY S6EORETS.

he rigidly devoted to my instruction, and he generally left
me more than sufficient work to fill up the rest of my time.
What struck me as disagreeable in Uncle Stephen was, that
all this seemed a laborious task to him rather than a work
of duty or pleasure. There wasno familiarity between us; he
never addressed me by any term of endearment, but came and
went like the hard taskmaster he was. If I chanced to
satisfy him, he would say, “That will do, but you must do
better,’ and I knew that no better doing could draw us
closer together as uncle and niece.

My Aunt Betsy was, perhaps, not quite so old as either of
these two, though it would have been difficult to guess her
age. Almost as tall as my grand-father, she was of more
masculine make, gaunt, large-boned, and hard-features.
Whilst Uncle Stephen’s manner always expressed stern reso-
lution to go through with a task, hers always expressed
impatience. I was never in the right place, never out of
her way; always making work and doing none. And these
complaints did not spring from any desire that I should help
her; for Aunt Betsy was only in her element when working
hard, and she could not in our small household find enough
to do. I only made matters worse by ofering my services ;
I was fit for nothing that she could im. “tand, and had
better hold my tongue. Yet this rom: - vyomman had
brought me up from my very birth, 9 “enggled with
my repugnance, and tried to belie « 2 some yet
undiscovered corner of her heart I hela » _ ets2. place then
that outwardly assigned to me.

1 believe I was by nature affectionate, and that it was
not my fault that I lavished all my affection upon my grand-
fathe:. There was something genial and benignant about
him that seemed to infect others, and when in his presence
I always found Uncle Stephen and Aunt Betsy more gracious.
He had this influence over them, and I soon found it out.
Then his small collection of books constituted my sole reere-
ation. [read to him or with him, and there was perfect
sympathy between us. Our usual sitting-room was crowded
with antique furniture that had belonged to my great-grand-
father. Grotesquely carved chests and cabinets, and tables
with a multitude of twisted legs, and arm-chaire of curious

make, all polished bright as the incessant labor of Aunt +
= 7 a

  

2SBetsy eould make them.  Piled upon these cabinets, or
stowed away in the chests, or scattered upon the tables, were
worm-eaten editions of ancient works, bcth religious and
profane. Amongst the latter were the old chroniclers, Slow
and Camden, Leland and Holinshed; Defoe’s History cf the
Plague, Walton’s Angler, the works of Bacon, Locke, and
Newton, and a fair show of the elder poets and dinm tists.
It was my chief delight to pore over these works, and find
a vent for my sympathies in them, and form from them
some vague notion of the world from which I was so com-
pletely shut out. It did not strike me so forcibly as it might
have done that my way of life was very odd; that I had
never mixed with children or young people of my own age, and
that we had no visitors. If I went out, I was accompanied
by one of my three protectors; but as we had a large gar-
dent to walk in, I seldom did go out except to the cathedral
service. When there I was too much engrossed by the
assembled congregation; I fancied I could read _ people’s
characters in their faces, and I had conceived an especial
reverence for one old lady who passed in and out, leaning
on a gold-headed cane, and followed by a footman. She was
very spare in figure, very erect and rigid; but her hands
and head had a palsied movement. There was nothing pre-
possessing in her face, which was so shrunken, and wrinkled,
and battered by time, that 1 fairly gave her credit for having
once looked more amiable. She reminded me, however, of
the devout and noble woman of whom I had read, and there
was to me something particularly touching in the piety of
the very aged; in the bowing of the feeble knees and the
white head on the verge of eternity. On one occasion,
whilst passing out of the cathedral, she dropped her stick.
I was close behind her, and I darted forward, picked up the
stick, and presented it to her before the footman could
interfere. 1 shall never forget the sudden look of absolute
horror with which she drew herself up, and waved me back,
and motioned her attendant to take the stick from me. I was
sufficiently abashed before Aunt Betsy s sized me by the arm,
and gave me a gripe and a savage shake that almost made me
ery out with pain.

This was my first attempt to interfere with the arrange-
ments of the outer world, of which I knew so little. My

  

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conduct was reported to my grand-father, who gently ad-
monished me to keep out of the way of Lady Leigh, who
was very proud, for the future. I beheve that first contact
with the world roused all that was evil in my own nature.
IT had lived so entirely with old people that my sympathies
followed the aged rather than the young, and my first
emotion was one of intense pain at being thus scornfully re-

ulsed by a person whom I was so well inclined to venerate.

had obeyed a blind instinct which prompted me-to help
the helpless,.and I was told that this was wrong. I had
been taught, above all things, to be courteous, and my first
act of courtesy had drawn down wrath upon me from all
sides. Hrom Lady Leigh first, because she was proud. It
was because I was her inferior in some way,-in every way,
perhaps that she had repulsed my attempt to render her a
slight service. This set me thinking, for the first time, about
wy position in the world. I knew that it was humble, but
i thought the days were past in which Christians, professing
a creed that inculcates humility, and honors poverty, trampled
upon their brethren and stamped disgrace upon an inevitable
lot. I had heard so much from my grand-father about the
glorious effects produced by the Reformation, that I felt sure
this must be one of them. Indeed, I was simple enough to
believe it must be the principal one; and he was accustomed
to speak so enthusiastically about the rapid progress of true
Christianity in the world, that I was fully prepared to be

reeted by open hearts and arms whenever I entered it.

he case of this Lady Leigh must be a peculiar one, or there
must be something very wrong about myself. Who was I,
aiter all? I had been taken to see my mother’s grave-stone,
which simply bore the name of “ Alice,” inscribed under that
of my grand-mother. I must have had a father, and who
and what was he? I had frequently questioned my grand-
father and Aunt Betsy about him, but they evaded my in-
quiry, and I had allowed it to drop; for I noticed that the
mention of either of my parents occasioned them great pain,
which f attributed to grief for their loss. Now, however, it
struck me that there must be some other motive for this
silence. Mere sorrow for the dead would inevitably yield to
time ; it seemed more probable that some disgrace connected
with the past, weighed on the spirit of my grand-father, andYAWMILY SECRETS. 25

prompted the secrecy which was becoming oppressive to
me, and compelled us to liye in the seclusion that T saw was

peculiar to ourselves,
I was astonished that this thought had never occurred to
me before, and the feelings it called forth mastered me com-
pletely. I was not naturally so tame and docile as] had
appeared to be, and my spirit rose up to resist what I con-
sidered a wrong and an oppression. It had b
to me to keep me in ignorance of my true positicn, to allow
me to go forth into the world and then learn that the crimes
of others had rendered me an outcast,

I was indignant alike
with those who had thus reared me and with the world,

een ho mercy

above whose injustice I was determined to rise,
But I did not speak out at once: I underwent a terrible
conflict before I could Summon courage to look the.worst in

the face. I had been reared with high notions of honor ;
I had all that reverence of worth’s sake that compels the
spirit to shrink from every appearance of evil: and I felt that

death itself was preferable to the degredation into which |

KE

sa

was about to fall. I tormented myself day and-night with
all manner of conjectures. I knew that my mothd was a
mere girl when she died ; perhaps hurried to an early grave
by the vicious courses of her husband. My suspicions could
only fix upon him. Perhaps he had been a murderer, and
had suffered the penalty of his crime, 1 uttered a loud ery
of horror at the thought, and flung my hands out wildly with
a sense of loathing for the blood that flowed in them and
curdled about my heart. It seemed probable, however, that
his crime was of lesser magnitude, and that he was still
living. I had never been told that he was dead; I had
taken it for granted when I was informed that I had no
father. When I asked to see his grave, and they said it was
not there, I was satisfied. The fact was, that my deep love
and reverence for my grand-father, his own earnest truth-
fulness, and benignity, and piety, had satisfied me altogether,
so that I reposed in an atmosphere of peacefulness and
affection to which no breath of distrust might come. He
had, too, taught me to forget myself in others, and to find
a full life in the undying presence of the great and good of
all ages, so that this sudden concentration of all thought andfeeling in my individual destiny seemed to change my ver,
nature. —

I, too, had a career to run, and this thought also oceurret¢,
to me for the first time,—my protectors were all old people
who might soon be taken away. What was to become of
me? I had been told that I must earn my OWn bread, but
how was I to be introduced to the world with this load of
jgnominy upon me? How was I to endure the natural re-
pugnance of the noble and the good? How, above all, was {
to bear this weight upon my own heart through a long life?

I felt that my grand-father had miscalculated upon the
resignation to the will of Providence which he had urged
upon me so continually. To content myself with a life of
shame seemed against the spirit of all J had been taught;
and, especially in these days to which had descended the
doctrine of Christ in all its purity, I felt that it would be
terrible to be so branded in the midst of the pure and th
godly who were already peopling the whole earth. I wished
to bury myself from the eyes of an immaculate world in
which my very presence would be an offence.

This was the idea I had formed of the world, and I felt
that it was the terrible wickedness of my own heart that
inelined me to rebel against its decrees. I did not imagine
that it would altogether use me ill, but that I should be
oppressed by its compassion, tortured by its tolerance. My
own horror of everything sinful or dishonorable helped me
to conceive this of others. My opinion of Lady Leigh’s
piety was exalted by the very conduct that inspired me with
a fearful sort of hatred. JI had given her no time for reflec-
tion, and it was the natural instinct of a godly spirit and a
ye pure heart.

E The great horror of my cogitations was, that I could not help
. regarding the rebellious murmurings of my heart as a proof
that I had more of the evil of my progenitor in my nature
than I should find convenient in a world from which evil of all
kinds was disappearing very fast. Destiny seemed about to
drive me the wrong way, in spite of all my cleaving to the
good, the beautiful, and the holy.

It will be perceived that I considered myself a person
of some importance. Was 1 not a member of the greatSh

FAMILY SEORETS, Ri

Christian family which one day I should have to enter
bodily? I could not conceive the possibility of being al-
together overlooked by those whose care extended to the
heathen and the savage, who hailed the elsewhere proseribed
slave by the name of brother, and, as it were, extended their
arms to the outcast and the benighted of all lands. Already.
gathered into this fold, it was important that I should prove
myself worthy of the high privileges that awaited me.

! was suspended betwixt this heaven and my own earthiness.
If there were anything in the way to be resisted, I had an
instinctive fear that the old nature would be uppermost,—
that I should find a pleasure in resisting. It was a strange
satisfaction to me then to rouse out of my usual quiescent
state, and battle with imaginary wrongs and difficulties, If
I believed this to be a device of the great enemy of souls, I
felt little inclination to attempt its overthrow by doing battle
with him.

I continued in this agitated state for more than a week,
undecided what I should say, or to whom I should speak
first; I thought that, being no longer a child—for I was
nearly fifteen—I had a right to knew such particulars of
the past as concerned me, and I was resolved not to rest till
I had obtained this knowledge. I still shrank from the idea
of wounding my grand-father by my importunity, and Aunt
Betsy had a decided way of putting me down that left me
small hope of getting any information out of her. I resolved
to question Uncle Stephen, as the one most likely to take a
common-sense view of the matter, and the least likely to feel
pained by any ealling back of the past. Having formed this
resolve, I put it into execution the next time we were alone.

“Uncle Stephen,” I said, “I wish to ask you a few ques-
tions. Don’t you think I am old enough to know a little
more about myself?”

“About yourself?” said my uncle, gruffly. “TI thought
you had been pretty well enlightened by your grand-father
on that subject. Has he not taught you to understand that
you are a weak, helpless creature—setting aside your strong
tendency towards wickedness : Have ee a Savile BE DEte
that way? Do you want to hear anyt ing worse {
4 eon. do not archaea me,” I said, disconcerted by hisSTHARLAE AGHA

Mec

PAE Toa

SPEIRS LA

28 FAMILY SEORBTS.

manner; “TI wish to learn something more of my family—

of my father, for instance. Now, uncle, is he dead ?”
“As a good Christian you are bound to believe that he is

living; in any case, don’t trouble your head about him.”

“But I must trouble myself about him. I do not even
know his name. If his memory is a disgrace to you, it is
more tome. Iam his child; and no one has a night to keep
me in this ignorance.”

“Hey-day! this is to be a strong demonstration, is it!
Hark you!” he continued, grasping my arm; “ whatever

ou do, don’t fall into a fit of heroics about your father; he
is not worth it. Suppose Z was your father! would, you
think I had been a very kind one, eh ?”

I could not say I should. I should have expected in a
parent even more of the affectionate interest, and pleasure,
and pride, that my grand-father had always shown in me.
T remained silent.

“You would not, I see,” he continued. “Yet there are
worse fathers in the world, Margaret. The fact is, that ac-
cording to your ideas of parental excellence, you never had
afather. Of course there is, or was, an individual to whom
jou owe the boon of existence, and at the proper time you
shall know all about him. Will that satisfy you?”

“ No,” I said, passionately, “it will not. You know I am
old enough to understand that something dreadful is con-
cealed under this mystery; that I am capable of feeling
keenly whatever disgrace is in store for me; that itis a
hard task to wait patiently where one has everything to fear,
and nothing to hope. I cannot thank you for what you
have done for me whilst you leave me in this defenceless
stale, open to the censure of the world to an extent that I
may not comprehend. One thing I am determined about—
i will not again quit this house until I know what it is that
may make others shrink away from me, as Lady Leigh did
the other day,”

My uncle fairly started. “Now you puzzle me,” he said.

sé A nt Te } " € ry ONT £ ae -) 7 riv« .

“And you really have retained that circumstance, and set
> 1 atawiot rT 40 ee . Paes 7 ° e,e
about calculating your chances in life? W hy, you intuitively

worldly little person, where did you learn all this?”
He spoke in a light, mocking tone that irritated me. ItFAMILY SEDURETS. 30
veemed cruel tv trifie with me in such a oo and {f turned
away with proud, angry tears in my ey

“Come, come,” he | said, passing h hie arm round my neck,
and drawing my averted face towards him; “ what you ask

is quite night, Margaret, and if it had pouiee with me ae
you should have known everything long ago. As to the

v

world—go out into it, and lift your head up in a and be as
prove ani independent as you like—there i Hino ti
ring shame upen you. But we

—

ee grand-father’s knowledge, Ma
im; and at any rate you shall Boe nae

He kissed my forehead as he ee
sever exhibited so much kind ve before,
tpon me then in my extremity,

t. Isat at the table and we] ot.

“My poor child!” he sa aid, bending over me.
tad been left more to my care, this would no
But it is not too late, and I am thankful to see th
eommon sense. I can deal with that.
Stephen, and keep quiet.”

I cannot say that I kept very
Uncle Stephen had reassured me.
as I wished, with my head erect, not bo
voluntary humility ; and my chief
the excitement that was still upon
painless.

Aunt Betsy, who kept gooc !
bed and took my light away. , n ae
interview with Uncle Stephen,

I got up and dressed myself, I Es that my grand-father
always sat up late, and I was inclined to join him, I knew
that I could presume so far on his indulge but Aunt
Betsy’ s room was between us. I I listened at
found from her regular breathing that she slept
with my shoes off, I passed th Sick softly, down to my 0
room. It was galled mine, ise 1 nd a

school-books were there, and
studies in it. It was divided from the siti ees m i.

 

 
 
 

 

 

 

thin wooden partition, the two having ori, hn one
room; and the light streaming through the ali nk ‘of the

      
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
   

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DE ee ae Ternary serena runnin berate

  
  

80 FAMILY SECRETS.

door assured me that my grand-father was up. I was
stooping to put my shoes on, when the outer door opened,
and some one entered. I soon discovered that it was Uncle
Stephen, though no one spoke. I saw his shadow moving
about. I knew his step; and presently I heard him draw
a chair to the fire and sit down.

There was a strong temptation upon me to stop and listen
to their conversation. I thought it very likely that some-
thing would be concealed from me in any reve.ation that
might be made, and I tried to persuade myself that it would
be right to arrive at the truth by any means. I was not
hard to persuade, though I lingered with a burning blush
upon my face, feeling that I was doing wrong. I trembled
so that I was compelled to lean against a chair, and in the
deep silence I could hear the beating of my heart. Several
minutes elapsed, and then I heard Uncle Stephen speak as
plainly as if I had been in the room,

“You have a more than ordinarily spectral look about you
to-night, Thomas Marples,” he said, “I wish you would try
to be as like a mortal as possible, in order to accommodate
yourself to my poor clay, for I feel altogether out of sorts.”

“What is the matter?” asked my grand-father.

“The matter! nothing is the matter with me. I should
be right enough, if it was not for other people. It is you
that I expect will be all wrong by-and-by, and then of
course, | must suffer.”

“Tf there is any new sorrow in store for me let me know
it,” said my grand-father; “I am prepared.”

“There! how I do hate the stoicism of Christians; the
pertinacious putting-on of the crown of thorns! Why don’t
you rip out and say, ‘What the devil’s the matter now!”
then there would be some hope of you.”

“Ours is a strange companionship,” said my grand-father ;
“T have been musing about it to-night.”

“ Not stranger than nfost of the companionships of this
world,” said Uncle Stephen, “and far more honest. Look
at the thousands who, professing the same belief, do not
expect from one another any of the fruits of it; menof the
world who patronize religion and hold it up to contempt at
the same time; who knowingly ennat a daily lie, professingFAMILY SECRETS, $1

themselves to be members of a church that Insists upon
humility, and pronounces a curse upon covetousness, yet
with all the might that is in them scrambling for precedence
and wealth, reckless whom they trample down, or in what
company they rise. We at least have a disinterested respect
for one another; we represent the two extremes of belief
and unbelief, and we marvel alike at the inconsistenciea
around us. We do not spare one another either, and our
out-spoken differences help to bind us together. Is it not
80 9?

“It has been so to a certain extent; we at least know
how far we can trust one another. There is a point at
which we stop, and there distrust begins, and sometimes we
marvel how we came to be united so closely.”

“That is, you do; I never marvel at anything. You
speak with your wonted sincerity, Thomas, and I like you
for it. Your old fear of me is coming back tenfold. I am
glad of it; I want a hold upon you somewhere. You are
going to far on the wrong road, and there is no one beside
myself to arrest your progress. Now you are older than I
am, and I number fifty-seven years: how much longer do
you propose to live ?”

“I have entered upon the last term of years allotted to
man, and may not reckon upon a single day.”

“ And you feel easy about leaving yonder child to the
tender mercies of this world ?”

There was a pause: my grand-father did not speak, and —

- Uncle Stephen resumed.

“You do not: that is right. A clever world it is in many
respects—full of science, and philosophy, and steam—full
of religion, too, and philanthropy on an imposing scale;
but, somehow, there is a dearth of the small change of
humanity, that makes it a barren place to the ordinary
strugglers for bread. You know no more of this world as
it really is than a child—you that pretend to teach others.
An old-fashioned dread of evil has pee your doing
any good: your only struggle has been after resignation—
euiewtmnent with ans ie are—the most fatal of all
errors.” 3
“To what purpose would you have me rebel?” said my

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FAMILY SHEORETS.

grand-father. “Sorrow enough, wrong enough, I have had,
God knows; .f I can still bide His time, why should I trou-
ble myself more and more ?”

HY, if you had only yourself to think about.
Your panacea for all earthly evils, like our modern pills,
won’t suit all constitutions. Content yourself as much as
you like with sorrow and wrong, but allow others to resist
both, if they like—and can. Confound it, what an odd

ee ea ep
£Ou Speak as li

doctrine you have been preaching all your life! Fancy a
nation glorying in its poverty, boasting of its weakness,
parading the contempt in which it lies as a special mark of

7? re me P .
God’s fay

or! To this state Christianity would have brought
here had not been men wise enough to
see the folly of conforming to its doctrines. The madness
is not less when individuals bring themselves or others to
this state. This is a sin upon which the world sits in judg-
ment,”

" fo what purpose is this exhibition of the cloven foot to-
night, Stephen 3 Why, before the world, do you still pro-
fess to honor Christianity ?”

“Because I would not bring upon myself the rabid wrath
of pretenders; because I like to convict them in their pre-
tension. I gave some of them a few hits to-night at the

3 health of the new mayor was drank. I did
hot empty my glass, but proposed an amendment of the
toast, and drained the dregs in honor of his private charao-
ter as a good brother, de.”

“Ob, Stephen, you should not have done that ?”

“They hate me for it, and would kick me out if they did
not believe me to be rich. I like to see them writhe and
fawn at the same time, and know how little reason they have
to do either.”

“ You make me shuddei. Such a life in the world, and
no lifein God! Iwas hoping, too, that through my humble
means He would touch your heart. You disappoint me,
grievously, Stephen.”

“You have done your best to convert me}; let that reflec-
tion console you. You cannot say that I have not been a
patient listener. Haye I ever deceived you in anything |”

“No Stephen, you have kept good faith with ime

tury ao thon
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? 2+ Tr 5}
us, Ir In. glFAMILY SEORETS. ae

You were a kind friend when others turned away from me

in my trouble, or remained only to make it more bitter,”

“TI will be fair and Open with you to the end. I came to
speak with you about Margaret. It is one of your fallacies
to suppose that she is quite happy.”

“What sorrow is there to disturb my child ?”

“What is the power you suppose yourself to possess over
the mind that you have tried to prepare for anything but
the battle of life?” said Uncle Stephen. “Child! she
never was a child ; her whole brief life has been marked by
earnest purpose and passionate thought : her mind is yigo-
rous and active, and you might as well try to bind the sur-
ges of the sea as check the free flow of its thoughts, This
fair page, which you are so fearful of soiling, cannot remain
a blank. With what is it to be filled up—with the truth,
bad as it is, or with lies for ever ?”

“T have taught her nothing save the truth,” said my
grand-father.

“ Her whole life has been a cheat, and no one knows it bet-
ter than yourself. You have taught her to believe that the
world is full of truth, and goodness, and mercy ; and she
will have to be rudely awakened from a life-dream. Think
of her reverence for those who regard her as an unclean
thing—who would not touch her with the hem of their gar-
ments! Could she conceive from any thing you have taught
her, that the cold, thin blood flowing in Lady Leigh’s shriv-
elled veins would boil up with indignation if she approach-
ed her even as a fellow Christian?” Yet this woman js zeal-
ous about missions, and professes to have a tender care for
black souls. Pooh! what humbug it is !” .

“I thought you had some news for me,” said my grand-
father, after a pause. :

“It is this: yesterday Margaret again questioned me
about her father. I can put off her inquiries no longer, and
I have promised that in a few days I will tell her all.”

“You shall not!”

“Iwill! The fact is, she must enter the world; mus
_ know it as it is. Why not start her fairly and honestly ”
“With some of your cold, cheerless philosophy, I suppose,

2

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84 PAWMILY SECRETS.

making a darker wilderness of this world, and a blank of
the next.”

“ Nay,” said Uncle Stephen, “I promised years ago that
I wonld not interfere with her religious belief. I never
p> sed to keep her in the dark about actual facts. You
aic aware, I suppose, that Colonel Leigh has arrived, and is
now at his mother’s house. The mayor and corporation talk
of inviting him to a public dinner in honor of his glorious
campaign in India. On Sunday, his uncle, the Dean,
preaches, and you may expect to see him at the morning
service with all his honors thick upon him. Up and down
the town men are vieing with each other as to the best
method of paying him respect.”

“ All this is nothing to me,” said my grand-father.

“We have made a fair start of forbidden subjects,” con-
tinued Uncle Stephen, “and the very necessity of things
must drive us on. It has often struck me as odd, that
Christians, even such as you are, seem to think less of the
backslidings of their brethren than unbelievers like myself
ean do. It is a marvel to me how yonder Dean can receive
this man, his nephew, with open arms and evident exultation
as he does; how he can mount the pulpit and preach what
he professes to be the word of God before him, and never
for an instant think of admonishing him on neglected moral
duties ; never even himself recognising their existence. Now,
if I were a Christian, I could not sit to hear that man preach ;
I should have the mocking laughter of devils in my ears.
As it is, [ mark and inwardly digest, after a fashion that
would astonish some of your high churchmen. I should like
to put to Colonel Leigh the question I have put to you some-
times—what is to become of this child 2”

“Stephen Leath,” said my grand-father, “I must desire
you to leave Margaret in my hands. What it is necessary
for her to know I will tell her myself, but not until this man
has left the place, which he soon will do. The Lord help
et my way is dark and I have only His light to guide
me

“I wish you would be guided by the light of reason and
common sense,” said Uncle Stephen. “Well, I know it is of
no use talking to you. As to Margaret, she has my promise,FAMILY SECRETS. a5

as I told you. I consider it a duty to let her know all the
truth.” 3

“This must be done under the Lord’s guidance,” said my
grand-father ; “you must leave her to me.”

“She is not to be put off much longer,” said Uncle
Stephen. “ We shall see.”

I heard him put on his greatcoat and walk out without
_ saying another word: and then the tremulous voice of my
~grand-father arose in earnest prayer.

CHAPTER IL

[r was a very bleak night in the depth of winter, and I
had been standing in the cold and the darkness; but it was
rather an inward chill, striking to my very heart, that made
me feel as if my blood had turned to ice when I attempted
to move. I had learned from the preceding conversation
that Uncle Stephen was not a Christian, and the knowledge
seemed to freeze me with horror. It was dreadful, too, to
hear him bring accusations against Christians, which my
grand-father seemed incapable of answering. ‘Then, in some
way, and in spite of myself, my sympathies seemed to go
with Uncle Stephen. There was an openness about all he
said that commanded respect; he evidently had my interest
at heart; and from him alone there seemed a chance of my
learning .all the truth. Then this Colonel and Lady Leigh
seemed in some way connected with my early history. It
was possible that, through my parents, I had received some
wrong at their hands, and, if so, I felt well inclined with
Uncle Stephen to resist them.

The low, earnest tones of my grand-father’s voice were still
sounding in mv ears when I crept back to my own chamber.
L had taken a candle with me, and I tried to recollect and
write down the conversation I had heard. It was altogether
eae and bewildering ; and, after all, what I could not

S

elp considering the lost state of my uncle was uppermost

     
   
 
  
  
   
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
   

sis

ip ai a
rite spor rg iret Poh eeBS FAMILY SECRETS.

   

in my mind. I felt that I must be careful about receiving
impressions from one wo could only be a blind leader of
the blind, the more so as the natural corruption of my own
heart seemed likely to incline me to error. I was quite
conscious of being deficient in the humility and strong faith
that made my grand-father patient under wrong and afflic-
tion; but I was earnest in my wish to lead a life of righteous-
ness in Christ, oven because no worthy ambition, no noble
purpose could be pursued out of it.

I fell asleep at length, oppressed by this chaos of thought,
and Aunt Betsy aroused me early with a rebuke for my
idleness. My grand-father had gone out, and we breakfasted
together. It was easy to see that Aunt Betsy had got some-
thing on her mind. She was unusually silent, and I caught
her looking at me several times in a strange way. She sur-

rised me at length by passing her fingers through my hair,
which curled naturally.

“You don’t take proper pains with your hair,” she said.
“Whilst you were a child, I used to wash it every morning,
and just pass it round my fingers, and it curled beautifully.
To-morrow morning I will do it myself again.” This notice
of my hair was the more surprising, because Aunt Betsy had
frequently told me I spent too much time about it, ad-
monishing me not to think too much of my personal ap.
pearance.

“T bought a new-ribbon for your best bonnet yesterday,”
she continued, “for the one you wore all last winter 1s
growing shabby. Fetch the bonnet down stairs, and let me
see you trim it nicely.”

Aunt Betsy had been a dressmaker in her young days,
and she had taught me to make everything for her and
myself. I fetched the bonnet, a brown straw one, stripped
of the old trimming, and commenced adorning it with the
very pretty brown-and-amber ribbon that my aunt produced.
I had sorie difficulty to please her with my taste. She wanted
it to look as becoming as possible, another singularity that
I was unable to account for. When I had at length finished,
and put the bonnet on, she turned me round admiringly.

«“ You need not be ashamed to show your face,” she said.
tossing her head as she motioned me towards the looking’a

Pee door.

  

Nil ct

   
  
 
  
  
 
  
   
  
  
  
   
     
 
 
 
  
   
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
   

‘4 a
Ne
VAM\aY SEORETS. ST 4

glass. ‘“ You are none the worse for being a Marplea, Your
mother and grand-mother were both handsome, and you are
like your grand-father. I don’t see that you owe your good

looks to anybody else.” Fo
This strange outburst of feeling on the part of Aunt Betsy
led me to survey myself more intently than I had ever done
before. I was tall for my age, and rather stoutly built. I
was certainly like my grand-father. I had the same broad
forehead and large brown eyes, looking darker because of the
long, black lashes that overshadowed them. My face was
oval, my nose straight, my mouth small, with lips delicatel y
chiselled, and terminating in a round chin. My complexion
was fair and clear, with a heightened color, and heavy masses
of curling brown hair formed a sort of framework to a not
unflattering picture. As I stood gazing, the red blood
mounted to my forehead, and I turned away with a sudden
sense of shame and annoyance at having so readily been
betrayed into an absurd admiration of myself.
ee You always told me, Aunt Betsy,” I said, “that good
1ooks were only skin-deep.” #
“ And that is true,” said Aunt Betsey, “ of the beauty that fF :
young girls only think about. There is something beyond 4 ae
that that proud people seek to keep to themselves. Never
mind. ‘To-morrow you shall wear your brown merino dress
and mantle; and I wish ysu would give up that foolish way 88
i 1

you have of leoxing so humble before strange people. Hold

your head a little higher, if you wish that others should

think well of you. If you help the world to beat you down, ss
you may keep down.” if

This was so unlike what I had ever heard from Aunt !

Betsy, and so like what Uncle Stephen had said, that I was
more and more bewildered. This new doctrine suited me
very well, but the ready adaptation alarmed my conscience. &
The mild teachings of my grand-father, strengthened by his LE

example during so many years, had taken less hold of me

than did this more congenial law of liberty in a few hours.
e ' 3 4 : ‘ ¥ z :

Taught by him to distrust my own heart above all things, I

could not help thinking that there was something wrong

about my new advisers and myself also. __ é
~ On this day when my grand-father came home to cirmer
she
.
Me
Oo

    

eee

 

SS eg eePRETEEN,

  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
   

88 FAMILY SECRETS.

he told my aunt that he wished her and myself to attend
St. Mary’s Church on the following morning instead of the
cathedral, where we usually went. Without replying, Aunt
Betsy contrived to express a very decided objection to this
plan ; she sat fuming and tossing her head; and when my
grand-father went out he thought it necessary to say, ce
expect to be obeyed in this matter.”

I continued groping in the dark, tro abling myself with
profitless speculations. Had the Colone. Leigh of whom I
heard Uncle Stephen speak, anything to do with this prohibi-
tion? I could only conclude that he had, and having seen

thus far into the mystery, I could scarcely control the strong

excitement that urged me to seek further.

I did not see Uncle Stephen that day, and I passed the
evening as usual with my grand-father in scriptural reading
and prayer. I felt like a culprit when he placed his hand
on my head and blessed me, and crept to bed bewildered by
my feverish thoughts about the world.

I did not sleep, but lay imagining all kinds of things, never
coming near the truth. In the morning Aunt Betsy dressed
my hair as she had promised, and altogether spent so much
time about decorating me that I expressed a fear lest we
should be too late for church.

“Tt is too late already,” said Aunt Betsy; “we are not
going to church this morning.”

‘“¢ Not going to church after all that trouble !”

I seated myself at. the window and took up a book, but I
did not see a word in it. The impatience that had been

; gathering in my spirit boiled up at so sheht an annoyance

as this. Scarcely acknowledged to myself there had been
an idea in my mind that this day would be an important
one; | thought that Aunt Betsy had not taken such pains
about my personal appearance for nothing; I knew that her
thoughts had been unusually occupied ; that she had seemed
determined to take her own willful course in some matter
and I had drawn a hope from these circumstances, that
now failed me. Nothing is easier than to teach forbearance
to those who have no immediate use for it. From the first
moment that I felt myself aggrieved I had restrained my
feolings only by a strong effort, and it would have been

eeFAMILY SECRETS, 89

difficult to persuade me that the meek endurance which 1
nad admired in others was applicable to my own case. Alas!
for my poor grand-father! he had sown the good seed
amongst thorns, and the trouble of this world was about to
choke it!

As I occasionally glanced at Aunt Betsy, sitting so quietly
with her bible before her, it irritated me further to see that
all traces of discomposure had vanished from her countenance,
that she had relapsed altogether into her usual frigidity of
manner. I believe my dislike to Aunt Betsy originated in
this power of hers to sit for hours together noticing no one,
and apparently caring for nothing, and looking so stern and
determined about it, that one could not muster courage to
address her. It was a relief to see her actively employed
about household matters ; for then she found a voice, if only
to notice faults and correct them. ‘There was a restless
energy about myself that rendered this mood of hers parti-
cularly oppressive when we sat at work together. I could
bear with my grand-father in his frequent fits of meditation :
I knew that he was communing with his God, and the
thought inspired me with reverential respect, if I did not
sympathize with him to the extent that I imagined I did.
But what in the world was it that so pre-occupied Aunt
Betsy, or did she ever think at all? She was not eminent
for piety ; she never took up a book except the Bible once
a week, and she was in the habit of thanking God that,
having never married, she had brought no trouble into the
world. This was her manner of informing me that J was
a trouble. I could not suppose that it was of a nature to
burden the mind in her case; and with regard to the
additional drudgery that my presence in the world occasioned
her, I tried to lighten it as much asl could. I thought of
all these circumstances as I gazed at her furtively from time
to time. She was evidently what is called a strong-minded
woman. There was no nonsense, no weakness, about her.
If she had been gentle and tender-hearted, I should have
wendered whether what I considered her very amazing
ugliness had not oceasioned her much sorrow and disappoint,
ment in the course of her past life. As it was, 1 was
evident that she did not think the less of herself on this

merrinr

en
yer ip eben earn ie

Leora ace ci
iia40 FAMILY SHARETS.

account, rather taking a pride in making the worst of what

was bad enough; adhering to a most ungainly bygone
fashion in dress, especially caps and bonnets. The one good
feature in her character, over and above her housewifely
trift and activity, was sincerity. She would let you know
at once that you must expect nothing turther or better from
her than you found. There was no weak point about her
to be taken advantage of for good or evil: her qualities of
heart and mind bristled out like the quills of a porcupine,
and you only fared the worse by seeking further. tasa
child found all this out, and I had no particular admiration
of the good faith that I could only wish might be broken.

Such as she was, Aunt Betsy was the only female of
whom I had any personal knowledge, and I had a pleasure
in contrasting her, so far as my opportunities offered, with
others. At church and in the streets I encountered many
matronly women with kind and smiling faces many young
girls whose countenances expressed Joyousness or an inward
complacency to which I was a stranger. 1 bad only just
begun to wonder why I was shut out from the free com-
munion allowed to others, when the shadow of a terrible
doubt fell upon me; and this doubt gave birth to the vague
hope and the subsequent disappointment under which I sat
chafing in my aunt’s presence.

The clock was on the stroke of twelve, and neither of us
had moved. In a fit of uncontrolable impatience I threw
the book I held from me, rose up and looked out upon the
garden,

“ What is the matter now?” said my Aunt; “Are you

fred of well doing %”

If the well doing had consisted in poring over the book,
it was a misnomer, as I had not seen a word init. JT am
sure I had never before set Aunt Betsy’s authority at naught,
as I did then by not answering her,

“You think yourself very ill used, I dare say,” she con-
tinued. “ We must get you out into the wor d, and then
you will see. You may put your bonnet and mapitle Gp
now; I want you to go out with G3

I did not obey her go readily as I should have done a few

hours earlier. My very vapory hope had evaporated: endFAMILY SECRETS. 4]

disappointment had wearied me; and an inactivity of mind
succeeded, during which I felt little interest in anything. In
this mood, after dressing myself, I joined my aunt.

She surveyed me attentively from head to foot, seemed
- satisfied, and desiring me to follow her, walked out, locking
the door behind her. As we walked up the long lane that
led into the cathedral-yard my interest revived. I might
well wonder whither we were bound, considering that we
had no acquaintance, and that the Morning Service at church
was nearly over. We met no one; but on approaching the
cathedral we saw several carriages waiting for their respec-
tive owners. Aunt Betsy walked round to the western front,
and paced backwards and forwards, frequently looking up at
the clock; suddenly she seized my arm and dragged me
towards the usual entrance. She ascended the steps and
stationed herself by the door, still holding me fast. One of
the carriages had drawn up, and in the footman who stood
at the open door of it, I recognised the man who usually
attended Lady Leigh. My heart was already beating rapidly
when Aunt Betsy said, in a deep whisper, “ Would you like
to see your father?” I had only just turned and fixed my
eyes upon her when she stretched out her arm and said
alchd, “That is your father !”

The personage at whom she pointed was a tall, handsome,
military-looking man, of middle age, who was just approach-
ing from the interior with Lady Leigh hanging upon his
arm. I saw her, though I saw nothing else save him. I
sprang forward and stood before them, so that I impeded
their progress. I stood doubtless, in a very theatrical atti-
tude; with clasped hands, and eyes expressing all the deep
Interest of my heart and soul. I heard Lady Leigh utter a
shrill scream; whether she fell, or was carried away by some
one, or walked away of ber own accord, I never knew, but

did know that the tall man and myself stood alone for the
pace of a few seconds, face to face, and that, as I gazed, a
dark frown gathered op his countenance. Then some one
drew me away, and | heard the voice of my grand-father,

He led me into the interior and down one of the aisles.
I scarcely felt bis grasp upon my arm, or my own footfalls ;
{ was as one n @ wild dream. Yet I had a perception of

 
   
   
   
   
  
  
 
   
  
   
   
   
   
  
   
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

GoRerzae
3

LES er ese er areniee-et (eenskl REM METAL naa

eon

 
  
  
  
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  

42 FAMILY SSORETS.

the truth, and the blood, that had just been chilled by eme
tion, burned on my cheeks and seemed to scorch my heart.

“ How have you been lead into this folly 2” said my grand-
father. “You have not dealt fairly with me, Margaret.”

I was about to reply impatiently, but checked myself.
Amid all the tumult of my feelings I was enabled to take a
common-sense view of the matter, and I had a strong wil
to do right when what was right became clear to me.—
“Cling to them that cling to you,” says Dr. Johnson, and I
had at the moment a full consciousness of the wisdom of
his words. My heart turned more than ever to this kind
and pious old man, who had nurtured me so tenderly, though
my very existence had probably constituted the sole dis-
grace of his own blameless life. Understanding in what true
nobleness consisted, I was repelled at once and for ever by
those who, if I had any claim upon them, seemed determin-
ed to disregard it and me.

“Do not be angry, dear grand-father,” I said; “and do
not fear me. I must have come to this knowledge some
day, and it is better to know at once in what and whom I
have to trust. I belong to you, and for the future you shall

ide me entirely.”

“ God bless thee, my poor child! he said, in a hurried,
broken voice; “wait here until all the people are gone, and
then we will walk home.”

He left me, and I paced up and down the solitary aisle.

__. [found fresh matter for reflection in what he had said.—

ee Were Lady Leigh and her son quite free from blame, that

i they could thus walk boldly forth in the crowd; and what

was the particular ignominy that compelled us to shrink

from the gaze of our fellow mortals? I had a good deal to

learn, and I was ready enough for the tempter when Uncle
Stephen came up and tapped me on the shoulder.

“You are getting on,” he said, “and presently you will
understand this game of life, Do you yet comprehend what
it is that is worshipped in this Christian temple 2”

“Men profess to worship God in it,” I repliec.

“Right,” he said, “that is what they profess, and nothing
1s easier than profession. You might have had a good illus-

tration of their practices at the door just now, where the

5c
reyFAMILY SECRETS. 48
congregation stood bowing and smirking before tue Dean
and his nephew, the Gallant Colonel Leigh. Men worship
things essentially earthly, Margaret; money, position, fame,
—nothing else. I wish you to understand the true value of
this world’s sympathy.”
“You are speaking of a few,” I said; “there are Chris-
tians in the world,—my grand-father is one of them.”
“The only one I ever met with,” said Uncle Stephen;
“and what has he gained by it !—sorrow, and wrong, and
contempt. Is it possible that you have never rightly under-
stood the doctrine preached to youin these very walls—
that there is a necessary connection between moral and ma-
terial well being? Yonder Dean, or Archdeacon Dixon,
will demonstrate to you the utter impossibility of poverty
oeing combined with worth ; and this doctrine has gone the
ength and breadth of the land, and is obliterating all traces
of a creed obsolete except in its name. You have some
sense about you, Margaret; you shall hear the story of your
birth, and-judge for yourself; you shall go out into the
world, and tell me what you find amongst this Christian
ople.”
“ You are not a Christian, uncle Stephen,” I said.
“ And, therefore, you think I am prejudiced? How do
ou know I am not a Christian? Have you just discovered
the fact, or did you surmise it years ago from my actions !”
“ Nay, Uncle Stephen, you have always acted like a Chris-
tian towards me; I never understood so well as I do at this
moment, how much I owe to you.” |
“Never trouble your head about names,” said Uncle Ste-
phen; “you will find enough to trouble you in this hard
world. Never inquire into motives; if you meet with rea-
sonable treatment from any human being, be thankful, and
inquire no further. Beware of the vision of Christian com-
munion that your grand-father has placed before you ; there
is no such thing in life, as experience will shortly teach you.
If you would not be altogether despised and crushed down,
respect yourself—struggle for yourself, Put all prejudices
aside ; resist evil in every shape ;—you have the stuff in
you; be determined to rise, and then I shall feel that I have

not bestowed my pains in vain.”DHRAgRs

a ERP Rea Een

Ha eaaeat sansa rerso

44 FAMILY SEORETS.

This was the last doctrine I listened to in that temple ot
God which I never entered again. Uncle Stephen left me
as he spoke, and when my grand-father came we walked
home together. Neither of us spoke by the way, and when
we arrived, we found Aunt Betsy busy as usual, and looking
as if nothing had happened. Dinner passed over in silence,
and it was not until we were all seated quietly together that
my grand-father spoke.

“ You have acted unadvisedly, Betsy Marples,” he said;
“but what is done cannot be undone. We now owe to this
child an explanation of the past.”

“JT would do it again if it. was to be done,” said Aunt
Betsy, in her determined manner. “It was right that the
child should see her father; if they meet in the world now,
they will know one another.”

There was no further contention. I learned from both of
them. and subsequently from Uncle Stephen, the particulars
which I here give in the form of a detached narrative.

WEES

 

 

David Marples, the newly clected mayor of ;
was an important man in his native city. By a remarkable
talent for pushing and driving in the world, he had aequir-
ed great wealth, and along with it much respectful conside-
ration from those about him. The son of a verger of the
eathedral, he had received his education at the parish school,
from which he was transferred to a warehouse as errand-boy.

Rising by degrees, and shifting for himself, he at length
set up as auctioneer, for which calling a certain amount of
assurance and general knowledge of business matters seemed
peculiarly to fit him. Entering into various speculations, he
occasioned men to marvel at the rapidity and ease with
which he acquired wealth, which finally flowed down upon
him in a deluge, that went nigh to obliterate every trace of
his obscure origin. Having himself an eye to this deside-
ratum in whatever he did, David, rather late in life, united
himself to the daughter of a rich Liverpool merchant, and
thereafter flourished in full blown dignity at his handsome
mansion within half a mile of the city.FAMILY SECRETS. 45

__ Applause so naturally follows success of any legitimate
kind, that it is no wonder David rose high in the considera-
tion of his fellow citizens. It is a noble sight to see a poor
man striving after independence ; many instinctive yearnings
go with him in a career that promises to take him out of
all possibility of becoming a burden upon the community,
and to open before him a large sphere of usefulness to others,
But for one man who, taking this view of the case would
feel humbled and disappointed to see such acquisition of
wealth and power used only for the indulgencs of selfish and
animal ends, and the fostering of vulgar pretension, there
are thousands ready to pay court on any terms to men so
favored by fortune as David Marples.

It had suited Mr. Marples to forget, for the last twenty
years, that he had a brother much older than himself; and
the community had favored Mr. Marples by forgetting the
fact to a great extent also. Indeed, nothing is so easy as to
put poverty in the back-ground, especially in this free
country ; and the quiet, unobtrusive character of Thomas
Marples had helped to bring about this state of affairs.
Altogether unfitted for enterprise, being of a retired and
studious disposition, he had readily yielded to the guidance
of others in the matter of worldly occupation; and when, at
a suitable age, his father found him a place as clerk in a
lawyer’s office, he offered no remonstrance, though the dry
copying of legal documents was a monotonous task for one
whose mind was peculiarly active, with regard to certain
pursuits that would have been well enough for one who had
no need to earn his own bread. Thomas Marples had about
him every mark of a man destined to a life of obscurity.
He was singularly pious, after the old-fashioned manner that
makes a man patient and long-suffering ; peiny too deeply
impressed with his own short-comings to take invidious notice
of the failings of others. This disposition had been fostered
in his early years. His mother, though an ignorant, had
been an eminently pious woman, who labored earnestly for
the spiritual advancement’ of her children ; and being
possessed sof a fine voice and some musical knowledge, he
was early admitted into the cathedral choir. Fond of an-
tique research, especially as connected with ecclesiastical his-

———

Panera ee

meme

   
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
 
 
 
 
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 

pebtdejaien ih lacie Shah

ets

cn ek aETxemlees oe ; : SRE

 

 

 

     
   
   
   
   
  
 
  
  
  
  
   
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
  
   
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  

46 FAMILY SEORSBTS.

tory, the old cathedral itself was a rich mine of wealth to

‘m. He loved to linger amid the spacious alsies, COnt-
muning with times long past, and only exulting in the pre-
sent because he believed on them had dawned a purer faith,
to whose ultimate results in regenerating the whole earth he ~
looked confidently. Taking his stand on God’s word, ne
falling-short of that high standard of Christian life in church
or laymen could shake his faith, though he saw enough to
impart a sad tone to a mind otherwise inclined Lo be uni-
formly though sedately cheerful. This peculiar disposition,
inclining him to a reserve that had nothing of moroseness in
it, made him very unpopular with those of uis own age who

were incapable of appreciating, or even understanding his

character. What little intercourse ine held with them,

confirmed this ill opinion. His meekness was construed as
meanness: his horror of actual sin was a species of cant that
was unendurable: and save that home-example bore him up.
‘Thomas Marples had no outward encouragement to persevere
‘n a course that threatened to mar all his prospects in @
worldly sense.

Nevertheless, he led an active life in his own way. Every-
where scattered about this hard world, he souls perishing
through sheer dearth of spiritual help; hearts pining away
through want of true sympathy ; and amidst the very poor
of his native city was opened to ths eccentric young man 4
wide sphere of usefulness. Sorrow, and sickness, and death,
threw aside many a door to him, through which he entered,
bearing with him the light of Christ, and never failing to
dissipate somewhat of the dense darkness he usually found
there. For though religion was considered to be the staple
commodity of the old ecclesiastical city of , infidelity
and utter spiritual darkness had their strongholds in many
an odd nook and corner, to say nothing of the more general
spiritual indifference which seemed to stand in no awe of the
legitimate upholders of a good which is not of this world.

‘And from amidst the very poor Thomas Marples selected
as his wife a young woman, whose whole family had been
suddenly swept away by a virulent fever, that during several
weeks had kept the bells of the churches tolling. If theirs

was not an ordinary courtship, it was one that bade fair for

yFAMILY SECRETS. 47

a happy continuance of the sentiments that bound them
together ; for gratitude on one side, and pity on the other,
was blended with an esteem for the character of each, that
had sprung up amid scenes of death and desolation, whose
impression could not be obliterated by time. And when,
after the death of his father, Thomas succeeded to his office
as verger, and saw his young family springing about him, he
felt happy aud grateful, trusting in God’s good providence
and his own exertions for the future. Far from envying his
brother what was generally considered his good fortune, Lis
heart was filled with a godly sorrow for him, knowing that
the riches of this world take to themselves wings and fly
away, and that he was cleaving to an unsubstantial good.
It was a great grief to him, too, in his joy as well as in his
subsequent sorrow, to feel that all brotherly communion with
one so near to him was withheld. For the faith of Thomas
Marples was destined to he tried in the fiery furnace of
affliction, and one by one his chiidren dropped into the grave,
—the last survivor, a fair and fragile girl, giving small
promise of being reared to womanhood. In this child, the
affections of both parents centred with an intensity that
frequently prompted Thomas himself to pray against yielding
to the idol-worship to which the human heart is too much
prone. Yielding to a presentiment that he should lose her,
though in a manner different to what happened, he more
sedulously applied himself to the task of sowing the good
seed, and leading her thoughts to God. And the girl was a
docile and gentle, and apparently earnest recipient of these
teavhings, which had always formed so large a part of her
brief life. Brought up in seclusion and in constant com-
munion with two earnest spirits, there was an air of refine-
ment about her that added a grace to her fragile beauty,—
a solemnity of thought that prevented her shy, timid manner
degenerating into awkwardness. Over the mother’s heart
no such cloud as that whieh overshadowed Thomas Marples
lingered. Already bereaved almost beyond her woman’s
endurance, the thought of losing this last treasure was
banished, simply because it was more than she could bear;
and she yielded, not always without self-reproach, toa feeling
ef pride in her daughter's beauty, which was talked of farAWA OL AR valaaae™

SO IT

EAE es EAE INSEE
Pech iy inh i i ae ER eS

RN 0

 

  

éS FAMILY 6BORETS.

and near, ana which frequently attracted the notice of the
visitors to the cathedral, where she was often to be found at
the side of her father, who had familiarised her with every
record of the place. Much in this way had come to the
knowledge of Mrs. Marples, which she did not repeat to her
husband, and which made her own heart tremble even while .
the gratified vanity of a mother filled her eyes with proud,
deep-drawn tears. The delicacy of constitution, united to a
corresponding sensitiveness of mind, that had impressed
Thomas Marples witha conviction that his child would die
early, had only served, united with her beauty, to lead the
mother to a belief that she was destined to rise out of her
station ; to carry the grace of her gentle manners and her
piety to a sphere far above that in which she had been born.
There was something too exacting and secret in this mother’s
pride to be borne easily ; and to Margaret Marples, when she
knelt down in prayer, came ever a conviction that she had
strayed from the right way in encouraging hopes in which
she knew her husband would not share,—thoughts that
formed for the first time a gulf betwixt their free communion.
He, too, had his secret; he had consulted a physician, who
gave him little hope that Alice’s life might be spared, though
the symptoms of the insidious disease that had swept away
the rest of his children were as yet only slightly developed
in her. By day and by night he prayed for strength to
communicate this worst sorrow to his wife.

_ Meanwhile the bloom on Alice’s cheek deepened, her eyes
grew brighter, and Thomas Marples listened night after
night to the dry, short cough that broke the stillness of her
chamber. He knew that the time was come in which he
could delay his painful task no longer.

Alice had been invited to spend a week with the family
of a farmer residing some miles from the city, and her father
took the opportunity of her absence to prepare his wife for
an approaching longer separation. But Margaret Marples
had allowed her heart to wander too far away into the world
to allow the two to weep together as those who are not
without hope; and she rebelled against the dispensation with
a pertinacity of despa.r that more than all his previous
sorrow burdened the soul of her husband. Her first impulsewas to fly to her child, with a vague thought tnat oy oeing
near her she could detain her longer upon earth; but even
while she was making preparation to go, a messenger arrived
who was destined to prove to her that there are worse evils
upon earth than the evil of death.

The burly farmer at whose house she had been staying,
arrived early in the morning in a State of great perturbation.
Alice, he said, had been missing since the preceding evening,
She had gone alone in the twilight to visit at a neighboring
farm-house, which, however, she had not reached. After
sending there and not finding her, they had searched the
country round all night. A shepherd-boy said he had heard
the screams of a woman, and a laborer had noticed a post-
chaise driving rapidly along the road just at the fall of the
night. Was it possible that Alice had been carried away by
force, and ba whom, and for what ?

God punishes with immediate stripes the disobedience of
His chosen, though He bears long with the iniquity of them
that bide His time. Margaret Marples fell, stricken alike
by conviction and death, when she heard this terrible doom
of one whom she had grudged giving to the Lord in her

urity. Frail in health, and riper for the sickle than she
faa imagined herself to be, the mortal part gave way at
once. Into the agonised heart of her husband she poured
the full tide of her most penitential confession, and died with
a prayer upon her lips for him and for the lost. The most
just and upright amongst men have their times in which to
ery—“All thy waves have gone over me,” and so Thomas
Marples cried now. He left the corpse of his wife to Join in
the vain search for Alice. Nothing further was to be learned
except that the post-chaise was seen by others on its course,
but the track was soon lost. Every means of obtaining
information was tried without avail, and after weeks of vain
effort and agonising suspense, Thomas Marples rested in a
stupor of grief that left him helpless, hopeless, prayerless. —

No heavier affliction could have fallen upon him than this.
He had resigned himself to the thought of yielding his child
to God; but to lose her thus in the world, young as she was
—scarcely fifteen—hovering on the brink of the grave as
she was; the thoughts that crowded upon him were too

»

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PPA a
Ser be

  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
 
   
   
   
  
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 

meetin tte oa
Tver le

pilisiiintnisais =
meee ie OCT reer eset a56 FAMILY SECRETS. v

horrible . be borne; and by day and by night his fas
friend, Stephen Leath, watched him as he writhed in hi
strong agony, fearing to leave even him, great as had been
his faith and trust in the Lord, alone with that mighty
sorrow shaking his very soul in its helplessness as a reed 18
shaken by the tempest. In those terrible hours to whicli -
Thomas always dreaded looking back, Stephen Leath was a
great stay to him. For though the latter was no believer in
Christianity, and there was only the human sympathy be-
tween them, this was much at a time when most others kept
aloof, or stung him by lamenting that Alice had not been
differently brought up; by repeating all that had been before
repeated about making a show of her beauty, and by dragging
forward various prophecies that she would come to some such
end. By shutting the door against this croaking, even when
it came in the shape of Canon Dixon himself, Stephen stood
his friend in good stead, at a time when he needed no
aggravation of his sharp sufferings. He was the better able
to perform those good offices, because he was generally sup-
‘posed to be rich, and none knew better than he that such a
reputation secured to him privileges that might be turned to
account in aiding the oppressed. That no thought of using
them for a selfish purpose ever entered his heart was some
proof that he had not altogether strayed out of the right
way.

This Stephen Leath, also the son of parents in rather
humble circumstances, was an early companion to both the
brothers Marples. Though, being himself of an enterprising
turn, he might have been supposed to have had most sym-
ed with David, the younger of the two, a mutual dislike

ept them asunder even in boyhood, whilst betwixt the elder
and himself a strong attachment sprung up that survived all
their after-differences of opinion. Stephen Leath seemed te
tread fast in the steps of David Marples in the matter of
worldly success. He was apprenticed to a silversmith and
jeweller, to whose business he eventually succeeded ; his
only sister was marned tc an attorney, with whom she
removed to London; and Stephen, in his bachelorhood and
with his flourishing business, was looked upon as a man
likely to acquire much wealth.Si:

jo

FAMILY SECRETS,

Betwixt him and his friend Thomas M arples tnere waa

Ria } as tne
sympathy of congenial tastes. Both were eager in. the
pursuit of knowledge, both had great musical talent, and
Steph len possessed a natural venius for the acquisition of
languages, m: oak 19 himself master of several dead as well as
living tongue s. Whatever it was that in his worldly st ugsle
had caus sed fa to sink into the chaos of infi lelity, he kept
his own counsel, attending the church and pov otaae the

cause of Christianity alter his own caustic manner, and on ly

confiding his real opinions to Thomas Marp les, with whom
he could not dissemble, and from whom alone he could bear
contradiction or reproot. For respectil ig in the latter, what

was with him a sincere practice, free from con venuonsly pro-
fession, he could listen to his frequent long admonitions with
admirable patience, and even’ rejoice ab. the actual good
resulting from the belief of his unfortunate and le 3-minded
friend,

And thus it happened, that when in his great affliction
Thomas Marples seemed to reject all consolation, Stephen
was the — one at hand to remind im that he was dis-
honoring the faith to which he had 1 cleaved through life ;
and such a rebuke coming a quarter had i its effect
in rousing him, i in bringit ig i his soul a startling conviction

~
OS

foemy
/

my
oa
ee
CS

 

of its heavy sin in thus makin nought before the eyes of ar
unbeliever of the rich stores se God’s grace; and he forth-
with girded himself up and went straight to Christ with his

t
heavy trouble, and found the chaos of his thoughts shaped
into a plan and a purpose.

For when the tumult of his mind h
subsided, it seemed clear to him that

daughter (he never for a moment ‘iutinel that she had

j
1aGd

;
LIES , SnAmMmea q Tras
Lluis, In SOme Ge; rea,

18 abductor of his
Las

7
tt
?
a
tp

gone away of her own freewill) was a man of wealth, and
one who had some knowledge of him and his concerns ; and
bringing into review before him the families of note in the

neighborhood, he fixed upon that of the widowed Lady ae)
the sister-in-law of the Dean, and daughter of an earl, whos

son, a lieutenant in the army and noted for his wild courses,
had recently been down on a visit to his relatives. His
suspicions fastened upon this man with a nortinacity that
might not be put aside; and confiding them to Stephenfe: eae
ie) Yeats ss

 

 

 

 

 

5S FAMILY SECRETA.

Leath, the latter approved of his determination to go te
London, vowed that he would see him and his child righted
‘¢ it cost him all he was worth, and took upon himself the
task of shutting up the desolate house after Thomas Marples
departed.

Alice had been missing two months when her father
arrived in London. He proceeded at once to the Army and
Navy Club and there obtained the lieutenant’s private address,
but it was many days before he could meet with himself.
When he did at length obtain an interview, the well-feigned
astonishment of the lieutenant at the charge preferred against
him, his ready sympathy with the bereaved father, and above
all, his solemn protestations of innocence, staggered Thomas
Marples, and he was beginning to be ashamed of his suspi-
cions in this quarter when he detected.a glance of intelligence
betwixt the master and his servant, who was present, that
served to confirm them at once. He resolved not to leave
the house until his child was restored to-him, and the result
was that he was handed over to the police, and on the follow-
ing day brought before the sitting magistrate at Marlborough-
street, Thomas Marples told his own tale, but he could
bring forward no proof to sustain the charge ; and when the
lieutenant protested, “on his word of honor,” that he knew
nothing of the girl, the magistrate was satisfied, and the dis-
consolate father was warned not to continue the system of
annoyance he had commenced.

He wrote immediately to Lady Leigh and the Dean,
reiterating his own conviction and begging their interference;
and a letter arrived from the latter to say that “if his nephew
had formed an improper connection, means would be taken
to break it off2? Those few cold words, and nothing more.
It was not known to Thomas Marples that the lieutenant was
on the eve of proceeding to India with his regiment ; he
knew nothing of this intention until he heard that he had
already set sail, and then he was beset by a new horror—
had Alice departed with him?

Overcome by fatigue and distress, he was lying sick at his
lodgings, when Stephen Leath arrived, bringing with him a
letter from Alice, It was dated from a small street in
Pimlico. Shame. and heart-broken sorrow and sicknessFAMILY SECRETS, 58

anto death, had conspired to make it almost illegible. If
stated that she had no money to take her home if she could
summon strength or courage to return there ; it spoke, too
of horrors from which she must fly at once or die, and she
implored that her parents would see her once more. It was
not long before the father received his fainting child into
his arms; and then he and Stephen Leath listened to a tale
of inhuman outrage that went nigh to drive them both mad.
The child had never spoken with Lieutenant Leigh, only just
knew him by sight, until she met him under that roof, where
she had arrived in a state of terror that threatened her with
instant dissolution. He was alarmed at her state and lef*
her, and she was attended by the woman of the house, and
soothed with promises of being sent home. She was kept a
¢lose prisoner, and not allowed to write; and one evening
she fell into a stupor that she thought. was the approach of
death, but she awoke from it to understand that she had
been fearfully wronged, and then she bowed down her head
in deep shame, and prayed to die.

Unable to overcome her deep horror at his presence, the
lieutenant ceased to trouble her with his visits, and at length
a letter arrived from him in which he advised her to return
home. She was too ill to undertake a journey by herself :
she had no money, for he sent, her none; and, aboye all,
shame had bowed down her very soul, and she shrank from
the thought of seeing those who had known her in her purity
In this state, the mistress of the house informed her that she
must provide herself with other lodgings, or with means of
payment; and she recommended a life of infamy: and then
the girl’s spirit was roused, and she wrote to her father.

Thomas Marples carried the wreck of his dying child
home, and the thoughtfulness of Stephen Leath had prepared
everything for their reception.

When David Marples saw fit to forget his brother, he
resigned a sister to the same oblivion. Betsy Marples, being
an only daughter, had devoted a large portion of her life to
attendance on an infirm mother, who lived to a great age.
Working hard at her business of dressmaking, she contrived
to maintain an independence, of which she was proud, and
on whioh she would not allow any one to encroach. Sharp

ie Se ss 2 " ~ reagents
R Secantanisnanane hones SO i ee ee pe mmr =a* lgaBhbee

 

inert ensitn etre ran

 

 

 

 

54 FAMILY SECRETS.

  
 
  
 
 
  
   
 
 

eccentric, she held little inter
yorite brother Thomas, and no one
ay the name of David, of whose ex-
mee she ao than he could be of hers, as
her subordinate place in the town, like his brother’s, was a
C nstant annoyance to him. Tt was a marvel to many, and
TI aoe himself, how Stephen
s hard-tempered and self-con-
tained ue so far as to induce her to break through all
the habits of her previous i e, and entirely devote herself to
her kindred in their sore extremity. The unhappy travellers
found her in the home to wh ‘hich they hastened ; all that was
Tre roused by the sufferings of Alice ;
and, if she could no ply the place of the mother that
was lost, she would suffer no strange hand to interfere, but
faithfi a performed the » duties of the place she had taken,
Alice linger red through four months, and died in giving
premature birth to a female child. This child, contrary to
al expectation, s and healthy, and Betsy Marples,
now secluded altogether from the world, devoted herself to
the task of rearing it. The townspeople readily fell in with
the humor of her and her r brother to keep entirely to them-
selves, There was a general idea that Alice Marples had
taken a great t liberty in going off with the nephew of the
Dean, and the son of so dignified a person as Lady Leigh;

gi
; 1 } Ie
and, though both stood

COUTSe
See
dared 1

to none

y 4 }
Leath | Lac |
J

womanly in her nat

a

t] aloof in lofty security and scornful
silence, and would have been horrified at any one mentioning
the ei eeance: | to them as in any way concerning them-
selves, it seemed a matter of propriety that every man should
set his face against ih ut portion of the Marples family wita
whom had ori inated an a ttempt to invade the peace of
distinguished people

Thomas Mary ples himself voluntarily bowed down his head
with humility. Pe orided himself in an honest name,
and his heart seeme ad to wither at the breath of disgrace. It
was too late to seek for redress, and his religion forbade bim

OQ
atte

OF}
eo 2
a

1&

J@

pence)

eS
He

to cherish feelings of revenge, and he felt that enough was

known of the circumstances to claim for his child all he
forbearance that might be hoped for from earthly judges.
Going even amongst “the poor and the afflicted less than wayAMILY SEORETS. 55

his wont, he obtained the soubriguet of the “sr
from the circumstance of being seldom se

  
  

post. And as age crept on him, and
habits of seclusion became more confirmed, Ce
affections in her, and Jealous of her happiness, he dreaded
above all things her coming in éontact with thos:

taunt her with the stigma of her birth, and so overclot
mind with the shadows of sin and sorrow before its imp:
were trained or its energies developed. Mar
therefore, was brought up in solitu

besides devoting himself more than ever to his friend, se
himself the task of superintending h icati

her of quick capacity, and began to take delight
Leaving her religious instruction entirely to her grand-father,
he labored hard to perfect her in such studies as would
enable her to be a teacher of others: 1]

a my
9 ald

   
   
  

 
  

 

“
ow
@
9
foo,

ye QU AS se aaa EPs
i Stephen Leath

CT ~

   

 

her own diligence

and natural bent towards inquiry and im provement were his
reward. a

This seclusion of the child, Margaret Marples, and this

  

9.

training superior to her station, which some way became
known, w2s an additional offence in ¢] hh
was remembered against Thomas Marples that he had brought

ce In the eyes of many.
: S
“ap his daughter Alice in mich the same way
the remonstrances of Archdeacon Dixon, who

to send her to the parish school, and
service. It amused Stephen Leath, wo was t

 

assailed in a coarse manner, to see how the general obloquy
worked against himself; for he came in for a share of it,
Men touched him tenderly on the subject of wasting his time
and money in a mistaken care for others; and Archdeacon

 

: 7 moaniaghad him 1 +} aha
Oixon, in a very bland manner, admonished him on the folly
; ld ay Ie ] Q 177 act hy

of fostering pretence in people who could only be ruined by
imbibing ideas that were unsuited to their station. Hearing

° ae 1 +h, wnoapreayv Arad Mm ss
all and saying little, Stephen Leath persevered in his own

way until the child Margaret had nearly attained her fifteenth
year; and then there came a rumor that Lieutenant, now

Colonel Leigh, was about to return from India, loaded with
honors, after an absence of fifteen years.

    
    
  
    
 
    
  
    
   
  
 
   
  
 
  
  
   
  
 

sisanblinniitiritinmrensine ori
Preset eer ener elDSRNA HAE LGEP READE

Sa

wine

spe yy ect nora tien ease

XE
Bo
Aes
pe
ee
Bi

We
S
Te
&

 

 

 

FAMILY SEORETS.

CHAPTER OL

Tris was the substance of what I learned, chiefly from
Uncle Stephen. He was outspoken, because he wished to
neutralise the effect of my grand-father’s teaching, which
led me to expect more from the world than I should find.
My first feeling was an intense loathing for Colonel Leigh
and all his kin, that extended to myself; so that I would
gladly have poured into the earth the portion of blood I in-
herited from them. The outburst of my own scorn was too
full and earnest to admit of a care about theirs, with the
world to approve and back it. I was sufficiently sustained
oy contemplating in them the cold-blooded villany and ig-
noble subterfuge and unblushing weCk-worship that excited
my abhorrence, and to whizh I could not myself stoop. I
was too young and inexperienced, too much accustomed to
look at and reverenceae word of God as it stood, to be-
lieve that such cunduct could pass unreproved amongst a
Christian peeple, much less receive general approbation.

I still distrusted Uncle Stephen, as one who evidently was
strongly prejudiced against Christians and Christianity ; the
more s, when I learned from Aunt Betsy that he did not
even ‘believe in the existence of a God. If what he said
respecting the world was true, I had more than ever need of

God as a refuge from its injustice. His doctrine was so re-

volting to me, so altogether unnatural, that I could not help
shrinking from him, even while I admired and respected his
steady friendship for my grand-father, and felt grateful for
the great care and pains he had bestowed upon myself, who
had no claim upon him. There was some unacknowledged
faltering in my resistance to Uncle Stephen’s view of things.57
In rewing him as an uncle I had gained another, a man of
wealth and reputation, an undoubted Christian; for he was
a great benefactor to Su. Mary’s Church, which he constantly
attended, «nd a promote of missions; yet from this man T
had never received any notice; I was until now quite un-
conscious of nis existence. That he stood high in the esti-
mation of ny rellow-citizens, was evident from the fact of
his having reosintly been elected mayor; that he had no sym-
pathy with us was made equally clear by his being at the
head of those who were eager to do honor to Colonel Leigh,
Good Christians tiese men were considered to be, and our
wn private wrongs, about which the world cared nothing,
alone enabled us to dispute the position, I saw enough to
stagger one called upea to search so narrowly into individ-
ual practice as I was. Except that the name “Infidel” was
a bugbear to me, all] xnew of Uncle Stephen reflected high
honor on his heart ana principles, and I was ashamed to tina
myself shrinking from aim, even more than I did from the
so-called Christians, in whose profession I had no trust.—
One thing seemed certem—the law of God was less regard-
ed than from my grand-father’s teaching I had supposed it
to be; that other law of this world, of which Uncle Ste-
phen had spoken, and from which I could hope little, ruled
more universally. Well! there was a stern battle with life
before me, and I had a strong, determined will, and a stout
heart. ee

In the midst of many dangerous doubts and perplexities

[ learned much that it was good for me toknow. More than
ever I loved and reverenced my grand-father: I was compel-
ied to admire his patience in tribulation; there was soinething
sublime about his steadfast faith kept in the midst of fiery
trial, and which the mysterious dispensations of this world
could notshake. I felt that I had been unjust to Aunt
Betsy ; under the rough exterior that had so readily repel-
led me I had failed to discern the real goodness of heart,
the straightforward sense of duty and right that had enabled
her to break through the habits of years, and devote herself
to uncongenial labors, and brave all the sorrow and disgrace
that had fallen upon her brother’shome. I cleaved to these
twe with my whole heart; I longed in my turn to labor for58 FAMILY SEORETS.

them, to prove that the gratitude T felt was something more
than the passing 1m pulse to which I could give no words.
It was perhaps, well for me that I did not at once see all
the disgrace of my position, all the disadvantage that it
to me in the world. I had to learn more of ite

customs before I could understand that every penalty of that
nosition must fall upon myself; that guiltless as 1 supposed
myself to be, 1 must stand in the place of the guilty, so far
' jgme concerned. | felt the disgrace with-
out allowing it to crush me, it was a cloud that I might
break through, a load that I might cast off. I had youth
and heal th, and, probably, a long life before me; in other
midst other people, I should be judged by my

had a semi-savage sort of pride in the

hing in my loneliness.

‘
would prove

st
aa ite . wmants were
as its Juagments were

4

own actions, and I ha
struggling and triump

a

thought of thus st

ea aoa art ; 1 : :

1 was soon called upon to put my good resolution into
My unexpected appearance before my father had

practice.

given great offence to the Dean: it was considered by all to
have been a concerted plan betwixt me and my grand-father 5
‘+ showed an inclination to prefer claims that were not to
be thought about, and threatened a series of annoyances
that were not to be borne. It is the peculiar privilege of
the great people of this world, that they have little need to
interfere personally with dirty work. There are plenty to
do it for them in an underhand way, or to battle for them
openly ; and on His occasion, while the Dean and Colonel
and Lady Leigh stood aloof in dignified silence, the whole
staff of under-churchmen, with Archdeacon Dixon at their
head, undertook the task of reproof. I was sitting at my
music-lesson, a few days after that important Sunday, when
the latter gentleman, without knocking, walked through the
outer room into mine. He was a stout, portly man, with a
particular florid complexion, a bustling importance of man-
ner, and having altogether the self satisfied look that char-
acterises those who occupy a good place in the world, and
tnow how to make the most of it. I had never been ex-
posed to vulgarity or impertinence; my grand-father, being
a Christian, had the bearing of a perfect gentleman 5 and
Uncle Stephen had a native dignity of manner, never Un-
eourteous when most severe, that he rarely put off in myFAMILY SECRETS 59
presence. At the first glance I saw that I must expect rude
treatment at the hands of this Archdeacon, who had burst
upon me so abruptly, and who asked blustering tone
first, why I was idling my time there; and next, where my
grand-father was. :

I had risen up at his entrance, and I told him that my
grand-father was not in.

“ Where is your aunt ?”

My aunt had heard us speaking, and appeared to answer

‘
IH Le |
g Asi ce

Vt
for herself. I was going away, when the Archdeacon called

me back:
66 7 ° Sat gt Lg. ; : YA Sa
Stop here, Girl; I want to talk to you. Why don’t
you,” he continued, “set that great wench to the wash-tub,
instead of allowing her to waste her time in thi
What do you think you are going to make of

S way /—
C iy ¢ 7
“ Archdeacon Dixon,” said my aunt, bristling ur
very well could, “this is the first time that an le has ta-
ken the trouble to make inquiry about that child, and I
think the least people can do is to let us take our own course
with her. If she satisfy us that is enough.”
“My good woman, you don’t know what you are talking

 

  

about,” said the Archdeacon. “If you don’t teach her to
make herself properly useful, she must trouble somebody,
Bless my life, you haven’t a fortune to leave her! Now let

b

me hear what she is fit for: Wouldn’t you like a place, eh |”
“This was addressed to me. [I was al to say that
was in my grand-father’s hands and ready tc
wished, when my aunt interposed.
“She has not been brought up for tl
would like to put her in, but she a
that she must earn her own living, and please G
do that. You may go away, Margaret
thing more to be asked, I can answer myself.
I was very thankful for this order
heard their voices for some time after
and when my sunt rejoined me, her face was flushed and hes
manner excited. She told me to go to my lesson again.
Every fresh contact with the world seemed worse than
the last. The visit of the Archdeacon had left a very pain

ful impression upon me. It showed me the wanner mm which

 

  

and leit the room. 4

: Fea hte cy bac pera
In 10ua altercation,

   

cf

     
      
    
  
  
  
 
  
 
   
  
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
   
    
  
   
 

tiger
“ae ie

eer USS ts ses oe et

Salhi ie atte a
1 b

int | peek SE

vee te)

velield lt deja eshte) | it60 FAMILY SECRE®S,

the world takes rather rough liberties with those whose ios
is lowly, and placed another minister of God before me in
an unfavorable light. I felt that I must yield a little more
in Uncle Stephen’s favor; that if a Christians resembled
those I had hitherto come in contact with, I should be in-
clined to turn to him, and such as him, heart and soul.—
I tried to resume my lesson, but could not. My mind
was disturbed, and my thoughts wandered far away inte
the dark depths of the world, in which I anticipated I
should have to undergo many changes, until, in my final self,
tittle would remain of the dreaming, wavering creature I
was then. Uncle Stephen had spoken of Christianity as a
worn-out system; of its professors as men whose practice
turned it into mockery. If this were true, I thought it
would be a better world in which men rejected it altogether ;
pecause the habit of a daily lie in the many, left little chance
for the sincerity of the few. Then, Christianity was exact-
ing, it enjoined patience and forbearance under affliction
and wrong; humility to the down-trodden ; no turning again
to the smitten; meek endurance and long-suffering to the
death. From the little I had as yet seen, I understood how
readily any earnest follower of Christ, whose riches were not
of this world, might find occasion to put these virtues into
practice. What a victim he might become to those who de-
spised his belief, while they made use of it for their own
ends! I dwelt upon this idea until it took a shape, and I
saw my grand-father in his tribulation, and thought of Un-
cle Stephen’s words when they conversed together. If pov-
erty makes humility imperative, it should not, amongst a
Christian people, make nothing of a great wrong; and I
could not help seeing that if my grand-father had been
rich, and Colonel Leigh ‘poor, and, therefore, insignificant,
the world’s sympathy would have been with us. I saw all
(he mockery of Christian profession in those who suffered
such things to be. My grand-father himself had not acted
with sincerity; he had allowed me to think too weil of the
world, to express and cherish in my heart reverence for those
whom he knew to be undeserving of it, and I could not con-
sider this a small or excusable error, feeling as I did how

much it had tended te shake my faith. Uncle Stephen——
fs
es PPC te

nn

  

FAMILY SECRETS, 6]

alone had not deceived me. I had found life and men as
he painted them—with a rough hand and dark colors, but
BO generally true that there was no mistaking the Fkenese,
The authoritative dictation and scornful manner of arch-
dea ‘on Dixon had worked a wonderful change in me in the
course of half an hour. I contrasted my grand-father’s
feebleness with Uncle Stephen’s strength, the one bending
under a galling yoke, the other boldly ascerting his own
free will; and ina paroxysm of overwrought feeling I ex-
tended my arms and uttered the name of Uncle Stephen,
in a wild cry for help.

Deeply absorbed as I was, I had not observed that Uncle
Stephen had entered the room from the kitchen. He took
my hands in his, and held them fast,

“What is Uncle Stephen to help you in? What is the
matter?” he asked. “I was just about to scold when you
nearly knocked me down with that sudden outbreak. Why,
your hands are hot, and your face is all in a glow; have
you been asleep and dreaming ?”

Aunt Betsy walked forward and answered for me.

“ You should have been here a little while ago,” she said.
“ We have had a visit from Archdeacon Dixon. You know
his pompous manner, and how he likes to lord it where he
can. Weil, he walked straight into this room, and wanted
to know why Margaret was allowed to idle her time, and
asked what she was fit for, and if she would like a place.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said Uncle Stephen, drawing a chair
forward, seating himself, and still keeping hold of my hand,

“Yes, that’s it,” said Aunt Betsy; “that’s what must
always be where people won’t or can’t stand up for them-

selves. You know, Stephen Leath, that before I came here,
I had-a pride in my independence, and maintained it; no
oue dared say to me what Archdeacon Dixon did to-day.”
“T know ; I always said you were a brave woman, Betsy
—one of the nght sort—one that wouid neither take wrong
nor doit. As to this child, if he has anything to say about
her, iet him come to me. I suppose his impertinence has
put her in this fever. I'll let him know it mustn’t happen
again; your Uncle Stephen can protect you so far, Margaret,
CGonfound the people! What a nest of hornets this62 FAMILY SECRETS.

It would be pleasant getting t
There, it isn’t worth erying about,
who sit down to weep over theit

and Chapter affair is !
heaven witbout them.
Margaret ; and people
troubles are fit for nothing.”

{ sobbed convulsively, but only for a moment. I dashed
the tears from my eyes, and lifted my head. * You see,” |
paid, “they can labor to put. down and degrade me—these
people who will do nothing else! They are right in supposing
i am old enough to earn my Own livelihood. It is time 1
left this place, where I can only be a burden upon my grand-
father.”

“That is the right sort of spirit, Margaret,” said Uncle
Stephen ; “but you must have patience,—your education 18
scarcely completed. As to the rest, I think 1 can now let
you go into the world with some confidence.”

«“] shall go, expecting little mercy at the hands of
Christians.” I said. “1 could pray that I might find all
like you, Uncle Stephen.”

“Or like your grand-father,” said Aunt Betsy, sharply ;
“ what fault have you to find with your grand-father ””

“Phere are none like him; he is too good for this world
as it is. Better than | shall ever be; better than I would
be. I will not lie down to be trampled on by orthodox feet.
I will turn heathen sooner, for the followers of Mahomet do
exhibit some traits of nobleness.”

“What have you been teaching this child, Stephen Leath?”

“7! Nay, you may thank your high churchmen for these
notions. Margaret is excited, and speaks under the impulse
of the moment. You should have some sympathy with a
spirit 50 hke your own, Betsy ; you would not like to see
this child in the hands of those who would like nothing
better than to bring her as low as possible.”

“Would’nt they like it ?” said Aunt Betsy, excited. “You
KC w that in spite of Thomas, I have always said I hope to
see the day when we should be revenged.”

one best revenge will be keeping out of their way, and

oe s apie We sald Unele Stephen, placing his
hand on ERY head in the caressing manner that had in the
last few days become usual with him. “] predict a bright
ssrecr for Margaret. In a few vears most of thease people

  
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
  
   
   
 
   
    
  
   
  
  
  
   
 
 
 
 
  
    
 
  
  
 
 
   
   
   

— ia al
onetime

prrmerancent

ca senile

Nett

Sn et A ee edj
i

FPAMILY SECRETS. 63

kitcpe dead, and she will not think them worth remembering,
thome to tell you that I am going to London in a few days,
and I shall, perhaps, be absent a fortnight. You, Margaret,
be diligent whilst I am away. ‘Teli Thomas I shall want to
see him in the evening.”

Hs left us, and Aunt Betsy called me into the kitchen.

“You are getting into high favor with Uncle Stephen, I
think,” she said. “You may learn more from him than is
good for you to know. What has he been saying to you
against Christianity ?”

“Nothing ; he only speaks against those who profess it to
little purpose, and he can say no worse of them than I find.”

“ All Christians are not alike.”

“Are they not all alike in this place where my grand-
father’s long life of piety and humble usefulness has only

a

gained him one friend, and that an infidel, because he is
poor? where his brother is honored for the one recommenda-
tion of wealth? where such people as Colonel Leigh ean
commit any-wickedness with impunity? If I find no better
amongst the thousands in this city, what am I to

where ?”

“The people here are bad enough,” said Aunt Betsy, “but
that is not the fault of Christianity. It is because they have
none of it in them.”

“Has the Dean none, nor Archdeacon Dixon, nor Lady

 

Leigh, who goes every day to prayers, nor David Marples, i
who you say has given a new organ to St. Mary’s and gives

eS
in such practice as Uncle Stephen’s. You say he was a good
son, a good brother, and—I myself feel that he has been a
good friend.” i
“You are learning to talk too fast,” said Aunt Betsy, in
ner harshest manner. “Uncle Stephen is one in a million
for his way of thinking. If all these people were hike him,
without religion altogether, we shouldn’t be able to live
amongst them. Who amongst them would care what they
; 1s Ao) Lats = oo:
did, if like Stephen Leath, they expected to lie down at last
and go to dust like a dog ?” a eG
Her words fairly made me start. I had never taken this
“ aE wat ~
view of the case; on the contrary. I had been pleasing

hundreds to the missionaries? After all, true religion consists

  
     
  
   
  
  
  
  
   
 
  
 
 
 
 
   
   
  
    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
    
  
 

ane

tay vty nt Te MSS errr e titresSH US ada ASE TAU AREA

$4 FAMILY SECRETS. /
/

myself with the thought of future punishment for. tk
people, and reward for Uncle Stephen. From this\Q ut
sbsorbing present my thoughts wandered back to the nobie

men and women of whom I had read, whose lives, sometimes
through storm and darkness, bore testimony to the truths of
God, and whose deaths glorified Him. I considered my own

weakness, and felt the extent of my folly, and that night 1

prayed ferventiy for grace to keep me in the right way.
Several days passed quietly. Uncle Stephen, as I continued
to call him, had gone to London, and the more than usually
serious manner of my grand-father, and his frequent allusions
to the great danger and sin of doubt and unbelief in matters
pertaining to God, led me to suppose that Aunt Betsy had
alarmed him by repeating the sentiments I had expressed.
In his own quiet way he selected for our reading the noblest
examples of Christian life, and I felt ashamed that it was
deemed necessary to go over this ground once more, for the
express purpose of convincing me that the believers in Christ
were capable of acting worthily. I felt this without re-
covering from the shock I had received. The persons I was
ealled upon to admire had been long dead, and I had yet to
find their likeness amongst the living. I could only be
content to hope on, and search further, without giving up
my opinion of those who had excited my disgust. “It must
needs be that offences come, but woe to that man by whom
the offence cometh.”

Uncle Stephen had been absent a week when I was one
day surprised by the entrance of a strange man into the
house. He accompanied my grand-father into every room,
and I'soon found that he was taking an inventory of the
furniture. This puzzled without alarming me. I wondered
if my grand-father had any thought of leaving the place, but
that seemed too good news to be true. I was sewing in my
own room, and I took my work into the kitchen in the hope
that Aunt Betsy would say something, but she was unusually
busy, and took no_notice of me. The inner door was open
and I saw the man pause beside the piano.

« This,” said my grand-father, “belongs to Mr. Leath,”
and they passed on. During the time they were in the

{

\

(

ee
g \ |
i ia——.,, ;
i rer Wicg
es
44

i ee

   
     
    
  
 
 
    
  
  
 
  
   
    
 
   
  
  
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
  
 

FAMILY SECRETS. 65

kitcaen, my grand-father glanced wistfully at Aunt Betsy as
the man was inspecting a dresser, :
s This,” he said, “belongs to my sister. I scarcely feel
that tam doing right by letting all these things go together,
C1 SV,

“Say no more about it,” said my aunt. “TI have cast m
lot with you and the child; if you go, I will not be lef
Lehind.”

Joyful news! We were, then, going somewhere ; perhaps
© join Uncle Stephen in London.

The knowledge that at all events we should quit that place
atisfied me, and I sat in a silent trance of happiness, well
content to wait patiently until I might learn more. It was
not until we were all seated after tea, in what may be called
my grand-father’s study, that either he or my aunt showed
any intention to enlighten me, and I was determined to ask
no questions until one of them had spoken. It was a rough
winter night ; hail mixed with rain rattled against the upper
windows, and the shutters below shook in the strong blast.

“Draw your chair nearer the fire, Margaret,” said my
grand-father; “we must have a long talk together to-night,
I wish you to believe that I have always done my best for
you; that, more than anything else, I have your interest at
heart in what I am about to do. You have sometimes
thought that I was not quite sincere with you, that I kept
you too much and too long in the dark :—that was respecting
the past. It concerns you to understand clearly what are
your prospects in the future. I will conceal nothing from

you, not even what may give you pain. I have lost the
means of maintaining you here, Margaret; I have been dis-
missed from the cathedral.” :

My heart sank ‘at once. It was necessity, then, not choice,
that was driving him away; and—miserable me—was not I
the cause of this injustice to one who had grown old in the
Bervice of the church ?

“What makes you turn so white, child?” said Aunt Betsy.
“You must not fear to look the future in the face, or to
work.”

“I fear neither,” I said; “but it is I that have brought
eh

os . z a
TTT R Cy Trea

nd
a i mm rain i
sere rice TEM reer aTaM AE SMART URE MM BRLALRERARADU: Lene

Wiel dad oet MI ARS AIAG PTS

 

   
   
  
 
 
 
   
 
   
    
  
   
  
   
    
   
   
   
   
   
   
  

66 FAMILY SECRETS.

this evil upon my grand-father in his old age. I wish I had

never been born !”

“You are wrong altogether, Margaret,” said my grand-
father, gently. “Listen to me. You have strong feelings,
aud you yield to them too readily : this habit will lead you
into all kinds of error. The fault lies altogether with those
who originally refused to recognise their own sin, and who
were reckl:ss about overwhelming others with it. I was
prepared for what has happened, years ago. It is true,
Margaret, that the Dean has looked upon me with an un-
favorable eye ever since your birth, and your sudden appear-
ance before your father—as he believes with my consent—
tried his endurance too far. I do not regret that circum-
stance now; I do not murmur against any one. There are
better modes of remedying evil. In the first place, we would
not—any of us three—change places with these people.
That is a wonderful advantage. We all have good health,
and even I have some strength left: I am strong in the hope
of God’s help. I am not compelled to go away in a hurry,
but I think it best to leave this place at once, and go where
we shall be better able to help one another. We shall go
to London. I have a little money, and I shall obtain mora
by the sale of the furniture, which Jackson will take at a
valuation. When we have settled down, we shall have time
to look about us.”

I began to be more hopeful. In London I should obtain
employment, and the thought of being enabled to help my
grand-father reconciled me to anything.

“And we shall see Uncle Stephen in London,” I said.

“I was coming to Uncle Stephen,” said my grand-father.
“He has been a kind friend to you and me, and we both
owe him gratitude and respect; but there are many reasons
that for the present forbid us holding any communication
with him. I have no need to fear speaking openly of his
principles, lest they should throw Christianity into the shade:
you have found him merciful where others with better light
have been unmerciful ; but he would prove the worst enemy
you ever had, if he instilled into you notions that would lead
your heart from God, and peril the loss of your immortal
soul. Ido not distrust Stephen Leath: it is my very faith

 

ns ee eee aS

\FAMILY SECRETS. 67

in his straightforward dealing that makes me resolve to kee

you out of his reach. . When he first undertook the task of
educating you, he promised not to interfere with your
religious instruction, and he kept his word, as I knew he
would. The other day he apprised me that as. you had
arrived at an age to judge for yourself, and especially as you
seemed to have conceived 4 disgust for Christian dealing, he
should no longer keep silent, but give you a chance of dis.
cerning betwixt the true and the false according to his own
views. I was again bound to believe that he meant what he
said, and my resolve is that, he shall have no opportunity
of corrupting you, for corruption it is, Margaret, of the worst
kind, when men attempt to prove God a liar, and to put in
place of His truth their own blind and merely instinctive
notions of what is right. I have labored to bring you up in
the fear of the Lord, and to see you fall away from it would
break my heart. Only a little longer I may be with you;
fet me depart with the hope that we shall meet again.”

I threw my arms round my grand-father’s neck and wept.
This earnestness cut me to the heart, and I could not bear
that he should doubt me.

“Have I not been altogether taught by you?” TI said;
“have I not seen how God can be all-sufficient to them that
have nothing to support them in this worid? Do not fear me!”

“God bless you, child!” he said: “all my prayer is, that
you may not be tempted out of the way.” 7

“But we need not be unkind to Uncle Stephen,” I said.
“In London, if he remains here, I shall see nothing of him:
we may correspond with him ?” Q

“ There are reasons why we should not do even that,” said
my grand-father. “Sit still and hear me. For many years
before you were born, Stephen was in a flourishing way of
business. He had a taste for travel, and was frequently
absent on the Continent, leaving everything at home in the
hands of his foreman. Whether he suffered in this way or
not I do not know, but he did in another. His sister was
married to an attorney, who frequently borrowed large sums
from him, and for whom he became bound, just before his
death, on the eve of bankruptcy. He lost thousands of pounds
at that time, and was compelled to give up business in order to

 

 

 

pub detattt »

    
  
   
   
 
    
   
 
   
  
 
    
  
   
   
   
  
 
   
 
 
  
 
    
 
 
  
 
  
 
 

SCTE ITT MSE reer Treas

BS PE ATER is oy Ps rene

Perit

os PEC TET

Ca PE et ecu pe nie bay preset are ec

bsRALMABILIAEMAAM Nua abamioe™

 

 

68 FAMILY SECRETS.

avoid being a bankrupt himself. All this was not generally
known, and people supposed he had retired rich. His sister
was left with a young son, and Stephen had to provide for both
of them. This young man, George Ratcliffe, has been brought
up at the bar: he has been about twelve months in practice,
and it is on his affairs that Stephen is gone to London.—
Apart from the sum that he has sunk for his nephew and his
sister, I know that he has barely enough to exist upon. If he
comes to understand our troubles, he will insist upon helping
us, and still further impoverishing himself. We owe him
enough already : he has toiled and suffered enough, too, on our
account. We must be independent: we will write and tell
him this, and that if we prosper he shall hear of our pros-
perity. It is right that we should struggle for ourselves.”

I could say nothing against this: I already owed enough
to Uncle Stephen, and I pleased myself with the thought of
sending him accounts of my prosperity as his best reward.
Both my grand-father and myself wrote to him that night,
letters which were to be left behind us, and then I was told
that we should depart from in two days.

We employed the intervening time in packing up, taking
amongst our ordinary luggage such relics of home as a
portion of my grand-father’s books and mine, and a few
things that Aunt Betsy prized. This extraordinary move-
ment, and the bustle of it, and the prospect of seeing London,
and doing something for myself, so exhilarated my spirits
that I seemed quite another creature. From the back
windows of the house we had a view of the stately mansion
of David Marples, embosonied in trees; and as I looked at it
from the kitchen, I thought of him and Colonel Leigh, and
gloried in the consciousness of owing them nothing: and
from the depths of a proud, sanguine spirit came an assurance
that one day I should be able to lift my head above theirs,
even in this world. With the flush of anticipated triumph
upon my cheek, I passed into the inner room. The complete
abstraction of my thoughts unfitted me at the moment for
any outward application, and as I stood idly, I heard Aunt
Betsy moving in the sitting-room.

“The poor old man!” she murmured: “and he go fond

uf his books and quiet—his is enowgh to kill him!”FAMILY SECRETS, go

I needed bringing down from my proud thoughts of self
I walked slowly up to my bed-room and knelt in prayer, and
wept and tried to humble myself. This woman, of whom ]
had thought hardly through so many years, was nobler than
[: in the midst of her own tribulation she could think of
the feeble old man, driven from the home that time had
endeared to him, compelled to give up the habits of a long
life; whilst I, who had brought sorrow upon both, was
absorbed in selfish speculations. Although I seemed in-
capable of keeping myself in the right way, I was ready
enough to follow it when it was pointed out to me; and
sobered and saddened, I returned to my employment, and
found my spirit strengthened by thinking more earnestly for
others and less extravagantly for myself.

Though it must have been known to many that my grand-
father had received his dismissal from the cathedral, few were
aware of his intention to leave the city. Several poor people
called, with tears in their eyes, to thank him for good services
which they had the gratitude to remember; and one old
verger bewailed himself so bitterly, and exclaimed so vehe-
mently against the injustice that had been exercised, that all
my grand-father’s efforts to quiet him were in vain. Beyond
this we had no leave-taking; we were quitting one desert
place for another, and the confidence with which we went
forth had yet to be tried.

It was quite dark when we quitted the house for the last
time to go by the early coach. Even | experienced a pang
of regret when I heard Jackson, the man who had charge
of the furniture, lock the door behind us. Amidst my eager
hopes I had not lost my fear of the world, and I felt it just

ossible that ! might be taught to think more kindly of the
Pine that had given peaceful shelter to my childhood. I
clung closely to my grand-father’s arm. He exhibited no
emotion; and as to Aunt Betsy, when we arrived at the imn-
yard, she bustled about in her usual manner amongst the
boxes. The gas-light showed us three inside passengers, and
there were two outside besides ourselves. When the coach at
length started into the outer darkness, we could only guess
from the sound of the wheels when it had quitted the paved
streets of the city.1)

peo geet enna omen

 

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
 

7Q@ FAMILY SECRETS

CHAPTER IV.

Tux day broke in a thick mist, that gradually cleared
away, and before eleven o’clock the sun shone out bril
liantly. The air was piercingly cold and frosty, chilling
even my young blood, though I was well wrapped up. |
was too much excited, however, to attend to this minor
discomfort. Though I only saw in greater variety what I
had seen before—houses and rivers, trees and fields, and very
common-place looking human beings—I was disposed to be
pleased with every thing. The sense of freedom commu-
nicated by this rapid whirling through what seemed to me
interminable space, suited me admirably, and losing every
regretful thought for what I had left behind me, wondering
how I had so well borne the dullness and insipidity of my
past life, 1 commenced castle-building on a larger scale, an¢
annihilated all difficulties at will.

This mood continued till the coach stopped before a lone
ly farm-house, at which a parcel had to be delivered. — I ob-
served a miserable-clad Irish-woman in the road, with a
child at her back, and three other’s following her, half naked
and shivering. I thought she was going to beg, and wished
that my grand-father would give her something, but she ap-
proached a pump at which a man was filling a bucket, and
asked leave to get water for a kettle she held in her hand.
The man took no notice of her, but pumped on until he had
filled two buckets, and then to my consternation, he delibe-
rately threw the contents of one of them over the woman
and children, completely deluging them. Mixed with the
cries of the children was a loud, hoarse laugh, proceedingFAMILY SECRETS. 7}

froia one of our fellow-passengers, and in which the coach
man, who now came up, joined.

“Darn them Irish vermin!” exclaimed the coachmar
“that just serves ’em right.”

My grgnd-father threw some money to the shivering wo
man, arid the coach passed on. The man whose mirth had
first been excited by this scene, and who sat on the box, hag
been rebuked by him, and he now turned to reply.

“Tf it wasn’t for such as you,” he said, “we should soor
be rid of these vagabonds. The popish devils! why don’t
they keep in their own country? If I had my will, I'd
hang them up as fast as they come.”

Here the subject dropped. Our other fellow passenger,
who seemed from his dress to be a clergyman, was seated by
himself at the back of the coach. He was a middle aged
man, stout, with a sallow, unwholesome complexion, and he
had a particularly gloomy, abstracted look. I had turned
towards him in the hope that he would interfere, but he was
looking straight forward with the same sullen and apathetic,
expression of countenance; so that it was scarcely possible
to suppose that he was aware of what was passing. Such
scenes as | have described may not be common; but the
whole affair, and the coarse mirth and brutality, and bitter
annimosity, and utter indifference which it served to exhibit,
struck a chill to my heart. I was dragged down from the
heights into which I had been soaring, and then a doubt fell
upon me whether I had the strength of mind and purpose
necessary to battle with the difficulties that possibly lay ix
my own path.

Thus veering about to all points of the mental compass, I
found myself in London. I was not much impressed by any
thing I saw, which was only a repetition of what I had seen
before. There were the same houses and streets on a more
extended scale; the same human beings in greater numbers.
As far as we went, I saw nothing so grand as our own cathe-
dral. The coach stopped to set down the clergyman, and
my grand-father observing that we might as well stop there
as anywhere else, descended also. Our boxes were speedily
dragged from the roof, and we stood blocking up the pave-
ment in the midst of the great crowd. I had fixed my eyes

 

mio fus Pay sees eee Ocean er a Devaee tire eye opy) oo cormeaett tone fr MEMO ERNIE EIRENE ret a ne73

 

FAMILY SECRETS.

upon the clergyman, who had undergone a metamorphosis
that astonished me. His brisk movements and the merry
twinkle of his black eyes which gave altogether a different
expression to his countenance, made me almost doubt his
identity. He was met by an odd-looking individual, whe
might have been a man or a boy—it was impossible to say
which—dressed in ragged trousers, a coat that almost reach-
ed to his feet, and without a hat. His face, however, was
wrinkled, and had a tough, leathery look, as if the skin was
made of old parchment, and his small mean, cunning eyes,
in a chance glance at myself, seemed to look me through.
The clergyman tossed his sole luggage, a carpet-bag, at this
personage, with the exclamation—

“ Here, Jem, take that, and look sharp.”

Jem obeyed both orders. I was about to withdraw my
lingering gaze from these two, when both turned round and
looked back at us, and the clergyman approached, and spoke
to my grand-father.

“If you want any one to carry your luggage,” he said,
“here is a poor fellow who will be glad of the job. He
has a truck which he could bring in a few minutes.”

“The truth is,” said my grand-father, “I don’t know
where to go;—to some inn, I suppose, in the first place :—
perhaps you, sir, could recommend me to one.”

“Do you make any stay here? Do you want a private
lodging ?”

“Yes,”

“Then,” he continued, glancing first at Aunt Betsy, then
at me, then again at my grand-father, “ perhaps you could
be accommodated at the house where [ live—that is, if you
are not particular.”

“Any humble place that is decent will suit us,” said my
grand-father. I only fear that the abode you mention may
be beyond my means.”

“Ah, I see,” said the clergyman, smiling and touchin
the sleeve of his coat, “ all is not gold that glitters. I am
compelled to lodge humbly myself; but mine is quite a re-
spectable concern; religious landlady, and all that; you
won't find a cheaper place at all decent.

“Then we thank you for your courtesy, sir,” said myPWAMILY SECRETS,

eos “and if you will lead the way we will fol
Ow.

“Let me see,” said our new friend, taking a survey of the
boxes. “Here, Jem, throw that carpet-bag here, and fetch
the truck. ”

Jem obeyed and disappeared.

“Ever here before?” asked the clergyman.

< Only once,” said my grand-father. “I am a stranger
and a sojourner, for how long the Lord knows.”

“We are all strangers and sojourners, and places that
bear no resemblance to Egypt, or the wilderness, or Canaan,
for there the multitudes were fed,” said the clergyman.—
“This is the modern Babel, of which Scripture does not
give us due notice, in which all men speak a different lan-
guage, only too well understood to mean the same thing—
every one for himself. We are an odd flock to belong to
one shepherd.”

He stood against the wall with his arms folded, and in a
shorter time than we expected, Jem made his appearance
with the truck. Putting my grand-father aside, the clergy-
man helped Jem to place the boxes, and crowned them with
his carpet-bag. He then politely offered his arm to Aunt
Betsy, who accepted it with a grim, sidelong glance at him,
and placing my grand-father and me foremost, he followed
in this order.

We accompanied Jem and the truck through many devi-
ous windings and turnings, until he stopped at the door of a
three-storied house, in a narrow, third-rate street, where the
children were playing in the gutters and idle women were
standing at the doors and leaning out of the windows. The
clergyman took us into the house and introduced us to the
landiady, who said she had two furnished rooms to let, which
we might have on the condition of always paying a week’s
rent beforehand. We then went to look at the rooms, and
the bargain was concluded, and our boxes taken up stairs.

Viewed by the light of a small candle, for it was four
o'clock in the afternoon and growing dark, our new abode
looked dismal enough. The furniture was scanty and mean,
the walls dingy, and the fireless grates added to the general
appearance ot discomfort. Our landlady, too, was suff

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ciently repelling. The one recommendation of being reli
gious scarcely atoned for the ungracious, distant manner, as
if she was conferring an unwilling favor by admitting us,—
for the particularly sour look, aided by a pair of suspicious
eyes, and a mouth turned down most portentiously at the
corners. Whilst she left us to ourselves, our fellow-lodger
brought up from his apartment on the second floor a skut-
tle-full of coals and some wood, and, resisting all Aunt Bet-
sy’s importunities, commenced lighting the fire.

“You are tired, my good lady,” he said, “and being a
bachelor I am used to this sort of work. Jem goes all my
errands, and if you want anything you may trust him.”

Upon this hint, Jem was despatched for such necessaries
as were required to make tea. He also fetched us coals and
wood, which were deposited in a cupboard in one of the
rooms. The Reverend Mr. Chaundy—as we understood our
fellow-lodger to be from a card which he gave us—displayed
a general knowledge of the place by directing us where to
look for such things as were immediately wanted; and, de-
clining my grand-father’s invitation to take tea with us, he
promised to look in for an hour in the evening if we were
not too tired to receive him. Aunt Betsy, good methodical
house-wife as she was, was sadly put about. She did not
mind all the cups and saucers being odd ones, and we ex-
tracted a little fun out of the fact of the knives not being
made to cut, but a teapot with a broken spout annoyed her
0 much that she was with difficulty restrained from opening
a large box to get at her own. Altogether, however, we
bore up pretty well, considering that the change we had
undergone was worse than that from civilized to downright
savage life; for every deterioration in the former is accom-
panied by an oppressive restraint, while the latter gives the
periect freedom that is more than an equivalent for difficulty.
The first thing that struck me in our new abode was the
general paucity of real work. The clearing up of our two
rooms seemed merely child’s play, so that I could not help
wondering what was to become of Aunt Betsy unless she
obtained some employment elsewhere. The buoyant hope

of youth had again surmounted every difficulty with re
to myself. y : ayPAMILY SECRETS. 768

M Chaundy had made a favorable impression upon both
my relatives; and, though his place of abode and his habits
were alike odd for a minister of the Church, I do not think
that either of them for a moment suspected that he was
other than what he professed himself to be. My grand-
father called a general council to consider the propriety and
expediency of acquainting him with our object in coming to
London, and asking his advice as to the manner of proceed-
ing. Amongst the changes that had taken place, not the
least gratifying to myself was that of being allowed to under-
stand exactly what our position and plans were, and to have
a voice in our future arrangements. For himself, my grand-
father wished to procure employment as a writer for some
attorney or law stationer, and for mé either a situation as
governess or an engagement as day teacher. He had in-
tended to advertise; but, as that was an expensive process,
it seemed as well to make some Inquiries before he ventured
upon it. Therefore, when Jem returned from an errand, my
grand-fatner desired him to inform Mr. Chaundy that he
should be happy to see him; and that gentlerian shortly
made his appearance in a very shabby dressing-g’ wn, having
lost all trace of his profession with his dress. Before my
grand-father had opened the subject, he turned to me and
said, smiling :—

“I fancy I gained nothing in your good graces this morn-
ing when you so eloquently, though mutely, appealed to me
on behalf of the poor Irish woman and her children. You
could not understand from my blank look that I had taken
especial note of the astonishment, and disgust, and pity, ex-
pressed in your own, and which was so natural in one new
+o the ways of the world. Circumstances compel one to be
self-contained as an oyster. I had no money to give, and
battling with the prejudices of those men, would have been
idler than fighting the winds. However, it was my sym-
pathy with what you all seemed to feel that induced m2 to
turn back, and accost you in the street.”

After some further conversation on this subject, my grand-
father spoke of his own affairs. Mr. Chaundy recommended
that, instead of advertising, he should make personal appli-
cation for himself, and try the register-offices for me,

 

 

 

ET irre

MITT Ceasers Ey

  
   
      
   
 
   
  
  
  
  
   
  
    
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
  
 
 
  
  
 

SPER TiTT Li)76 FAMILY SECRETS.

“Ty may surprise you,” he continued, “ to know that there
is in London a register-office for clergymen, at which I have
now danced attendance for many years. What you saw
this morning, what you may see any day in London, may
lead you to suppose that no clergyman need be idle, and that
is the fact.. But monopoly on the one hand, and starvation
on the other, makes our church system work badly. You
see how I am lodged here, and the truth is, obtaining employ-
ment only makes matters worse. I was compelled to abscond
from two curacies, and the one I have just given up was more
than ever ruinous. I had eighty pounds a-year, upon which
there were many claims, and a large vicarage-house on my
hands. The incumbent, who has three or four livings, has
a stall in your eathedral. Perhaps you know him—Arch-
deacon Dixon.”

My grand-father acknowledged his acquaintance with this
personage, and Mr. Chaundy went on:

“Very well. I .navoidably got into debt at the vicarage,
and the Archdeacon himself preferred a claim against me
which I could not meet. I determined to have an interview
with him, and lay before him a plain statement of the case.
You are possibly aware that he can bluster a good deal, and
he contrived to throw all the blame upon me, by saying I
had no right-to accept the situation, knowing that I could
not make it answer. The fact is, no curate can get on, or
even exist, who has not property of his own. Our church
management is a venal affair altogether, sir. Good God! it
is terrible to pay so much for a mere helpless knowledge of
all this selfishness and mismanagement, and the privilege of
suffering under it without hope of change.”

Mr. Chaundy, whose chief solace appeared to be smoking,
having ascertained that, though my grand-father could not
join him, none of us had any objection to the habit, took out
of his pocket.a short pipe, and puffing away at a great rate
entered further into the details of his personal experience.
This was continued night after night, and I compared all he
said with what I had heard from Uncle Stephen. It was no
proof of Christianity not being a worn-out system that a few
privileged and grasping churchmen contrived to make a good
thing of it for themselves. Mr. Chaundy went further thanPAMILY SEORETS., 17

this, expatiating on the different modes of preaching to dif.
ferent congregations {always with a large allowance to rich
end respectable people,) in a manner that took great hold
me. My high opinion of Uncle Stephen’s integrity was
strengthened by what I heard, which proved that he had at
least. good reason for speaking and thinking as he did ; and
my proud determination not to be crushed down by the
mock humility of others went largely towards shaking tke
faith that had been wavering ever since my first contact with
the world. It did not mend the matter that Mr. Chaundy
admitted Christianity to be a glorious institution ; that its
doctrines produced a gracious influence on those who lived
up to them ; the fact that not one in a thousand did; that
the law of this world governed the multitude: that Church-
men, even more than others, scrambled after its rewards, told
fearfully against its universality, that one proof of a divine
origin to which I had looked. I examined the evidence for
and against in a cool, dispassionate manner, considering how
much I had anticipated that I had not found, and how keen
was my conviction that upon the decision I came to, depended
my future success or failure in life. : \

I have learned since then that few girls of my age ever
enter life with such absorbing thoughts of their chief interest
init. I had been peculiarly reared, in a solitude to which
no evil ever came; I had been well grounded in the doctrine
of Christ, and taught to believe that the oppression of which
I read in books was an impossibility in our day; and my
peculiar situation, with its consequent revelations, had pro-
duced a terrible revulsion of feeling when I first came in
contact with the world, as suddenly as if I had dropped from
the moon. I was too rudely awakened from my dream of
universal brother-hood; I was quickly disgusted by an in-
sincerity that was generally understood and allowed > and
there was something in the temper of my mind that made
me quite as ready to stand on the defensive as I had been
willing to respond to the cordiality and affectionate interest
end goodwill which I had so needlessly been prepared to
eet. :

My grand-father lost no time; but on the following day
sccempanied me to a register-office which was pointed out

 

 

   
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
  
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

SaBak Romney
by \-

   

78 FAMILY 2vORETS.

to us by Jem. My name and qualifications, and the sort of
situation I wished to obtain, were written down, and then.
after glancing carelessly at me, and referring to a list, the
office-keeper observed that such a place as I wanted was then
vacant in Wimpole Street. It was as teacher to five young
children. The lady, he said, was rather particular ; having
recently had three governesses upon trial, none of whom had
suited; I might, however, be more fortunate. We thought
go, too, and as personal application was to be made, between
the hours of ten and twelve in the morning, we determined
to proceed to Wimpole Street on the following day. After
taking me home, my grand-father proceeded to the house of
a law stationer, to whom he had a note of introduction from

@Mr. Chaundy; and Aunt Betsy declared her determination

to apply for needlework, not being able, as I suspected, to
find work for the employment of her time.

Never were people more resolutely bent upon laboring for
daily bread, and it seemed impossible to fail in this object. .
I compassionated the Rev. Mr. Chaundy, of whose dingy
apartment I that day obtained a passing glimpse, and
wondered how he, with all the sensibility of an educated
man, and all the refined tastes of a learned one, could so well
endure the privation and obscurity to which he was con-
demned, without hope to cheer him on, or sympathy to
lighten the evils of his lot. In the course of the afternoon
he sent me up a book to which he had made allusion the
night before, and which I told him I had not read—* Dor
Quixote.” Jem, who brought it, lingered as if he wished to
say something ; and I, to whom the study of human beings
was newer and as yet more interesting than that of books,
with which I was familiar, felt inclined to humor him.. This
man who looked so weather-beaten though not old, whose
time seemed to be at the service of any or every body, who
could be so respectful in the midst of his familiarity, so that
there was nothing vulgar about him, uneducated vagabond
as he evidently was, had already excited my interest; and
wishful as 1 was to learn more of real life, I felt that even
such a page as he could unfold to me would not be devoid
of instruction.

“Do you live lere?” I asked.ee) eee

ee Ne Nr

‘that I had not been altogether abandoned as he hac been.

FAMILY SERORETS. 79

“Me!” he exclaimed, opening his eyes to the widest,
“Well,” he continued, “that’s the right word, too: I do live
here and nowheres else. I don’t live in the cellar where |
eat and sleep; I don’t live in the streets where I work for
them as wouldn’t miss me if I dropped down dead this very
minute. I live here with Mister Chaundy, and nowheres
else.”

“ You like Mr. Chaundy 2”

“TY should think Ido! Look here,—there’s nobody else
cares for me. I serve a many, but none says to me as he
does,—‘ Jem, my good fellow, I like to have your henest face
about me; I don’t feel quite alone in the world When I see
you, Jem.’ That’s what I call living for him and me.
You’d hardly think it now, and him one of the clergy.”

“ Are the clergy usually so different 2”

“ Lor’ bless you, yes. So grand and mighty—there’s no
getting at em. He’s the first clergyman as ever spoke to
me—that’s what makes me think the more of it. ‘Jem, he
says to me, ‘when people are prosperous they care for
nothing but theirselves.’ Now when I pray I ask the Lord
to keep him as he is.” :

“Nay, that is selfish. You would surely like to see him
rise in the world as he himself wishes to do. Besides, being
so kind as you say he is, what a benefit his more extended
usefulness would be to others.”

“You don’t understand how it is,” said Jem, earnestly.
‘Prosperity spoils everybody ; it would spoil him. If he
was made a bishop on to-morrow do you think he would
know me? I should think not! That’s where itis; I can’t
afford to lose him no way ;—you see l’ve nobody but him to
look to.”

“ Have you no wife or children ?” asked Aunt Betsy.

“No: what should sueh as me do with ’em? I was
nothing but a poor foundling that nobody owned. Td just
sense enough to keep my disgrace and poverty to myself.

His words pierced my spirit like a two-edged sword, This
poor creature, so sensible of the disgrace of his birth, might
teach me a lesson. I only owed it to the kindness of a fewPesala!

amore anlar ermine

aA

Ning ooh Mer m8 nd

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80 FAMILY SEORETS.

, too, ought to keep my disgrace to myself, and Journey
through the world alone.

“ You see,” continued Jem, “when I was young they used
to send waggon-loads of children from the Foundling where
I was, down to the factories. I was sent when I was seven
years old, and a hard time I had of it, for the factories wasn't
managed then as they are now. Bad usage, and bad living,
and heavy work, made a cripple of me; and then they sent
me to the Workhouse, where I wasn’t treated much better..
I ran away at last, and went to London. I begged money
enough to buy a broom, and took to sweeping a street
crossing. Then I took to going errands, but I couldn’t get
a place for want of a character. One day—it’s ten year ago
now—l carried a box and a carpet bag for a gentleman as
come by coach. As we was going along I saw a poor sick
looking woman with a lot of ragged children. I set the
trunk down and put my hand in my pocket and threw her
some copper, and the gentleman turned round and said :—
What did you do that for? ain’t you poor enough yourself
without doing that?’ So I says, ‘ Master, I suppose it’s be-
cause I am so poor that I did do that! I’m poor enough to
feel for them that’s poorer than Iam.’ And he said that
was quite right, and gave the woman some money hisself;
and when he came to his lodgings he tock me into his room
and made me sit down and tell hitn all about myself; and
then-he said: ‘Jem,’ just as kindly as he does now, for it
was Mister Chaundy,—‘ Jem,’ says he, ‘I think I can employ

half your time if you like to serve me, and I'll buy you better

clothes.’ It wasn’t the promise of the clothes or the regular
work, though I liked both, but the kind words, that made
me jump at his offer. Now we've been together ten years.
Master’s got poorer, and so have I, but that only makes us
keep closer together. You see we couldn’t get on without
one another.”

“But you seem to have a bad opinion of human nature,
Jem,” I said, “since you think that prosperity could make
your master forget you. Do you feel that it would have the
same effect upon yourself?”

“I shouldn’t like either of us to be tempted,” said Jem.
“That's all I think about when I say, ‘lead us not intovemptation.’ ink for, Miss: and ]
wouldn’t like, either way, to lose the only fiend as ever spoke
a kind word to me.”

I could readily understand how s trong was abe s tle :—the
only one who had spoken a kind word to him t through a long
life! And this bond of kindne ess, unitin

es ig two unfor tu nates,
was it indeed so easily to be broken | by the accident: tale 7
tion of one of them? Was this, one of the best as;
humanity, only the result of a selfish necessity ¢
19

“You see, Miss,” euneee Jem; “it’s all riot

We're weaker than we think fo

lgnt with two

people that’s well off as long as both of ’em keep prosperous.
Let one of ’em come down, and then it’s all up. That's the
8 won't have po nn to do

way they part. Your rich folk
with poor ones even when there’s blood bety veen ’em,
how, I shouldn’t like to see you too high and mighty to Bay,
‘Jem do this or that for me.’ I took to all on you when |
saw you first, so did Mister Chaundy. That’s where it 18,
you see; we don’t often meet pleasant company, and
don’t like to part with it.”
“T am sure you will never find us too high and mighty to
acknowledze that we are pleased with yo ur good opinicn,”
I said.
“Jem talks very sensibly, and I am glad you have heard
him,” said Aunt Betsy. “ Your grand-father thinks too well
: of the world, and Uncle Stephen won't allow there’s any
TW good in it. What you have just heard js common sense
|| ’m much obliged to you for hat you have said, Jem.”
“Then, Missis and Miss ] Marples,” said Jem, who had risen
| to go, aad now held the door in his hand, “the next time
| you ask me where I dive I shall s say In this here room and
ee yonder in Mister Chaun idy’s, and nowhere else, Iz
| there anything I can do just now 9” :
/ | As there was not, Jem departed. I remembered in his
[ (faves that though in the regular course of is vocation he
received payment for the conveyance of our goods, he had
teadily refused any remuneration or the services he rendered
s sin the house. Not liking his “common sense” so well as
unt Betsy did, J needed this evider ce ce of hi his good faith be-
ore placing implicit confidence in it. Ins stead of trusting
te

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7
L

6 world too far, as Uncle Stephen had feared I should do,

  

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rar retiare

arrFAMILY SECRETS.

t was inclined to look with suspicion on the little actual good
that came in my way. ‘The truth was so forbidding in com-
parison with the error in which I had dwelt so many years,
that I had little inclination to believe anything.

I was glad to turn to my book and forget this too real
world in the pages of “Don Quixote.” I yielded all my
sympathies to this old knight, who was compelled by a restless
energy of character to go forth and do something, and by a
natural abhorrence of wrong to proclaim himself the cham-
pion of the oppressed. Honoring his motives, } did not see
all the absurdity of his exploits, and I got angry with those
who turned him and them into ridicule. So absorbed was I
that I could scarcely listen to my grand-father when he re-
turned to tell us that the person to whom he applied had no
work for him at present, but would remember him at some
future time.

Bless God for that power of forgetting self in others! so
iong as itis present with us we have no need to complain of
the burden of life.

On the following morning, greatly annoyed at being com-

elled to attend to my own affairs, I accompanied my grand-
father and Jem, who led the way to Wimpole Street. As
we went along my grand-father instructed me in what I

should say ; but, as I found afterwards, the main thing was

overlooked by both of us.
Having arrived at the street, and found the number of the
house, I left my two companions, and approached the door,
with some trepidation. My low, tremulous knock was ]
answered by a shabby footman, who, when he understood)
my business, showed me into a back parlor while he went to,
announce my presence. He came back before | wished t |
see him, and asked me to walk up stairs. I followed hint
accordingly, and was ushered into a drawing-room in whic
two ladies were seated. My courage rose with the call a
it, and I curtsyed (an accomplishment, by the way, thai
Aunt Betsy had taught me) and walked forward, and (poke
these two, who might be the arbiters of my future destin
in the face. The eldest lady was decidedly old. 1 onl
noted respecting her that her nose was rather disagreeab
hooked and that she wore a wig andaturban. The youtt,

    
 
   
  
   
   
  
  
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  

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FAMILY SECRETS. 88

lady was stout and rather good-looking, but her voice was
starlingly loud and coarse, and her manner dictatorial.

“T understand that you come about the governess’s place,”
said the latter. “Sit down. I am very particular, as the
register-office people may have told you. I have found that
very young people do not sufficiently consider the interest
of their employers, and you seem very young: what age are
you ?”

I told her, and the old lady shook her head.

“That is very young indeed,” said the loud-voiced lady,
whom I understood to be the mistress of the house, Mrs,
Wilton. One can hardly imagine that you have completed
your own education. What do you profess to teach ?”

I underwent the disagreeable ordeal of enumerating my
own accomplishments.

The old lady, who informed me that she was a French-
woman, then addressed me in her native language; and,
after some conversation, professed herself to be well satisfied.
Indeed, she paid me the compliment to say, that she had
rarely met with an English person who eould speak the lan-
guage so well,

“That is satisfactory so far,” said Mrs. Wilton. Now with
regard to music, you will perhaps play a little.”

She opened.the folding doors that led to the back draw-
ing-room, in which stood a piano. I had more confidence
12 my musical powers than in any other; I had a natural
taste, if not talent, that way; and, thanks to Uncle Stephen,
I had made some progress. I played until I was desired to
stop.

“ You play very ereditably indeed,” says Mrs, Wilton.—
“ How about drawing ?”

At my grand-father’s suggestion I had taken some of my
drawings with me, and these I now exhibited; they seemed
to give satisfaction. ae

“The great difficulty I have to contend with, said Mrs.
Wilton, throwing herself upon a lourge, as if the very

°

\, thought of it overcame her, “is the selfishness of those {

have employed in this capacity. They ali consider their
own interest before mine, which creates a difficulty ; and I
do not know how to act. Ihave been’ compelled to adopt

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i OOS, se tik cacao Pevee smeri:” ; =the plan of receiving governesses a month on trial, with no
salary during the month. Of course, if I engage you, it
will be nec esa ry to acquaint your parents with my invaria-
ble system

If a passing thought suggested to me that this “invaria-
ble system” had something to do with Mrs. Wilton’s frequent

. range of governesses, I d id not allow it todaunt me. I said
1at my prand-fath her would attend upon her, if she wished.
eae grand- father ’ she repeated; are your parents

dead 2”

“My mother is dead,” I replied.

“Your father is living, then. What is he ?’—what pro-
fession or trade, Imean: I am obliged to be particular about
those I take into my house.”

I had not been prepared for this question, and it upset me
altogether. The truth was not to a told, and nothing in
the shape of an equivoque occurred to me. Far stronger
than any page of shame or distress was that of resent-
ment against the man whom I was thus unexpectedly called
upon to partict ilarize and d acknowled re, It seemed as if
Providence, taking his part, permitted him, even unwittingly,

3 Oe

5 Be
to be the means of fru ustrating my effort for self-help My
blood ran hot and cold during the fall minute that I stood
es,

with downeast eyes, unable to frame a reply.
Doubtl ess the ory of the ladies had been aroused.
“What is you name | ?” inquired Mrs. Wilton.
. Margaret M: weleg”
“Your father’s name is Marples ?”
*No:?
There was another pause, during which my interrogators

e

might have excha inged 8 significant glances.

“Were you brot ught up by your grand-father ,

$6 Yes. 9

“ What is his calli ling ?”

T Gad a keen consciousness that the truth would tell
against me when I acknowledged that he had been a verger
Cathedral, and that at present he was in Londor
seeking work for himself. |

“ And he brought you up so expensively! Did vou aay |
ne had been dismissed from the cathedral] ” aeFAMILY SEORETS, 8h 3
I had not said so but I acknowledge xd this to be true, | H s
“And how Ln have you been in London ?” i
“Only two days.”
“This is ex ctraordinary. Of course, you were aware that
I should expect a most unexception 1able reference. You
must be well known in—— ?” oe
Here was another question that seemed unanswerable. i
It was odd that my grand -father had not even considered 3
the possibility of such inquiries. My embarrassment was ie
becoming too painful to be borne, and I determined by a— 4
bold effert to free myself at any price. ‘££
“My grand- father,” Isaid, “was peculiarly situated at iz
. Though no one could say anything agai inst his char- bid
acter, I know that he had few friends. Until I have spoken =

with him, Iam not prepared to give a reference. ” {

Upon g glancing at the two ladies, I found that I had pro-
duced a thorough ly unfavorable impression. Mrs. Wilton

   

spoke immediately. a
“Upon second thoughts, I consider you too young to , ae
uadertake so serious a charg oy she said : vt am sorry that £
you have had this trouble. Good morning.’ | a
She rang the bell as she ee and understanding that I Te
was dismissed, I returned tl lutation and walked down { ‘
“ stairs, where the footman opened the street door for me. As ae
| Jem was still with us in tiie capacity of guide (for ae had |
walked from the neighborhood of Clerkenwell,) I deferred ey
what I chiefly had to say y Hil we reached. home, merely i. it
mentioning the objection to my youth. When we were :
en and [had given an account of all that passed, my a

yrand-father was much distressed.
“1 did think of all this,” he said “but not until you had
entered the house; I ought to have accom Hoe hae i
“ And to what purpose 2 would you have accompani : [fs
said Aunt Betsy. ‘“ You yours self have no rofoence - give. ft
All your life you have allowed the sins of others to crush |
you down, and except amongst the very poor wlio good
word would go for nothing, you 1 ha ve not a friend to help
you in such a case as this. What I warned you of has
ass, Thomas Mar} es.”
call ong 1 have Beane in the Lord’s hands,” said my i E

eesci aa ARID Cn pacer re

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st FAMILY SEORETS.

grand-father. “My trust in Him is unshaken, and to-night
we will consult with Mr. Chaundy.”

Throughout the worst of my troubles, I possessed the
power of looking forward, or dashing them aside in the pre-
sent. I never sat down to lament over them. On the
present occasion, I returned with avidity to “Don Quixote.”
In the evening, when Mr. Chaundy joined us, I divided my
attention betwixt the conversation and this absorbing book.

My grand-father acquainted him with the great difficulty
bat stood in my way.

“T begin to feel that in worldly. matters, I am only a
blind leader of the blind,” he continued. “TI have left my-
self helpless, for I have no right to expect any man to credit
my partial account of the past. Neither do I wish to drag
the past back for any purpose, yet it seems necessary in
self-defence, You, sir, who have yourself known trouble
may understand how a man can be crushed down without
exactly deserving it. Circumstances compelled me to bring
up this child in obscurity, so that she is less known in her
native city than even here, Circumstances, too, over which
I had no control, gave offence to the Dean and others, and
led to my dismissial from a situation that I had held more
than thirty years. My brother, the present mayor of ;
is wealthy : my poverty was a stumbling-block in his way,
and he disowned me. Ihave not widened these breaches
by showing resentment, and they are wide enough without
that. If the Lord was not with us, our case would now be
desperate.”

“T can well believe,” said Mr. Chaundy, “that you are
more sinned against than sinning. But it is not well in
this world to put up too tamely with what is unreasonable
A little pluck is necessary in these days, in which martyrdom
may be perpetuated through a long life. We may go too
far in not resisting evil.”

“That is what I have said to my brother all along,” said
Aunt Betsy. “If had been the man, we shouldnot have
been brought to this state.”

“Tt is little that a man can do when his hands are tied,
except trust in God,” said my grand-father.

“The fact is,” said Mr. Chaundy, lighting his pipe, andFAMILY SECRETS. Q4
uffing away vehemently, “the fact is, it is hard work steer
ing a strait course through this world to the next. 1 find
it a difficult matter myself. Ido things that, upon mature
deliberation, I cannot approve of,—what, under different
sircumatances, I would not do,—but I see no help. There
is tais advantage in a poor man steering wrong—the world
will be sure to make such a noise about it that he may well
afford to spare himself. I Look upon this as a providential
kind of defence, without which there would be no getting
on. If I thought so hardly of myself as Archdeacon Dixon
showed me I had need to do the other day, I might go and
hang myself at once. As to wealthy relations, they are the
greatest clog that a man in difficulty has, besides being of
no use. They envelope usin an atmosphere of dark and
bitter thoughts so that we cannot breathe freely. Altogether,
sir, you may depend upon it that poverty in these days
is a very ugly affair.”
“We are all willing to work,” said my grand-father.
“ We only ask to be allowed to live by our own labor.”
“That is all that thousands have asked who people our
workhouses, and madhouses, and prisons,” said Mr, Chaundy.

“The many are ground down for the few, in spite of the
A

Christianity, the philanthropy, and liberty of which England
Y9 e , . ¥ 7 5 ft ¥
boasts. This I know to be the truth, because I have felt
and seen it. Don’t let me alarm you, however; and as to
Miss Marples—refer to me;—Reverend Joseph Chaundy——
that sounds well enough, if people are not too inquisitive, and

; \ nN 7 nAnN
you can address me at the Clerical Club. I can very con-

scientiously say all that any reasonable person would require.”
We found reason, day by day, to think more highly of
Mr. Chaundy. He entered warmly into our interest ad-

S,
vising and planning, and using his personal influence for my
grand-father ; attending to our daily convenience in conjunc-
tion with Jem; and in many ways doing his best to help
*and cheer us; so that we could not do otherwise than be-
come attached to him. He continued to supply me with
books, both French and English, and being himself a French
scholar, we frequently conversed together in that language.
The history of France had inspired me with a dislike of
Frenchmen, which Mr. Chaundy first attempted to remove

(ALU, :

    
 
  
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
   
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
   

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La et ae ae8s FAMILY SECRETS.

He had no stroag prejudice in favor of my own contrymen
to battle with; the few I had come in contact with bad
chiefly excited my abhorrence ; and the cold, hard, un-
approachable, hurrying crowd of that great city only re-
minded me of Uncle Stephen’s words—that all men were
self-seekers, all worshippers of the visible god—Gold.

Little, too, as I had yet been in the streets, I had been
struck by the general want of courtesy. No respect was
paid to age or sex by that pushing, driving, self-absorbed
multitude; and when, on two or three ceasions, my grand-
father and I were nearly knocked down, and then rudely told
to keep out of the way, I said to myself, this, on a larger
scale, is only what we have met with before—‘Go ont of my
way,—trouble me not,—hinder me not,—we have nothing
in common, even as fellow worms,—let me pass op ? This
was what the great crowd said to me, and what men who
held their heads above the crowd had said before. The chill
of desolation struck to my heart in the midst of that populous
city, in whose power, and magnificence, and pleasure we had
no share, and from whose philanthropy, blazoned on many
a dead wall, we hoped nothing. There was not a single
individual in that mass of human beings to whom we coule
turn and say—‘Brother, we aré in affliction, and need sym-
pathy ; we are wronged, and want help.” I had extravagant
notions, doubtless, but the extravagance to me was the ap-
parent utter dearth of the commonest sympathy that one
might expect to find amongst a community of savages. All
this reminded me of what Uncle Stephen had said—of what
my grand-father had hoped in vain. No such vain seeker
of the world’s favor would I be: I was prepared to give in-
difference for indifference, contempt for contempt, hate for
hate.

“You do the French injustice, so far as the working classes
are concerned,” said Mr. Chaundy to me one night. “The
very audacity and fierceness of their occasional outbursts
prove thafithere is noble stuff in them. The man of the
blouse is never ashamed of his calling, which he knows to
be honorable: he makes no struggle to rise above it, but
takes his stand on the dignity of labor, boldly claiming for
hia claas the high position which few dare outwardly dispateFAMILY SEORETS. 89

Th.s intiepid self-respect lifts the French artizan altogether
\ out of vulgarity and servility. He>is the thing he seems
and he is proud of what he is, and if he struggles, it is for
¥s order, not for his individual self. Then, in addition to
1s feeling of dignity and independence, the very lowest
ss in France is characterised by a strong love for literature
aid art. Most of the workmen are familiar with the noblest
writers of their country,—with Moliere, Racine, Corneille :
and the songs of Beranger fill the land. This is not the
result of outward circumstances; not merely because the
education of the people has made greater progress in France
than elsewhere; that free lectures on the different sciences
are open in every quarter of Paris; that schools for drawing,
music, and singing, may be attended free of expense: but
primarily, because of a natural thirst for knowledge, and love
of the noble and the beautiful in the people themselves, And
this elevation of sentiment makes the people courteous —
not pityfully servile as we are to the rich and powerful, but

courteous alike to all,—the poorest as well as the highest.
In these respects, and they are important, the French are
our superiors. They look with contempt upon our mean
adulation of money without generosity or wit, and power
without greatness; and ridicule our insane, sordid, vulgar
scramble after respectability. In France men unite for a
common object, whose glory is reflected upon all alike; in
England men think alike, it is true, each one for his in-
dividual self, and this is not union.”

Everything I heard and saw convinced me that I had
much to learn—or unlearn. At present all my energies were
to be directed to the means of procuring food, clothing, and
shelter—those smallest yet most important wants of an ever-
eraving life. Something beyond these I needed in order to
live with satisfaction ; 1 could not look forward with patience
to a career of incessant abject drudgery ; I was proud and
disappointed, and thirsted for the power and the leisure t«
*“r=! others and gratify myself; I had seen those I loved
suller wroug, and | burned to witness the humiliation of the
oppressors. I had not yet begun-+o-fear that I, who desired

 

liu

eo much, should find it a hard matter to live rote dax.ta, -
e ° ° cee re

day. I was sufficiently easv in mind to note curiously many

PET ores te

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{pe blBHEDAft4 heap igncts

as96 FAMILY SECRETS. ~

Ss

a

things that came under my observation. Our landlady bes

longed to the sect called Ranters, and on certain days in the
week she had gatherings at the house, during which diy
courses were delivered and hymns sung. I had been doy
to pay the rent one evening, when several persons w*
assembled in the front parlor. A dark-complexioned, ste

looking man followed me into the passage, and placing fus~

hand upon my shoulder, asked in a solemn tone, “ What was
the state of my soul ?”

“Do you care about my soul?” I asked, rather abruptly.

“Don’t you think the Lord Jesus teaches me to care for
all souls?” said the man. “Don’t I yearn over you as a
brand that may be snatched from the burning,—as a lost
sheep that may be brought into the fold? Come to the
meeting to-night, and let us rejoice over you as a dear sister.”

Here was something like Christian communion. I thought
F should like to go, merely to study these people more closely,
but my grand-father had spoken against their errors, and I
was not sure that I could obtain leave. I told the man I
would consider about it, and he protested loudly against the
danger of “considering” as I walked up-stairs. [ repeated
what I had heard, and, as I expected, my grand-father raised
an objection.

“Let us cleave to our own church, and not be driven about
by every wind of doctrine,” he said. “If these people
worship God in the spirit, so much the better for them; we
can do the same without disgracing our own profession by
departing from it.”

“Yet these people preach Christ,” I said. “It seems that
our indifference and dislike to one another originates chiefly
in this dividing of the church into sects.” :

“Didn't you find enough of indifference and dislike amongst
Chureh people ?” asked Aunt Betsy, sharply.

There was no denying this.

“ For my part,” she continued, “when I lived by myself I
went mostly amongst the Methodists, and liked them. though
there’s worldliness enough about them, too. They have no
proud bishops and deans, too grand to trouble themselves

~#ith-poor people.”

My grand-father entered unon a lengthened defence of the

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
  
  
 
 
 
    
   
  
   
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
  
  
  
 
 

ap
bh oom kee lgFAMILY SECRETS, 91

church dignitaries, which was not concluded when Mr.
Chaundy joined us. Aunt Betsy repeated to him my ad-
venture in the passage, adding, “she says she should like to
hear those people.”

“You are inclined to be tolerant, I see,” he said, turning
towards me and smiling. “These men do an immense
amount of good amongst the ignorant and the vicious, the
thousands who neyer see the inside of a church, and who are
only to be roused by the thundering declamation, the fierce
threatenings, and rough though forcible appeals in which
unlettered men excel. As to you, they might disgust you,
especially if it happened to be what they call a ‘love
feast.’ But the truth is, sir,” he continued, turning to my
grand-father, “our church would be none: the worse if
another John Wesley was raised up to rouse it from its
spiritual apathy. We are too smooth and genteel to suit
other than refined congregations, and a man’s conscience
may be French polished till no chance drop of grace can
penetrate it. Truth is a rough customer after all, and it is
quite as well not to have that to find out at last, as is too
often the case.”

“T think I shall go down ani hear these people myself,”
said Aunt Betsy, pausing in her knitting work. Their voices
uniting in a psalm tune came clearly up to us.

“I should like to go with you,” I said.

“Let her go, said Mr. Chaundy,” seeing my grand-father
about to object. “She is old enough and has sense enough
to detect anything she finds wrong, and she has her aunt
with her.”

q

?

“There ought not to be anything wrong when people are
Lao 3 ae
worshipping God,” said my grand-father. “ Well, go.

Just as we were my aunt and I wert down. We paused
in the passage until the singing was concluded, and then
knocked at the door, which was quickly opened. Without
any one speaking a word, places were found for us, and we
sat down on different, benches. The room was filled with
men and women, young and old, and I fancied that many
of the females, like our landlady, had a nos ee
aspect. The same man I had encountered in the passage
was elevated upon a box at one end of the room, and held a

~

 

 

 

 

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EVAADSLGRLAGE MPP EHEID SHetAd
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9g FAMILY SECRETS.

book ja his hand, which he put down aiter we were seated,
and commenced preaching, His vehement action and voci-
ferous articulation startled me at first, and then offended me,
especially as I watched the deepening color on his face, and
saw a white foam gather about his mouth. If my conscience
was not French polished, it was naturally too cold to agree
with this red hot appeal to unconverted sinners. He certainly
could not be accused of smoothness or gentility, as he gave
utterance to a great deal of what sounded to me like gross
abuse. Then there was no variety to atone for this, the dis-
course consisting chiefly of repetitions considered necessary
for those who stood already on the brink of hell fire. If to
me, however, these violent anathemas and exhortations ap-
peared even impious, they evidently had a different effect
upon those around me. The noise made by the preacher
was heightened by exclamations on every side. Lost and
altogether sunk in perdition, as they were represented to be,
they seemed by their words and actions to be sensible of
even greater unworthiness and peril. . Beating their bieasts,
groaning, shouting, and, as in the case of the man who sat
next me, scarcely seeming to know what they were about,
the confusion became so oppressive, that I fairly wished my-
self out of it. The man I have alluded to as sitting next
me, apparently in a paroxysm of overwrought feeling, had
thrown his arm round my waist, and held me with so tight
a grasp, that I could not extricate myself. His excitement
seemed, so genuine, that on the score of his evidently not
knowing what he was about, I was inclined to excuse the
liberty, until I found that on becoming calmer he discovered
no intention to release me, though he somewhat relaxed his
grasp. When I put my hand to his, for the purpose of
pushing it away, he gave my fingers a powerful squeeze, de-
taining them several minutes. In my distress I looked to-
wards Aunt Betsy, who sat rigidly erect with her eyes fixed
npon the preacher. If this was merely a demonstration of
Christian love, which it might be, I could not help acknow-
ledging a preference for the indifference to which I had been
more accustomed. I did not, however, incline to such a
belief, and viewing the man’s conduct in the light of an im-FAMILY SECRETS. 98

pertinence, I desired him, in a low tone, to take his arm
away.

& ' 7 2 rm @

Oh, the love of them as knows they’re all one in Christ !"
exclaimed the man, giving me an additional squeeze. “Is
there any on us as doesn’t love one another ?—is any on us
in this room wicked to that ere degree ?”

He spoke in a loud tone, as if he meant to te heard. In.
deed the chief feature of the meeting was this privilege to
speak, singly ‘or altogether, as it ha ed; the preacher
frequently enlarging on what was said. as he did now, until

>

4
i
MV

v

the demonstrations of Christian affection became quite alarm-

ing. In the midst of my own trouble, heighter
attempt to kiss me, which I frustrated by forcibly dashing
my hand in my neighbor's face, I observed Aunt Betsy
engaged in a brief struggle with a small, wizened, elderly
man, who, on attempting to pay her a lik compliment,
found himself suddenly lifted from the ground, and dashed
backward, to the great discomposure of the more peaceably
inclined. In the midst of the confusion that ensued, my
aunt strode forward, and seized my arm.

“I think you ought to be ashamed,” she said, “ calling

7
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At

1

 

yourself Christians, and suffering such doings before young
people! Let us pass out.”

There seemed to be an attem)

“What is our dear sister exclaimed the
preacher ; “or is she not a dea there no Chris-

tian love in her %”

“ No, there isn’t,” said Aunt Betsy, sh arply, “nor in you
either, nor in any of you. I consider these doings quite
scandalous, and I am sorry I brought my niece here.”

     

é

“T hope you don’t mean to say anything scandalous
about my house,” said Mrs, Dent, our landlady, here show
ing her sour visage. “I’ve kept house here thirty

 

and never had anything against my character.”
“It would speak better for your character if you would

show a little more civility from day to day instead of burst-

ing upon us all at once in this boisterous maimer,” said

Aunt Betsy. “You stand out of the way there, and let us

go out |” es |

The preacher again raised his voice, but we managed to

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Ses ibe the tan bcd eliltel sie backedaoa

 

 

 

   

Oe FAMILY SECRETS.

get away and left him speaking. My aunt took no pains .0
conceal her indignation as she entered our room adjusting
ner cap. As for me, I dare say my face was all in a flame,
and my angry excitement had taken away my breath.

«The meeting has been a failure, I see,” said Mr. Chaun-
dy, smiling.

T am sure I never saw anything so shameful in my life,”
said Aunt Betsy, indignantly. “ There was the whole set of
them suddenly falling to kissing and embracing one anothet
—and this child amongst them! I saw some fellow kissing
you, Margaret.”

The shame, and indignation, and annoyance, united with
this exposure, was more than I could bear, and I burst inte
tears.

“ Come to me, my poor child!” said my grand-father: “I
said you ought not to go.”

I leaned my head, sobbing, on my grand-father’s shoulder °
and then it suddenly occured to me that I was making my-
self ridiculous, and I looked up and dashed away my tears.

“T amsure you did not see any one kiss me, Aunt Betsy,”

J said. “I struck the man who sat next me in the fave just

as you knocked down the little old man who made a like
attempt with yourself; and I am afraid I hurt him, for when
we came out he was holding his hand before his eyes.”

Mr, Chaundy laughed long and loudly. “ We talk a deal
about Christian love and fellowship,” he said, “ without
seeming able to come to anght understanding about it. At
one time our tender concern for men’s soulds led us to tor-
‘ture and burn their bodies, and I don’t know if that was not
better than what you have seen to-night. We that are old
have an uncomfortable consciousness that the young are
doomed to disappointment. We have been disappointed
ourselves, and a long life shows us no remedy for life’s evils.’

My grand-father denied this position, and declared God’s

race to be sufficient for a probationary existence. As I
watched Mr. Chaundy, puffing away at his pipe without
answering, I was impressed; as [ had been before, with the
belief that he, Churchman as he was, had not found a refuge
from dissatisfaction in this doctrine. :

“Jom,” said my grand-father, addressing that personageFAMILY. SECRETS, 98

on the previous Saturday, “ what church does Mr. Chaundy
attend ?” :

“Lor’, bless you!” said Jem, “ne never attends no church
when he hasn’t got to preach; what should he for, when
he be chock full o’ sermons hisself? He don’t go to church
in a ordinary way, nor me neither.”

“Does he not tell you that you ought to go?”

“Lor, no! Mister Chaundy sometimes preaches in these
here churches when the curates wants a holiday, and then |
goes, in course; but in a general way he says to me, ‘Jem,’
says he, ‘you do as you like about it: for I’m not quite sure
that going to church won’t spile you!”

This, and similar testimony, made my grand-father dis-
trustful of Mr. Chaundy, who was, nevertheless, the only
friend we had, and a good friend too—better than any we
had found amongst the high churchman at ; better
than any we were likely to find amongst the “ Ranters.”
He reminded me of Uncle Stephen, who helped us quietly
and unobtrusively, and without parading his own generosity,
or the godliness which, if it becomes disgusting to us, must
be unendurable to the Searcher of all hearts. For my part,
I was thankful that we had met with a man who seemed
better inclined to act well than to sermonise or dictate.

We had now been a fortnight in London and found noth-
ing to do. I understood, rather from my grand-father’s
looks than from anything he said, that our small means were
dwindling away in the meantime. The register-office peo-
ple had not as yet heard of anything that would suit me, and my
grand-father’s application to the law-stationers and attorneys
had produced nothing. Aunt Betsy seemed very equable
under all this until one day, when my grand-father was out.
she thus addressed me.

« Tt’s of no use going on in this way, Margaret, because it
can’t last, and we mustn’t expect to live in idleness. If I
could have got sewing work you might have helped me
rather than do nothing, but I have tried hard and I cart.
You heard what Mr. Chaundy said the other night about
the French considering all labor honorable :—that’s just
what I think myself. Let me live by the work of my hands
without being a burden upon anybody and I shall be satis-

 

 

    
  
 
  
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 

aw

PONT hs Bape ngs Stee
Se ee eS yeh eRe

Sere ceed a

ae
‘saeee

Ge a ER RIE (eA eeu ATT odcrap eritintoniede Sm eer HT ER ATES

FARILY SEORRTS.

 

1, or do any other hard work
that I can get. Don’t ss yn it till I have tried; but
this is what | mean to do, and thank God that I have health
and strength for it.”

Aunt Betsy’: s resolution showed me at onoe all the peril
of our situation. The. oe at agony to me was the knowledge
that I had been the main cause of this distress. My proud,
indignant feelings, and the great things I wanted to do,
crumbled to nothing. I was brought down to a craving and
2 aying for work,—any sort of drudgery by which I might

vert the utter des cou ion that lay before us. And Aunt
Belay, _ strong in er principles and resolute about putting
them into practice, was the first amongst us to obtain em-
pea ent, A i nights after the above conversation she
again spoke out as we were retiring to rest.

“T have got a place. Margaret,” she said: “that is, I
have got work as a chairwoman. To-morrow morning I
shall be up and awake before daylight. That queer creature,
Jem, recommended me: so you see how little patronage 1s

needed to enable one to live.”
Though I had expected this, my very soul quivered at the
reality. My heart struggled with a mighty pang.
|!” I said, “my dear, poor aunt, if I could only
* 9
Qt

j %” said Aunt Betsy. ‘“ What
have | done but work all my life? And it does me good;
if you want to kill me keep me idle. Just -listen to me,
your grand-father knows all about it, for I told him to-day.
Thank God, you know all sorts of housework, so he won't
De lost: ; and whatever you do keep your spirits up—don’t
iet him see that you are cast down—don’t be cast down ;

ee that you are young and strong, and that he is old
nd ge Ay now be a good child and go to sleep.”

For the first time that I could remember Aunt Betsy kissed
me, eat I soon understood from her regular breathing that
slept. I could not help marvelling and reproaching my-
self more than ever for having ee thought unkindly of
her. Her character shone out in adversity: she uttered no
reproaches, as she well might have done: and her affection :
for myself was most exhibited when I stood in most need of

rs
©

%

ant,FAMILY SECRETS.

it. Her mind was better regulated than mine, if less polished :
I envied the calm slumber into which she had fallen, whilst
I lay tossed on a sea of troubled thoughts, unable for hours
to still the uselessly busy heart and brain, until towards
morning, I fell into a heavy sleep, from which I was awakened
by Aunt Betsy getting up in the dark,

“Are you awake ?” she said, hearing me stir.

“Yes, aunt.”

“Try to sleep again. I shall be back at eight or nine
o'clock to-night, perhaps sooner, Come, this is a good
beginning; one of us has got work. By-and-by we shall all
do better.”

She kissed me again before leaving the room. A few real,
hot, heart-wrung tears gushed from my eyes as I heard her
descending the stairs. Listening intently I soon understood
that she could not open the street-door. Then I heard her
tapping at the door of the back parlor, in which our land-
lady and her daughter slept; and then again there was a
small war of words, and I distinctly heard Mrs. Dent say—
“ What makes you want to go out at this time of the morn-
ing, Mrs. Marples?” TI did not catch the reply though I had
advanced to the top landing in my night-dress; the outer
door was opened and slammed to again with a great noise.

I crept back into the room, but not to bed. I struck
a light and dressed myself, and set about such work as I
could find; for I had a deal of Aunt Betsy’s restiveness under
inactivity, and I found bitter thoughts a bad accompaniment
to idleness. My dislike to our landlady had, since the night
we attended the meeting, been mixed with some fear of her.
Her always peevish and unfriendly look had since then
portended something worse than usual, and with all her pre-
tended sanctity she seemed the very sort of person likely to
harbor malice. Her cold, formal, repulsive manner, though
disagreeable enough, mattered little so long as we could pay
the rent of her rooms; but I shivered from head to foot, like
a leaf, at the thought of owing her anything. Then, I knew
enough of the world to be assured that when she came to

understand what took my aunt out so early, she would take
advantage of the knowledge and our evident poverty. An
intuitive sense of the nobleness of Mr. Chaundy’s nature

6FAMILY SEORETS.,

forbade any such apprehension in his case, but the false
shame, from which none are free, made me look for our next
interview wit

h anxiety—and an internal shrinking from I
knew not what; for I had sense enough to know that Aunt
had done rightly and nobly,—sense enough to feel

of her, and to love her better than I had ever done
And this was with me no mere sentimentalising
ut what I conceived to be just; for I had already resolved
to join Aunt Betsy in her labor if no better might be. I had
the sort of pride that would not endure others drudging for
me as | would not drudge for them or myself; and at heart
ackles of this world’s opinion hung loosely about me;

could shake them at will—by a strong effort I knew that
Rey |

: T
» LOL 4
}
4

 

 

ould cast them from me altogether.

As if he had divined all I thought and felt, Mr. Chaundy
greeted us at night with more than his usual cordiality. He
made no secret of missing Aunt Betsy, but spake at once of
ne

bsence, and the occasion of it; and, seeming to nnder-

i is a beautiful thing,” he said, drawing his chair to the
fire and taking out his pipe, “to consider how bold and
earnest a spirit God has given us wherewith to battle with
the difficulties of life. The very belief in this spirit is
worth half the homilies that were ever preached. Never

mind that vulgarity frequently starts out of its path in need-
ess fear of contamination; that indolence at all times
shudders to contemplate it; for the reward of resolution is
d, enabling us to laugh at the squeamishness at the
same time that we escape the worst tyranny of the world,
No one has started at shadows more than I have done through
life, and it is often the fate of such as me to be curst with a
lively sense of their own folly. We addict ourselves to one
pursuit; we prepare ourselves for it, and, not meeting with
the success we anticipated, we give up the game of life like
poitroons. We become cowardly for others as well as foi
es; we are diseased, and we shrink from the efforts
gorous spirit as a consumptive patient shrinks from

There is a look of determination abowt

 

 

ce
a

winter, JFAMILY SECRETS Q9

8 oar
A bb @ oo

soy

in your aunt’s cou
aa end
mind making a
be made use! at
place that, ne

you, Miss Mar rples, that. struck me
ite

enance and

Be

  

might be made or ete of i I 2
T expressed my eager wish to take a situation of an

description.

“T will tell you é
“Whilst prea chit 2 Se
received occasion: a
tradesman. I have

   
    
  
   

tradesman himself
called a thorough n
cated woman, w who ;
herself vulgar and di: :
striving after gent til
The children, and f them, are what
be expected foi such a br iy up,—sel fiden
and ignorant. Some 3 finis! their ed

and for the rest, Mrs ( heaper,
well as more ne ee to employ a governess at home

 

ance, have been ec
aga Ss my consc ien
if you have courage :
procure it for you. At all events,
would in that ey ne be suffi
He had said nothing to daunt me, and I waa_ sufficient!
conscious ot I t afford Ee
expressed my w
« one are

   

  

 

any means to ‘bring | in the
a would b

mayor of t )
My grand-father shook his head,

 

 

 

pine

areata

oe

apie: one
ia ate cate aia!

?

wheres ts

ype eet ae MII

Se AE th anh aig

é

Fi tekBunyvenenssiesst egitim tier

TL

Peaterercntethp een phe

 

 

100 FAMILY SECRETS,

such a possibility eagerly. ‘<I know nothing of him,’’ I
said; ‘‘ I never even saw him; it is quite impossible. ’’

“ Well, under all the circumstances of the case, it wouldn’t
do. She would boast of his acquaintance, ask an introduc-
tion to him, and want. to know how often you corresponded.
This is. one side of the question; now for the other: it ig
not advisable she should understand that your circumstances
are particularly depressed, or that it should come to her
knowledge that your aunt is compelled to labor in a menial
capacity. Without knowing this, she would be sufficiently
inclined to keep you down; knowing it, she would be insolent.”

“Christ did not teach that poverty was a crime,’’ said my
grand-father.

‘ My dear sir, his teaching avails us little with the world.
Poverty is popularly considered to be a crime;
punishable in. many ways. But crime js not the proper
word; the general idea about poverty is, that it is some
loathsome and disfiguring kind of leprosy, that it would be
an abomination to touch. For this reason we lodge our
robbers and murderers better than we do our paupers, - and
our sympathies are more readily aroused for the former than
the latter. The fact is, deny it as we will, money-worship
has become the popular creed in England.’’

This belief, in a minister of the church, agreed with all
that Uncle Stephen had said. J] longed to talk to him about
that kind friend whom I felt we had used il], ] received
readily these doctrines that led my heart further from God.

“I should not like my child to enter a family so little
under the influence of Christian principles as the one you
describe,” said my grand-father, “ She has been brought up
piously, and I would have good example kept before her
eyes.”’

~ That feeling ig berfectly right and natural,’’ said Mr.
Chaundy; ‘‘ but searching for a correct Christian family
would be like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay. We
must take people as we find them; if we are properly
taught, their very errors wil] give us light,’?

I was eager to enter unon {
father at length consented that

it is legally

ja

Q

his situation, and my strand.
i should try it. ‘There wasFAMILY SECRETS, 101

no need of Mrs. Brown knowing anything about Aunt Betsy,
who, in the event of my grand-father and myself obtaining
employment, might remain at home. This, then, was decid-
ed upon, and Mr. Chaundy promised to speak to the Browns
the following day.

Aunt Betsy came home tired, but in good spirits. She
had earned her food and eighteen pence; and if she had
found anything to complain of, she did not mention it. She
heard of my prospects with pleasure, and perfectly acquiesced
in the propriety of keeping herself in the back-ground.
Understanding the world far better than my grand-father
did, there was no surprising her; and she submitted to
whatever was disagreeable or revolting as a matter of course,

With feelings altogether embittered and faith-shaken, I pre-
pared mysel¥ to go out into the world. I shrank a little
from the inevitable that lay before me. I hated hypocrisy;
I was inclined to be fair and open; and where I was going,
I could only expect to hate and be hated, and to parry the
injustice of others as well as I could. I was determined to
do my duty; I might thus satisfy selfishness, and, at all
events, I should feel that I was not a real burden upon any one.

Aunt Betsy left us at the same hour on the following
morning. I had occasion to go out in the course of the day,
and upon returning I encountered, in the passage, the man
who had so annoyed me on the night of the meeting, He
was a mean-looking individual, about thirty years of age;
his pale, lank hair had a faded look, and was matched by
bristly white eyelashes, and his glassy blue eyes and large
teeth projected. Altogether he had a most repulsive look,
because the general expression of his face indicated low cun-
ning, and. much ready, if well-concealed, ferocity. I shivered
from head to foot when he seized my arm and held meso
fast that I could not get away.

‘Come, now,’’ he said, in a hideous whisper, “‘ don’t be so
shy; what’s the need on it? Lor’, what nice eyes yourn is!
I say! I didn’t come arter the preaching that ere night; I
come arter the gals, as allays likes to be hugged; and since
I seen you I ain’t thought o’ none on ‘em, I came a pur-
pose to see you, so do be kind to a poor fellow as has got his

 

Sea ee papacy ay ~ Shits 9 tne oh lle
+ ae me Sy
a ioe a a

LTE g emt igs See cot te

Shae
set

Perrin Oey Tee

Ea ALCS pth mesma lt
aot z a se

the Pete Otters ttt {eecpteae)

ae te A
alee

ie
45yang was

m=

ia

3

pint)

 

 

 

 

   
   
 
  

 

 

    
  
 
   
   
  
 
   
   
   
  
   
  
  
   
  
     
    
 
   
  
    

FAWMILY SECRETS.
id no mistake. Hush! don’t be arter screech:

t to struggle was of no use, I called aloud

ir landlady, who made her appearance from the par-

liately released me, and sauntered away

matter.

o now, Miss Marples?” said Mrs. Dent,

grim and sour.

by the man who has just gone

o speak to him.”

ed Mrs. Dent, in a taunting tone; “I

ould be so high 1 and mighty, that you’r
hat’s a very Peepers young man ;

 

’s as good as enpaged i my daughter. And

t good enough for you, Miss Marples, you're not

oh for us, and that’s the long and the short of it.

ys kept my house respectable; we’re not used to
ge « 7 i

ien and such like; so, if you'll be good enough
and-father know that the rooms is wanted,

ence and freezing civility of this speech

me, Here was a sample of what I was to
world. My grand-father was out: hs had

-

ntment to the’ house of the law- -stationer, to

had been recomme! aoe by Mr. Chaundy, and I

ena +k work. This hope, and
self, had slightly exhilirated

1s ashamed at o2 eling how easy it was to
again. Casting down “it was not exactly,

 

10 height to fall from; it was asudden freezing of

had just begun to flow a little more freel ly.

50 ay freezing of the blood, which
rene ele sensation, | was rather
han otherwise, even at that early stage of my

 

18 He numbness oe me altogether, ana dead-
nse of feeling. It was the result of a scorn that

than anger,—a pride that triumphed over

was only a beginner; and I certainly felt more

omenscircumstances. I was sor

on that occasion than I did afterwards und
‘y to be compelled

Aunt Betsy and my grand-fath
had heard, and I was not sure t
for paving our rent and going away.

ar
ws

] a * rr.
nat we

My grand-father returned in good spirit

tained employment. I told him a

we must quit the rooms, as our landlady said sh

9

“How very strange!” said my grand-fatl

paid the rent; did:she mention any
ers 3”
I had dreaded this question, and |

    

our means last we can be independent.”

a
assure

I felt somewhat re ad. On tl
to be thankful! that I should not h
in the hands of Mrs. Dent. They
great distance, and Mr. Chaundy

When that gentleman came in rather lat

| that
Visca V

had spoken to the Browns, and
should call upon them the next mort

informed him that we had received notic

“ Why ?” inquired Mr. Chaundy ;
mean—what did she say ?”

“T don’t mind you knowing, Mr.
Betsy, who had returned home. “

1 ;

cause I employ myself at such work as

not respectable enough for her.”’

Mr. Chaundy had not sat lown, saying he
stop; perhaps he feared interrupting my grat

had been writing all the evening.
down and commenced smo!

°

ane

mut n ee
oo

“ This curse pursues one from. the
highest,” he said,—* this eternal

None inquire after worth, and the c
eare about it. This woman began
husband was, in his lifetime, a porter

e

 

    

gets her livelihood by letting lodging:

 

 

Pte ewan grees ifh ni C

A
tedvtelg els. bel

eerie terres

 

Brine caerra aera ten tree mlemaninier na cent acca

BGT RN LAUT Sergent

ange eee
sip nerccettte ee Ne TESA STIR gre

i

PRE NtEG HRAEBETEIE

weebeninnasnenased

Af

Tae AAteLAWIU

roi

  

164 FAMILY SECRETS,

daughter clean feathers and furs for the shops. Yet for all
this, and notwithstanding her pretentions to piety, you see
she cannot tolerate anything that is not respectable. How
can a poor ignorant woman who has seen nothing better all
her life, help it? We have our respectable churches to
which poverty and shabbiness are not admitted ; these are
filled by fashionable congregations who have a fashionab.e
preacher, a man of family, to match. As to our city
churches, I once heard an alderman’s wife observe that she
cousidered the irreligion of the very poor a great blessing,
quite a providential circumstance, as their presence in the
church in large numbers would not only be unwholesome
but so very disreputable. The feeling, my friends, is uni-
versal, at least in this ‘nation of shopkeepers,’ and there is
nothing for it but to submit with a good grace.”

“In France it is not so,” I said, unconscious that I was
thinking aloud.

“ Nor anywhere else,” said Mr. Chaundy, “ except it be
in America. That ‘finest nation on the face of the earth?
apes us too closely to admit of its setting a noble example
in this matter. Yet the Americans may laugh at our tole-
ration of negroes,—we that will not tolerate our own poor.”

“Some day I shall go to France,” I said. This wish or
determination had occupied my mind for some time. As
one of the people, I longed to find myself in a land where I
could lift up my head for what I was: it was loathsome to
think of the pretence ready on every side to crush me
down for the accidental disadvantages of birth and position.

“You must not forget, Margaret,” said my grand-father,
“that France is chiefly peopled by papists and infidels.
Do not indulge in dreams of finding substantial good in
such a place.”

I was on the point of saying,—“T dont care what they
are so they be unlike the people around me here,” but ]
checked myself and remained silent, I felt, however, that I
could no longer be taught by my grand-father; the world
had taken that power of God out of his hands,CHAPTER VL

Ow the following morning Aunt Betsy remained at home:
and at ten o’clock I was prepared to call on Mrs. Brown.
Jem walked with me to show the way. It was a very
crowded, bustling neighborhood, and the crowd, as usual,
elbowed its way after an independent fashion, that rendered
it necessary for every individual to look after him or her-
self. This unceremonious jostling in the streets, where a
lord would stand as little chance as any one else, seems 8
contradiction to the state of the case upon closer inspection.
This show of rude liberty which allows the ignorant, the
arrogant, and the vicious, a wide license, and which wants
the restraint of nationaly good manners, is not at all incom-

atible with the real slavery that fetters society at the

bean’: core. As we passed along, two scavengers were
filling a cart with street refuse. One of them (I thought
intentionally, and I narrowly escaped with a small sprinkling
of mud myself) contrived to bespatter a very dandified
young man who was picking his way with a spruce cane
‘1 his hand. A roar of laughter, in which Jem joined, sa-
luted this personage as he turned round with an inflamed
face to demand an explanation.

“Tt was a haccident,” said the scavenger; “yer should
keep out o’ the way.” ay

I passed on and left them disputing. — This seemed to me
very like an ebullition of poverty’s dislike to its natural
enemy—gentility.. I only pretend to speak of English
manners and habits as a stranger and a sojourner In the
country for a short period,—to give faithfully the results of
my own experience. It may not be altogether true that
the streets of London are unfit for a decent female to pass
through, but that was my impression to the last. I felt

  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
   
  
  
   

“5 : esr
(iain sees Feria tad Ki
Se pe OTe

a iat

 

Pree MC tee er Sane eee gt Pree

UL asusrec Me at testes setter it ffs

 

Aire teres aShug ANG Maa

aa

 

ia
hb ales

Jem led me down a pas-
the private door, and saying he
, left me. My knock was answered

bell-rope, that sent a clanging peal
throug A maid-servant presently made her
ee. appearance, and learning my name, she desired me to follow

YO

 

Ee She introduced me to a large sitting-room

" ark, where | found Mrs. Brown.
“| was tall and stout, with a large florid face, enli-
’ ry light hair. Like Mrs. Wilton, her voice was
: that I attributed to a habit in both of speak-

   
   
 
  
  

more confidently than seemed necessary for
ordinary purposes and from hour to hour.
9 you're the young—person a Mr. Chaundy recom-
é governess sitiation. Set you down. Mr.
iend of ourn, as I suppose you know,” and I
i her head a little. “He tells me as
that suits me very well, as raly we've
and such a circle of acquaintance as we

th no more people about the house. I un-

  

 

~

ther long passage from a work of Chateau-
nele Stephen had given me, and which |

ounds nice, and like raal French,” said Mrs.
orown, “4m not quite ignorant of them matters you see.
NG oa ee ee :

ter’s larnea French at a boardjng-school, and you

 

touch her up a bit. I want all my children to larn
ind music. Now, what do you want?”
sc add

\ddressed to five young urchins, girls and boys,

i

| peeped tn at the door, and then entered the room

¥
FL o AAS re
ARG Bere

, Scrowdging in that way !” said Mrs,

*i

yy ’
ee
ts
oh
’
‘
;
A
4
4
i

ee

pox *

PoE a aan

FAMILY SECRETS.

 
   
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

4 7
§ i 44>]

broy “‘Where’s your manners } sa Car
theingers out of your mouth. Hubert Adol;
foddiing in that chair [ll call your
edéa go and call Miss Brown here.”
UW sha’nt,” said Hubert Adolphus, who net b
/a_ on the chair. E
“Nor me neither,” said a girl of about seven ; '
nasty thing—she’s been slapping me.” 4
s
-

ak inildaadiicarrbielly oe
a ean ans “sh

(¥

=={s

“And served you right, [I dare say
‘‘ Leonora you will go for mar,—she’s n
“Nay,” says Leonora, s}
ance at me. q

Leona. Lanett ric rifié ont | Ceca Peper peter TE et to

 

ze
so irl

} 4 :
¥  Yre s ¥ { mvs : > » Fay
Hakin’S Nnerseil, ana iodo See. oe

 

Beret eee tere

 

ar of you.”
She advanced to the door herself, and « t 4] |

name “ Matilda Jane,” and 7
years older than myself, very

  

a large nose and dark hair plaited very el tely, | oe
her appearance. |

“Law, mar,” she said, “what do you want now?” a

 

“This is the governess as I’m going to hire,”
Brown, “and I want you to talk French with a a
Chaundy says she talks it very weil.” :

The young lady eyed me from head to foot in a very con- \ 4
temptuous manner. I addressed her in a short sentence ‘i
of French. oe 4

“That's not the way I’ve been used to speak | ,’ she |

WA

said, “and I could talk very w

 
  

Veil
going to begin again, and that’s the long ana short of it,
Ma.” on
“T expects you'll do as you're bid,” sa
ing more spirit with this young lad)
with the younger children. af Noy, go your was ind a
mind what I say to you.” The you
a very defiant air. |
“Now, Miss—I forget your name—oh,
you, understand,” said Mrs. Brown, smoot! i
traordinary morning dress—a faded and rasne
‘silk one—“as I want my children to larn

7 'iuraneiee
AZa

Parse wa

   

French; I likes to hire people by the month, and i
they don’t suit, we can make short work of it. You

board and lodging and twelve pound a year if you I} ™*
take it. Washing won’t cost you much if you wear |
dresses. What do you say 3” TiB=

Wishing, above all things, to cease being a burden o2@*
grand-father, I considered this offer rather magnificent. '°
had a good stock of clothes to begin with, and, as Mrs,
Brown said, washing would not cost me much ; I closed
with her offer at once.

“I believe,” I said, “ Mr. Chaundy informed you that I
had a grand-father, whom I should sometimes like to see.”

“Ob, yes; he did say you’d a grand-father. Well, in
course you can go to see him—suiting my convenience,”

With this understanding I promised to come for good on
the following day. My grand-father and Aunt Betsy con-
sidered this very well for a beginning, but Mr. Chaundy was
highly indignant at the terms.

“This woman is putting upon you shamefully,” he said,
“but I see no help for it just now, Well, we will try to
look out for something better.” :

Aunt Betsy insisted on doing my washing. Jem could
take my clothes to and fro, and this was decided upon,
On the following morning I took leave of my grand-father,
Aunt Betsy, and Mr. Chaundy, the former shedding tears:
and followed by Jem, who carried my box upon his truck,

_Iset out for Mrs. Brown’s.

I was introduced to a large, naked-looking room on the
second floor, which the children usually occupied. On a
small cushioned arm-chair, placed near thé fire-place, sat a de-
formed girl who looked much older than her actual age—
fourteen. She was the sole occupant of the room when }
entered it with Mrs. Brown.

“The children’s got a holiday to-day,” said that lady ;
“ you know its Christmas time, and they looks for it. They’ra
gone to Grinnidge with a party, and won’t be home til]
night. You can keep Meely company; and I dare say you
can sew well. I’ve some things as want furbishing up, and
I dares say you'll make something of ’em.” —

expressed my willingness to try, and Mrs. Brownj brought me a silk dress to pick to pieces and turn. She
then left the room, and I sat, down to my work,

The deformed girl, who had not spoken a word, continu-
ed looking at me with her hollow eyes. Her features were
unnaturally sharpened, but I saw her resemblance to the
rest of the children. All had the large nose, and sallow
complexion, and dark hair of Mr. Brown.

“Is your name Amelia?” I asked, “wishing to draw
her into conversation.”

“Amelia Nanetta Charlotte,” she replied. “Isn’t it a
fine name for such as me 9”

“ Names do not signify much,” I said, “and I do not see
ae should not have a fine name as well as any one
else,

“That’s all gammon,” said Amelia. “I’m not to be
gammoned.”

“ What ?”

“ Don’t you know what gammon is? Law, don’t tell me |”

I positively heard the word for the first time, but I had a
dim perception of its meaning.

“] speak in all sincerity,” I said. ‘“ You must be lonely
up here. Do you ever go out ?”

“No, nobody offers to take me, and I wouldn’t go if they
did. They’re always. telling me I’m ugly and a fright;
they’re ashamed of me and I’m ashamed of myself. What
should I go out for 3”

This was one of the afflictions of earth of which I had
never dreamed. No love in the very heart of home—no
hope beyond it—no satisfaction in self.

“Do you like reading ?”

“No, I don’t. I like to sit quiet by myself, and hate
every body.”

“ But that is sinful.”

“ How do you know what’s sinful? Isn’t it sinful for
them to go to church and come back to make game of me!
They bring me tracts, too, and I burn ’em.”

I did not know how to deal with this singular creature,
humpbacked and ricketty, with a small, swollen, helpless
body, and malice gleaming out of her bright black eyes.

 

—TR

GRRE NSS OT

 

TE.

oy
t

eangNe

 

 

  

-

   

tee
ay

   

Pret es

   
    
   
     
  
  

 

130 FAMILY SEORETS.

 

a think yourself handsome, I suppose ?” she said, af-

@ pause.

s “Do you think so ?” :
— aoe fat ney you self sharp | Now you’ve gone and

 

I had un fuck carn the gown ene was rotten. What
.

sharp eyes the creature had!

“You think you're come here to be comfortable, don’t
you? Ho! ho! ee ” she said, 8 .ortly.

“ Why should I not be comfortable 2”

“ Are you used to be snubbed? ll tell you what—our
children are little devils: don’t a8 hate the sight of ’em!
Mar cares for nothing g but herself. You should hear our house-

maid stuff her up about ee young. She and Matilda

iné are always quarreling. I know why: mother’s jeal-
ous of her, Then there’s france James—have you seen

“Law, I wish he could hear you! Francis James is the
biggest man in Lond rding to his thinking. Mar
1 at, she thinks him stylish, and

compa ae Par quar-
and he quarrels with
money to spend. Mar
i these days they'll be
would. I hate Tony.”

   

I thought I could
rie han me in a house.”
ue conversation held through the
ey deformed in mind as
serving, and evidently at war
ho rales to listen to her
hypoci sy, and the depravity
heir a cquaintances: and ill
ink on the ne nature
ctively taking up the gaunt-

1?
t
u

; - 3
A he ney

  
 

home we had always been accustomed
Christmas as a holy time: and I was familiar

 
  
     
  
  
   
 
 
    
   

Ne
1 An ns A —He cals of t merry- Pe in Mrs. F
house, was something qui ee new to me. As Twelit!
peared a few days after m ny installment t! :

  

°

Brown had issued invitatio
about teaching the children was at r
tion. Indeed Miss Brown, indiffe

when she said it, expre essed Her wi
with a governess.in the midst of the | a
Brown knew ed she was about; and finding, as
expected, that I ¢ l] 1 that I had some

     

 

 

 

 

 

in fashioning dres m

ing until late « at nil turnit

dress, which she renile A
I had to eg iicok some 2 1e children
frocks. In the course 1

gs OQ 1t
sul ficient u

ae an

gO ae with them.

I should evex
pupils to doa
ered me in re
ties with me oe my
suddently jerking my chair away 1 when 7 attempted
down, throwing tea in my face during that meal,
that I might well despair. My annoyance and
remonstrances afforded huge delight ‘to Miss
declared that having a governess in the house wouic
fun all the year round.

On the morning of Twelft
derstood ironing “pretty we
take it as a‘ it

0s

lL, Pet vO 7 yr ann TOoK SO
nt of an inferior, ang LOOK SO
S z

ady, snatching my work out

5 ae

avor’ if I wou 1
there being ne ke for her
back parlor, ay from its sit
lighted by ga I had to ee
from the fs | in ie kitchen,
woman were busily engage sas.
the room I was in I heard everytl
eould not but marvel at the volubi ‘li
kept up an incessant conversation, 1
me, about nothing. Presen ily I hes

Mary, the nursemaid, cried out:

   
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 

ot ah encarta ncn ial nda tet
5 é. aap hot anes “ $ ripe IR uch xSAcAanE ves HARNESESS ESTES

 

Nig ne PEST WON tT) cm sees imenicciaioed
me Pay, WES Repco ori
He ae z z ceili tear ea at ng pce NT ae ree
aE A AAS he PRE NIN PE ER ee goa, SFr CEE ER EY ? : ; } é ee
* : * . x SST Sere het 7 aie 3) SAGAR pra kota oe se a Dis SPE ee APA So TS had a Ne :
- z a 5 ps pre POI z BESTT Nee sere ere tine pe mt oe ES res

 

  
  
 
    
  
    
   
 
    
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
    
 
    
   
    
    
   
  

“Now you leave me alone, Tony; you'd best, or Pll eal.
missis.”

“What a fuss the gals make, and where's the use on it?”
baid a voice I recognized instantly as that of my tormentor
at the meeting. “Don’t I know as all the gals likes to be
kissed ?”

“Not by such a fool as you,” said Mary; “so keep your
hands to yerself.” :

“IT say, Sally,” said Tony, “nice gal that new governess,
ain’t she ?”

I heard the word “hush!” and then a smothered conver-
sation was carried on. This discovery, that I was in the
same house with so hideous a hypocrite, distressed me
exceedingly, especially when I reflected that he might do
me great disservice by telling more about my family than
I wished the Browns to know. I did not aoe any-
thing worse, or that I should have any difficu ty about
keeping him at a distance.

I was absorbed by these unpleasant thoughts, when sud-
denly I felt two huge hands placed at either side of my face,
which was wrenched round and brought into close contact with
that of Tony himself, looking more hideous than ever, as
there was a malicious grin on his countenance. In the
horror and exasperation of the moment I struck him over
the mouth with the hot iron.

“Damn your imperance!” he exclaimed, retreating at
once, and putting his hand to his mouth. “This is twice
you've served me that how. Who the devil are you 28 you
mayn’t be touched, I should like for to know? Who was
turned out of their lodgings ’cause they was a disgrace to
the house? Mind if I don’t serve you out.”

“Do what you like,” I said, breathless with irritation,
“but take yourself out of this room at once, and do not
repeat your liberties with me. Are you going, or must I

o 3”

“Law, what a spitfire you are!” said the man, but re-
treating backwards as he spoke. “See if I don’t get you
under the misletoe to-night.”

He disappeared, and I continued my work with tremb-
ling hands. At the very outset it seemed probable that IFAMILY SECBBETS. 118

should either be turned out of the place or be compelled ts
leave it on my own account. I had not calculated all the
miseries of dependence, or dreamed of encountering that of
which I should be ashamed to sveak.

I was kept busily employed all day, and when the compa-
ny began to arrive I attended in an ante-room, furnished
plentifully with looking-glasses, to assist. There mighi
have been fifty young people in all, and it was rather plea-
sant work to take off the outer garments of the little girls
and boys, and touch up their shining hair, and watch the
glee dancing in their bright eyes. I was lingering over one
very pretty little girl, whose fair curls swept over her shoul-
ders, when Miss Brown called out to me:

“Get rid of them little bothers as sharp as you can, I
want you to help us.”

There was a crowd of girls about my own age, and some
older. When the “little bothers” were fairly turned out of
the room, my services were more than ever in request, as
the young ladies had brought their dresses in band-boxes.
I had never before associated with young people—if it could
be called associating, where none spoke to me except to ask
my assistance—and all this flutter of preparation, and evI-
dent anxiety.about effect, bewildered and surprised me more
than anything tliat: had come under my observation before.
My previous sedentary life and inexperience must be taken
into consideration when I say, that these young girls fre-
quently made me blush, indeed, kept my face altogether
in a glow, with what seemed to me very extraordinary

boldness. |

“TI don’t know whether to wear these white roses in my
hair, or have it plain,” said the girl whose dress I was fas-
tening. “ Which would you do?” ae

“Oh, wear the roses; they’re so nice in your dark hair,”
said the girl slie addressed. lve got a red geranium.”

“Tg there anybody worth dressing up for ?” said my
young lady. ‘“ Who’s here 3” :

Miss Brown ran over a string of names, which I perceiv-
ed were all masculine.

«Oh, I’m so glad Henry Smith’s here !” said number one.
Isn't Te anice young man? always so spirity and full of

7

a a a baie ‘
epic ERE OS NE Decth Pg moe pee eh IE, pase meee a sh
bo tieres sy eee LAD Ur Lee meseras ree cia id i ee MIERE Le Pee Dae Meet] ee Matty tc
PISCUBESOTLLCECLELT (5. ites tras PETREM aa

 

    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
   
 
  
 

 

FET PariC To nF ott eat Coe ee ee HL ER EO
fi2 tenes est attain mtr Teer rar HRN EB

seed

o

 

GFR ind cu sta LSE

inaeiashd

Wraace tines

Nt Tara Nh A A
Saabs

fan. I mean Henry shall kiss me under the misletee,
Here, can you arrange these in my hair?”

“For my part,” said another girl, “I admire James Rid-
iey: so gentleman-like, isn’t he ?”

“Oh I can’t bear him,” said a sprightly girl, who had
been humming a tune, and seemed incapable of keeping her
feet still. “ He’s so shy.”

“Ts he’ said another. “ Do introduce me to him; |
like to get hold of ashy young man. It’s such fun. ld
brighten him ap, see if I don’t.”

“Ts your young man coming, Miss Jakes ?”

“He may come or stop away,” said Miss Jakes, tossing
her head. “He’s been in the sulks for a week. But if he
does come, I'll pay him off, for | intend to flirt desperately
with Henry Smith,” and in the lightness of her heart she
commenced practising a few steps.

“There, go away, you're a bungler,” said the young lady
whose roses came to nothing in my hands. “Do, dear
come and help me.”

There were so many last touches before the young ladies
could be satisfied with their appearaces, that a full hour
elapsed before I felt myself at liberty to seek Mrs. Brown,
and learn what I was to do next. I had been standing all
the day, and felt very weary, but I had been given to un-
derstand that I should be wanted all the evening.

All the company was assembled in the drawing-room,
and I found Mrs. Brown in the usual sitting-room, where
tables were spread for tea. I found with her a young man
whom I had not seen before, and as I was retreating, she
called me back. |

“This is the governess as I told you about,” she said.
“ My son, Miss Marples.”

Mr. Brown, Junior, was taller than his father, which is
not saying a great deal, as the latter gentleman was remark-
ably short ; so that I inferred the “ bigness” of which Miss
Amelia spoke had reference solely to the young man’s esti-
mate of himself. He had his father’s nose on a larger scale ;
the same black hair and eyes; and whiskers of the same
hue and an incipient moustache, were just visible. He was
dressed elaborately, I supposed for the occasion, and woreFAMILY SEORETS, 118

an eye-glass, which he elevated in order to take a batter
view of myself.

“Vewy pwapaw,” he exclaimed, meaning my ¢ engagement,
J suppose. cE mane you'll have dl ne mld in bettaw
audwa. ’Pon my sawl she's pwetty.”

“Hold your tongue, Francis Jame 33, do!” said his mother
‘* Miss Marples, do you attend to your own business; put
them spoons in the sarcers, a fetch the sandwidges and all
the things hoff the sideboar ; there’s room in the middle
of the table.”

Mrs. Brown, spoke in a shar p, authoritative manner, as if
she wished to counter act the possible effects of her son’s ad-
miration. The idea was monstrous eno ough, but I was oblig-
ed to entertain it.

The two went on talking, as the young ladies had done,
reckoning me for nothi ng.

“I think you might have brought one on ’em just for t
night,” said Mrs. Brown. “It’s too bad.”

“ My dear madam, it’s impossible,” said the young man.
“If these fellows once got a scent of the shop it would
be all up with me. I don't want to dis spawage your com-
pany, but it wouldn’t do, ’pon my soul.”

“T don’t see the use of your spendin ig so much money
over your fine folks, if you can’t ask any on ’em home,” said
Mrs. Brown. | cae

“The old boy,” observed Mr. Brown, Junior, “talks of re-
tiring into the country, in which case | may manage to in-

-

 

A

twoduce some of the fellows. At present it’s out of the
question. I intend to make myself vewy agweeable to-
night, and I think that’s as much as you can expect fwom
me at pwesent.” eo

“Tm sure your par’ll call out at them mustache?

“ He’s a queaw old boy ! pewhaps he will, but
be a slave to pwejudices. I must positively join the
or they'll think me wude.”

I caught a glance of him as he walked out, holding h
stiff collar with both hands and adjusting his head {a i it
I wondered if the ladies oy missed him or wanted him
“ A fine young man, isn’t he?” said Mrs, Brown.

4

fomad

rs.

T
i

bs

Fa istaiiare
= . VARS.
Seen eae EY
lo)

 

   
  
 
  
  
  
   
  
   
    
  
  
 
 
 
   
  
 
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

Sten tec era renter eran a mcapre gae<Fs
sab bac ge citi oath

oo RETR a RET ~ ae perme

be

 

edlieetes rt Oroaac tite arate

 

  

, 16 FAMILY SECRETS.

I opened my mouth to say something, but remained si
lent. I bowed my head in assent.

“He’s very clever, and every way above his station,
though that’s nothing to be sneezed at, for his par’s got
money,” continued Mrs. Brown. “But Francis James al-
lays would keep the best company,—Lord Randy, and Sir
John Boulder, and Colonel Spanks, and a lot of them sort
of people. He'll be sadly out of his helemet to-night.”

The young man certainly gave me no high opinion of
the company he kept. His cool, easy impudence was at
once so offensive and so ridiculous that one did not know
whether to laugh or to get angry. I had a pretty clear per-
ception of his being altogether beneath contempt.

Mrs. Brown gave me directions about superintending the
tea-table provided for the younger visitors, and then depart-
ed in order to collect them. Simultaneously with the
young people appeared all the servants with all sorts of
viands, Nothing I had as yet seen astonished me more
than the gormandizing qualities of the atoms of humanity
over whom I presided. Piles of plum-cake, plain cake,
muffins, tea-cakes, tarts, biscuits, toast, bread and butter,
shrimps, ham sandwiches, potted meats, and oceans of tea,
disappeared with a rapidity that to me became quite alarm-
ing. One little boy, with his mouthful, declared that he
always drank seven cups when he went to a party, and I be-
lieve he took even more. When all were satisfied and dis-
missed (the elder visitors took tea in the drawing-room), I
and Mary sat down, and afterwards helped to clear the
things away.

I’ was very busy when one of the young ladies entered
from the drawing-room, dragging after her a little boy, who,
with his hands before his face, appeared to me to be crying,
but I soon found he was half chocking himself with a fit of
suppressed laughter.

“You wicked little wretch,” said his sister, shaking him
violently, “see if I don’t tell of you when we get home. I’ve
a good mind to send you home now. You,” she said, ad-
dressing me, “keep him here: I want to punish him.”

The boy did not seem to care much ; he went into a copFAMILY SECRETS. 117

ner, and had a good laugh by himself. I asked him wha

had amused him so much, :
“ It’s her,” he said, pointing towards the drawing-room ;
“she’s so funny.”

* He’s very naughty,” said Mary; “he’s been making
game of Miss Melia.”

“She’s like ‘Humpty dumpty sat on the wall,’” said the
boy. “T shall laugh at her :—what’s she so ugly for then 9”

I tried to reason with him, to make him understand that
she could not help it; that God might punish him by mak-
ing him also deformed; but he kept on tittering and I
could make nothing of him. And little can be made of
children whose character, early perverted at home, becomes
fixed before they are turned over to those expected to edu-
cate them. They are educated already, for the first lessons
of life determine the bent of all after-teaching,

Presently Mrs. Brown came in to ask if the boy would go
back and be good, and he made a half-promise.

“You'd better come in now,” she said to me, “and you
can look after the children. Meely’s put me out with com-
Ing down; 1 didn’t want her to, it’s all her par’s fault.
Now wind, when they begin to dance you play the planer.”

I followed her into the room. The glaring light, and the
crowd, and the noise, confused me. Then the heat was
stifling. There were several new arrivals, men and women,

oung and elderly ; there was a deal of shouting, and loud
etian and clapping of hands, and sprightly conversation,
and running to and fro of children ; and in the midst of the
general hubbub some one was producing a crashing noise
out of the piano. There was a twelfth-cake, anda drawing
of characters was going on, that every now and then pro-
duced frantic exclamations and much mirth. I was look-
ing out for Amelia, who was seated on a high chair at the
extremity of the room, with a table before her, when I was
requested to take out two children who were sick. No
wonder, eating rich cake, and sucking oranges, and drink-
ing wine, after such a meal as they had lately made |

I was kept employed until at length the folding doors
that connected the two réoms were thrown open, and a
olear space was made for dancing. The children’s dancing-

hate “a th “yp t+ pipiens < eo
ae rece ws: Hee Rare

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4 ie io Re ee nee tea eller Dnt Hess Sip lbs ai hms eT eg " _ J ; e
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* ope HO aa ee Le it Pas bat bt St MmESL IT ELS reper te “ a roa eee or eet Cte eee area rt ok. cob oa et Wadket

fis naeremer te

hint Nate" Saal

Seana arene

<= prencnneehige eastern

a Sen ~areereryse

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tt
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meet.

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FARILY SEORETS.

  

master was p! with his violin, and I was to accompany
him on the p Meanwhile I had had time enougn to

 

d receive certain impressions, It struck
‘irls, with their giddiness, and affectation,

, advances, were unlike anything I had
the young men, shallow, and
conceited (as they well might be), and evidently great in
frivolities, were but indifferent samples of the species to
which they belonged; that the elder men were coarser than
seemed quite proper; the women strongly giving to slander,
(I overheard some of them who were gathered into little
confidential groups); and that altogether there was an ab-
sence of refi ]

e

ever nearda or read of:

¢
?

inement and real good feeling, that, united with
the noise and heat, and my own weariness, inspired me with
sensations bordering upon disgust. If all this time I was

o
unconsciously exalting myself above those around me, I

 

was sufficiently despised in turn; for, except that Mr. Brown,
Junior, had once approached to ask if I did not find it “ vewy
+
1 8

wawm,’ no one had spoken to me since I entered the room,

I played until a late hour when all the children were sent
home ; and then I played on, as the elder visitors had only
Just commenced in earnest. During a pause, Mr. Brown
(who did not make his appearance till the shop was closed)
brought me a glass of wire and a biscuit.

“ Ain’t you tired ?” he said; “let somebody else play a
bit, and you have a hop.”

This was an odd remedy for being tired, but I told him I
had not learned to dance,

“ Not learned to dance! Oh, never mind; you can jump
about to the tune, and that’s as much as most on ’em does.
Pve got a partner for you,—come, now, get up a bit.”

Mr. Brown meant to be kind, and I rose up, though with-
out any intention of dancing. To my horror, I beheld the
two apprentices, headed by the shopman, Tony, looking

1

more hideous and diabolical than ever in his holiday dress.
6¢ FRM. :

this young man,” said Mr. Brown, bringing the mon-
ster forward, “ wants you for a partner. Tony, talk to the
young woman a bit; I want all on von to be jolly to-

night.” >FAMILY

Thinking, I dare say, that he had done a good
me, Mr. Brown walked away. .

I turned to the piano and sat down again.

* What a gal you are!” said Tony, | x his arms on
the instrument, and approaching me so closely that I was
compelled to rise again. . “ Come, now, if 3
ner I won’t say nothing about you knows what,’

I could not speak to the man, even to
were no words expressive of the deep disou
walked hastily across the room and seated mys
deformed girl.

* Are you tired?” I asked.

“No; [like tosee’em. I wish
‘em all, fine and handsome as
They’re been laughing at me, and I

    

 

you il De MY vart-
>
7

po

 

 
   
  

1 re th
“You should not notice children,” I s they don’t

know what they do.”
“Qh, it’s not the children, it’s every one of ’em. I see it,
though they think me a foo] as well as humpbacked
ugly. Never you mind.”
“But you are not ugly,” I said, “and if you liked you

and

might look handsomer than any one in this room.”

“ What a one you are for gammon !”

“ Nay, I am quite serious. You might, by thinking kind-
ly of every one, and wearing a bright, pleasant r
would be so much happier, too.”

“You've got that out of them tracts, and they’re all lies
You should see how Mar flies out if anybody offends her a
bit ; and Matilda Jane,—Lord, she’d make you stare! Let
me alone about looking pleasantly when I hate everybody.
I could scratch their eyes out !”

I had been preaching, as many do, what I could not my-
self practice. The odious Tony came up and I shrank from
him as if he had been something venomous.

“‘T wants Miss Marples to be my | sr, and she won't,”

°

“oe

   

he said. ‘Try and persuade her, Miss Meliar.”
“Try yourself,” said Amelia. “What do I care about
your partners and you jigging about like fools? Now they’re

~~

em |”

6

a beginning it. Law how I do hate |
There was a sudden tumult in the room. which resounded

  
 
     
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
    
  
  
 
   
  
  
 

SESE Tw ere rte Ue a eo
. Suey ey Go

ee eL ane fonts: thie tit cieeierer it ater pane Pee
a Do ‘ iWR Se Hew 2

 

120 FAMILY SECRETS.

with shrill screams. The gentlemen had got the ladies un
der ithe mistletoe, and if the latter liked it rather than other-
wise, they made an odd sort of demonstration. I remem-
dered the threat of the odious man, Tony, and I shrank
further into the corner with a shiver of horror. How this
availed me nothing,—how I was forcibly dragged forward
and kissed by every man in the room, Tony amongst the
rest, I will pass slightly over. When I was at length releas-
ed I burst into tears.

“ Law, if she ain’t a crying!” exclaimed one of the girls.

“What nonsense !” said several.

“She wants kissing again,” said Mr. Henry Smith, the
greatest puppy where all were great that way, “and pon my
honor if I wasn’t out of breath—”

“Come, come, let’s have done with it,” said Mrs. Brown.
“ And deary me, Miss Marples, I’m surprised at your mak-
ing a piece of work in my house, as if we didn’t know
what's proper. Bless us! if these young ladies isn’t too fine
to be kissed, you don’t need to cry out.”

“What disgusting affectation!” said Miss Brown as she
flounced past me.

I had, indeed, only made myself ridiculous; and my tears
dried up as if my eyes had been balls of flre. I was allowed
to sit at the piano again, and the party broke up at four
o'clock in the morning.

During another week the children had a holiday, and I
was plentifully supplied with needle-work. I had, besides,
Sa instructions, to improve, Miss Brown in music and

rench ; but that young lady had a profound contempt for
my capacity, and the plan proved a failure. When I at
length commenced with the younger children I found them
60 deficient in the commonest kinds of knowledge that I set
about giving them some instruction in English before I at-
tempted French, and asked for such books as I required,
and which I did not find in the house. There was some
demur about supplying me. Mrs. Brown did not see the
use of wasting so much time about “grammar and such
like.” Arithmetic was very well, but geography might be
learned from the newspapers, and she thought history all
stuff. She reminded me over and over egain that shewanted the children to learn music and French, However,
I had a little of my own way, and I set to in earnest: and
@ more refractory or unpromising set of pupils never fell in-
“o mortal hands. Accustomed to have their own Way, and
Seeing me treated as a menial, it was impossible to obtain
any authority over them. Wanting capacity one way, they
made up in another, _ They were very Ingenious at turnin
everything into ridicule, so that it was impossible to fix their
attention seriously for five minutes together. After doing
my best, I was compelled to ask Mrs. Brown to interpose
with. her authority, and then she thought my system must
be wrong, as the children had done very well at school. I
soon found that I must not entertain any hope of giving
satisfaction.

It was trying enough to live entirely upstairs with these
children and Miss Amelia, who had conceived a positive dis-
hike to me for having been such a hypocrite as to pretend
not liking to be kissed. Amelia hated hypocrites above
everything; she hated those who submitted to be kissed
and liked it, but my affectation had disgusted her as it did
Miss Brown.

I had been in the house about three months when, one
evening, I was sent for down stairs. found Mr., Mrs., and
Miss Brown, and an elderly man in the sitting-room. I was
desired to sit Gown, and Mrs. Brown asked me if I had heard
anything about Mr. Chaundy.

I had not, and said so.

“ He’s took to prison for debt, howsomever,” said Mrs.
Brown. “I’m sure we thought he was quite a gentleman
when we let him come here. Do you know anything of
his family %”

I did not.

“ How long did you know him afore you come here f

“ About three weeks.”

“ Queer, ain’t it?” said Mr. Brown.

“I thinks it very queer,” said Mrs. Brown, “and be
knowed nothing of you afore?”

“ No,” .

‘It’s a good job as he didn’t borrow money from ws,
said Mr. Brown.

  
  
    
 
  
 
  
    
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
   
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
 

Baie way Gee
bagi ice eh emtaee

ae

ciereuscaiaaipseetoniete ieeay ees eeRad aba nano

ata!

i

SUE RARFUSSHEREN TEI

 

 

  

199 FAMILY SECRETS.

“1 nsted the sight of him” said Miss Brown; “he wasn't
like a respectable clergyman.” |

“No more he was,” said Mrs. Brown. “He was a odd
man, allays joking with the servants and lowering hisself.
I wonder if he was a clergyman after all, or a imposter ?”

“Oh! he was a clergyman,” said the visitor; “I had
that from Mr. Fulton.”

“You can go up stairs, Miss Marples,” said Mrs. Brown.

[ augured no good from this conversation and Mrs.
Brown’s manner. On three or four occasions I had been
tortured by Tony’s threats to tell all he knew, and I was not

sure that he had not told. I abhorred the state of depen-
dence that subjected me to this low malice, and that made
it a terror to me. What had I to fear or to be ashamed of
after all; why could I not speak to Mrs. Brown as a Chris-
tian woman, and tell all the truth? How I warred with
myself; how I scorned her, feeling that this was impossible !

The news of our friend’s misfortune grieved me deeply.
Comparing him with others, I knew that he was a noble,
warm-hearted man, and I was just beginning to feel how
really friendless we were in the world. I expected Jem on
the following day, and I determined to ask leave to visit my
grand-father so that I might learn all the particulars.

I wanted to see my grand-father for many reasons. It
was a satisfaction to me, even while I wished to remain
where | was, if possible, to believe that matters were com-
ing to a crisis. My borrowed dignity, of not being the
niece of a charwoman, sat too heavily upon me, because it
was enforced. What, after all, did Mrs. Brown suppose me
~0 be? Poor—or I should not have sought the shelter of
her roof. I had not deceived her, for I had been asked no
questions: yet I felt as if I had made myself liable to a
charge of imposition. I was beginning to despise myself as
well as others; and I thought that my grand-father would
agree with me that this was an unwholesome state of feeling,
that should be remedied at any price.

Letters had passed between us, snd I knew that they
were in other lodgings, and that my grand-father continued
to obtain work. I knew, too, that Mr. Chaundy frequently
visited them, and felt how much they would miss him. The: FAMILY SECRETS. 128

Browns, with their many friends, most probably did not
possess an individual, one whose misfortunes or absence

would have caused thon regret.

And from what I had alr ready observed, I could not help
feeling that deep and strong affections were not common in
the world. A great deal of sentiment that sounds very well,
and that is very well in itself has been written on t the love
of mother’s; but ten to one that oe reading of it brings be-
fore any experienced peron | such a host of unmistakeal biy
real mothers of the Mrs. Brown class, intricuine heartle essly

as
for sons or daughters, and By the exampl
grafting of selfishness desec ratir ig all th on
sacred between them, and hard lening all that ought to have
heen malleable for good, that the attractive id
in the distance like a lone star
mothers, so far from being always

thing, 1S frequently made to look

 

 

Q ce Gonatindk in-
a

 

    

not a otderhil that anoue brothers 4 a sisters indifference
should grow up into hatred, y passions and self-
interest divide them Bout the bee innit ing What most of
the friendships and more serious after-connections of life
come to under such circumstances, is best known to the
millions who make up tr population of this Christian land,

 

I asked leave of a few hours’ absence with some fear
fusal, because there was not a minute in the
which I had not plenty to do. Mrs. Brown, I
her consent very readily

“O yes, you may go, cere
going to tell you—leastways, I to-Inorroy mn yo
month’s up—that I must give you notice, as you don’t quite

4

 

   

 

auit as I expected. You can let your grand-father know,
7 Yr ] Inky € mM 7 ’
as I intend to behave han ke and allow you a month’s

notice.”

This was saving me much trouble, tl
actly what I wanted. When I considered €
what with their rebellious habits, and pacity, and
almost entire ignorance of everyt se, it would be a
long time before I could bri ring the young Browns forward
in music and French, I could only feel that it was for the
best. I was beginning, too, to haye more co mnfidence in my-

5 not ex-
owever, that

  
 
  
 

 

 

 

ee See”

tne

GR eT ee ER AOE SS TE MRT

pron eaeatmenn per mtn

iS pea eerie Gace
tesat down together. Jem h
Chaundy’s misfortune only a few days
been with him ever since
bis life, m* grand-father regre

 

134 FAMILY SEORETS.

aclf; and I had a month before me to look out for as
other situation.

On the whole, I felt lighter in heart than I had done for
along time. On the following morning, when I was told
that some one wanted me, I hurried down stairs, expecting
to see Jem; but instead of him, I found a little girl of about
ten years old. I asked her what had become of him.

“ He’s gone with the mister,” she replied.

I asked her to wait till I was ready, and then to show me
where my grand-father lived. She said she lived in the same
house in Brook’s Court, and I found it a close, unwholesome
place, with tall, dingy houses, filled from basement to roof
with lodgers,

I found my grand-father and Aunt Betsy, in a back room
on the second floor, to which was added a large closet that
held a bed. It was altogether a falling off from Mrs. Dent?s
rooms ; and not having seen either of my reiations for so long
a time, I was struck by a painful alteration in their appear-
ance. My Aunt’s complexion had become sallow, and she
was much thinner; and there was a wan, shadowy look
about my grand-father that wrung my heart. I found him
busily writing, and one of his favorite books lay on the ta-
ble beside him : it was open; and when I glanced at the

page my eye fell on these lines of Cotton's « Retirement ;—”

“Good God! how sweet are al! things here |
How beautiful the flelds appear !
How cleanly do we feed and He!
Lord! what good hours do we keep !
How quietly we sleep !
What peace, what unanimity !
How innocent from the lewd fashion
Is all our business, all our recreation |”?

[ae dear, good old man! had he been trying to realise a
dream of bis old home, with its quietness, its cleanliness, its
pure air and rural sights,—things he had loved so well? J
spoke calmly, in snite the sweiling of my heart, when we
ad brought the news of Mr,

: previously, and had
- For perhaps the first time iD
tted that he had not money,FAMILY SECRETS, 125

“It would have been a pleasure to hava helped so kind a
friend,” he said; “ we must pray for him.”

I told my own story, giving only the principal cause of
my dismissal_—my not being able to impart French and
music to the young people as if by magic.

“Well, well, you cannot do impossibilities,” said my
grand-father. “ We must go to the register-office again.”

I asked if we could not go that day, as I did not
know when I could get out again, and my grand-father
consented. Then we had a long talk about a hundred
different matters; and he showed me the money—three
pounds—which I had sent by Jem, and which he said he
was saving for me. It was a satisfaction to know that he
had not vet been compelled to make use of it, and I hoped
to add to, instead of taking it away.

After dinner, we proceeded to the register-office, situated
somewhere in the city. Ina very crowded thoroughfare
we wanted to cross the street, and were compelled to wait
until several vehicles, apparently jammed together, went
yast. There was some quarrelling amongst the drivers.

“Take that fellow’s number, will you ?” called out an im-
perious voice. “ He blocks up the way on purpose.”

I looked in the direction of the speaker. He was seated
in a handsome cab, with a servant in livery at his side.
There was no mistaking the martial. figure; the clear,
bronze, complexion; the eagle eyes; the black hair, and
moustache curling over the upper lip; the proud disdaintul
look that I had encountered only once before -__it was Col-
onel Leigh. :

I gazed at him steadily aud determinedly. My eyes, too,
could flash back disdain and defiance, though they could
not express the intense loathing with which, in my inmost
sc:., | regarded that man.

“ Now, then! out of the way there !” he exclaimed.

Just before the whip fell, he looked full in my upturned
It was evident that he recognised me, for he made
) and then
lasked the

face.
an indecisive movement, pausing for a second ;
the heavy frown gathered upon his face :—he
horse savagely, and passed from my sight.

For this my aunt had brought us together that day—

eee ta

Cae sae

veered: icici aa
Se ea Atenas

aa,
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og
— _ se ~

Sere ee ease a

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gE '

rn ed RAR 8
“Sten idan
Pr Oat

 

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FASE YT A IF A want oe arene tt
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Ga

KCORETS,

that we might know one another if we met in the world,
To what purpose? If my grand-father saw him, he did not
mention the subject, nor did I. We arrived at the register-
office, and stated our business.

“Are you the young lady that called on Mrs. Wilton in
Wimpole Street?” asked thé man.

Itold himI was, © |

“ Then,” he said, “she wants to see you again ; you may
eall any morning at the same time.”

We considered this an extraordinary piece of good for-
tune, and walked home rather gaily. I was particularly
gratified, because Mrs. Wilton understood I had a difficulty
about obtaining a character, and seemed inclined to
pass it over; but when we arrived at home, my grand-father
observed that I could at least obtain a character for good
conduct from Mrs. Brown,—she had nothing to say against
me that way.

I, however, had a fixed notion that Mrs. Brown’s testimo-
ny any way was not desirable. I felt sure that she was dis-
missing me as a disreputable person, and one who had been
palmed upon her under false pretences. It seemed clear to
me that she had come to a knowledge of my “low connex-
ions and bringings up,” as Tony had it; and if this was
sufficient to drive me out of her house, I could scarcely be
considered respectable enough to enter Mrs. Wilton’s,

In the course of the afternoon, Jem came in. I was sur-
prised and pleased, too, to see him wear so bright a look.
My grand-father asked him how Mr. Chaundy was,

* Oh, he’s quite right,” said Jem. “He told me to ccme
down an’ see if I could help you; an’ if you’d come an sec
him he’d be glad.”

iD
E

“That I will, certainly,’
“It must have grieved
trouble,” said Aunt Bet j
“Lor bless you, no,” said Jem. “Tf they’d made a bish-
>on him I might a broken my heart, an’ nobody to care.
’s all for his good ; that’s where I take It. Trouble keeps
heart in the right place, an’ mine too, When I go into
‘at blessed Queen’s Bench, you should see how he brightens
up. “dJom,’ says he, ‘I don’t know what I should do with.

’ said my grand-father,
you to see Mr. Chaundy in such

0
1
1
I

Smead i
fo
peed oo OT popes
Qa GD

5PAMILY SEORETS,

|out you, Jem.’ That’s what I call being alive. Do you
\think he'd say that to me if they’d a put him in a palace!
By jingo ?”

“A little selfishness about that, though, eh, Jem?” said
my grand-father, smiling. “ Well, we get on in this world
some way.”

He asked Jem if he knew whether Mr. Chaundy was likely
to obtain his freedom soon; and Jem, apparently scouting
the idea, said he thought not. What should he for?
There was good living at the Bench altogether: he didn’t
see, for his part, how anybody could die there.

And then Jem looked in the place where the coals and
wood where kept, and finding the stock low, rose up for the
purpose of replenishing it.

“Any more orders #” he asked.

“ You are a handy fellow, and a willing one, Jem,” said
my grand-father; “but we must not impose upon your
good nature all along in this way. How are you to live if
you work gratis, as you do for us? You must allow us to
pay you something—it is only night.”

“Don’t you say nothin’ about that ’ere,” said Jem. “ How
am I to live? Lor’ bless you, I fatten amazin’ among kind-
spoken people. I live up here, an’ I live down yonder at
the Bench. It’s jolly living at the Bench. [Pve got flesh
since Mr. Chaundy was took.”

Poor Jem seemed to live on his philosophy, which is more
than wiser men have been able todo. His constant good
will and eagerness to oblige certainly had the desired effect
of drawing us towards him.

During his absence my grand-father wrote a letter to Mr.
Chaundy, which he afterwards gave him to deliver; and
then, in order to save my grand-father’s time, Jem insisted
upon seeing me back to Mrs. Brown’s.

Jem’s simplicity and singleness of heart, and perfect reli-
ance on the good faith established between us, were con-
spicuous in this offer. It happily never occurred to his
honest head that I might object to such a chaperon in broad
day-light, respectable though he was, and evidently proud
of his charge, and entertaining beyond all this, as he walked

7

at my side, an idea that something precious to himself, and

intl tries)

SUPT rat Efateaeleeteriy e teu reneeSRUMS MARAE URAL MRA Le

RARELY Peet,
aX ¥

¥
eee
Rong Ses 68

 

128) FAMILY SECRETS.

nothing to that dense, driving crowd, linked together. This
was the impression upon me of his manner altogether, and I
was right. Yet what a forlorn cbject he was to be looked
upon by those who did not look close enough; and who
would think of doing that? Dressed in ragged clothes that
had never fitted him, in patched, dirty boots, twisted into
odd shapes; without a hat, for he never wore one, and with
his grizzled hair floating about his singularly weather-beaten
face. I thought of that other man, from whom I had a
passing glance of repulse earlier in the day, and of the dif-
ference betwixt the two to me and to the world. If there
was a God who noted these things, how stood each of them
with Him? Perhaps, even whilst I felt my faith shaken,
this was his way of teaching me to look forward to that
“great day of the Lord.” Well, I shou!d see.

“ There’s not a many,” said Jem, in allusion to my dis-
missal from Mrs. Brown’s, “there’s not a many as lights
on the right sor: at first. Lord bless you ! look at me—never
met with a kind-spoken individual till I see Mr. Chaundy.
I knowed them folks woulda’t do; but you'll meet the
right at last, not a doubt on it,”

“After waiting as long as you did, I suppose, Jem,” I
said, bitterly.

“It don’t seem so long when its over,” said Jem, ‘‘ Noth-
in’ of the sort; an’ then, when you meets with this here
kind, you seem t) have known ’em all your life. That
makes up, you see.”

This was an odd kind of encouragement, and I managed
differently, if not better, for myself. I did not care about
meeting with kind people ; I only craved the power of defend-
ing myself against the world en masse, There was a stern
determination in my spilt when I contemplated this possible
long life of cheerless and abject slavery. It was not my
fault if I was not constituted to bear it, and at the worst I
possessed the power of releasing myself,

Brought up as I had been, it was odd that with all my
estless energy, and pride, and impatience of control, I could
set myself up in judgment, and reason and decide so coolly
as I did. Odd that the long teachings of my grand-father
should be so suddenly neutralized by the opinions of Uncle| FAMLLY sHoRRTg. 129

\

\

Stephen, and the first lesson taught me by the injustice of
the world. I felt all this at the time. I cannot help it,
[ said in self-defence ; I can battle rather than endure; and
who shall teach me that it is wrong to war with evil ?

I had a new favor to ask Mrs. Brown,—leave to call on
Mrs. Wilton. I made the request that night, and she seem-
ed at once to be incredulous, and to be annoyed at the idea
of my so readily obtaining another place.

“Why you don’t mean to say as you’ve had time to look
fu. another sitiwation ?”

T explained that I had seen Mrs. Wilton some months
ago, and that she wished me to call upon her again.

“Oh! you're very fortunate, I think,” said Mrs. Brown.
“ As for giving you a chariter, I don’t know what to say,
I'm sure ; such things as has come to my knowledge.”

“T believe I shall not require you to give me a character,”
I replied.

“Good gracious, Miss Marples! don’t shout like that in
my house! You fairly made me start. There’s no call for
you to be imperent.”

I said I had no wish to be impertinent, and did not
know that I had been.

“You must understand,” said Mrs. Brown, “that if Pm to
pay you for the next month, I can’t do with you going out
every day to look after places.”

I assured her that I should not trouble her about going
out again; and giving a reluctant consent, she dismissed
me.

On the following morning my grand-father again accom-
anied me to Wimpole Street. All night I had been think-
ing that Mrs. Wilton must be possessed of some liberality
of feeling, or she would not have sent for me again. , Upon
this presumed liberality I determined to throw myself, by
telling her exactly how we were situated in London, and
what reason I had for believing that Mrs. Brown would not
recommend me. I had some reliance on the French lady,

too, if she chanced to be there. I knew that in France
governesses were trained from the humblest classes, and that
their origin was no detriment to their advancement. I tald

8

Se :
Haat mAb pine

Ce Teer: ae
Ean Se
Pee at atten oh ag

 

fine bic

ier ete te eae i
1 ie te, artim oe
Seer Ft ET ae
flies ba sli
‘shila it pI A Ak set ag ggak
ih al al -RHR TE AeARR Nes TARE eB ateT eR

 

 

  

So PAMILY SEORETS.

my grand-father all this, and he approved of what [ was
about to do. I found Mrs. Wilton alone. se

“OQ, you have been informed, I suppose, that I wished to
see you again,” she said. “The fact is, | have met with go
much selfishness amongst those from whom I had a right to
expect something better, that in very despair 1 am compel-
led to turn to less promising subjects. I think I under-
stood, from our last conversation, that you were illegiti-
mate 2”

The blood rushed to my face asI inclined my head in
assent. 3

“Ts your father a gentleman !”

“By birth and education he should have been one,” I
replied.

“ And he takes no notice of you ?”

“My grand-father has never troubled him, and I am sure
[ never shall,” I replied. “I was educated in the hope that
I should be able to earn my own living.”

“'That’s quite proper,” she said. “ Now, I don’t wish to
hurt your feclings, but it is necessary I should understand a
little about you. What have you been doing since I saw
you last ?”

I gave her a full account of my engagement with Mrs.
Brown: I told her what my grand-father was doing, what
Aunt Betsy had been reduced to do, and my bad odor with
Mrs. Brown in consequence. Beyond this objection to my
low connections and to my method of teaching the children
[ believe Mrs. Brown could say nothing against me.

“Tf I conclude to engage you,” said Mrs. Wilton, when
ehe had heard me to the end, “ you will perceive that I waive
some disadvantages. As you are situated a permanent home
wili be a good thing for you. And as you seem well-behav-
ed and competent to teach, I am willing to try if we can
get on together. As to the huckster’s wife, I shall not think
of asking a recommendation from her. When do you leave
her ?”

“ A month to-day.”

“Then, in the meantime I should like to see your grand-
father. It will be proper to let him know the terms upoa
which I receive you.”FAMILY SECRETS,

I told her that my grand-father had accompaniec me and
was then waiting for me below.

“O, very well,” she said, and ringing the bell desired that
he might be shown up.

My grand-father was quite a gentlemanly as well as a
venerable looking old man. I felt proud of him as he ad-
vanced and saluted Mrs. Wilton with the natural courtesy
that implied respect without servility. I felt sure that Mrs.
Wilton was favorably impressed by his appearance,

“Sit down, sir,” she said, pointing to a chair. “TI haye
been talking to your grand-daughter, and I have some hopes
that she will suit me. With your permission, I presume,
she has told me how she is situated; and I have no doubt
ae will see the advantage of her having a comfortable and
appy home. This I can offer, and will continue to her if
she gives satisfaction, and I trust she will.”

“She has always been a dear, good child,” said my grand-
father, surveying me with tears in his eyes. - “| can answer
for her doing her best; and for her remembering with gra-
titude that you have overlooked some unfavorable circum-
stances that might have weighed against her with others,—
She is friendless in the world, and quite aware that her future
welfare depends upon her own ‘good conduct. ‘I can trust
her without fear.”

“ Well! upon my word, I’m quite inclined to trust her,”
said Mrs. Wilton. “Then we seem to understand each other.
I overlook some things, as you say, in the hope that your
grand-daughter will be satisfied with my offer of a comfor-
table home, Then this is settled. At the end of-the month
I shall expect vou, Miss Marples.”

We rose and took leave. I don’t know how it happened
that it never occurred to either of us that nothing had been
said about any salary. Such was the fact, however. My
grand-father especially was elated ; he considered my pres-
ent engagement as a great step forward, and eulogised Mrs.
Wilton’s liberality in dispensing with a recommendation
from others. For my part, too, I felt grateful to her ; and
the prospect of being amongst refined people gratified me

more than anything else.
During the remainder of my time at Mrs, Brown’s, ]

PS eral ahead

aii ATONE
Mere ears ee

o™

ones emmaEH UMAAUMS MAAR URNA LIP cee eA MEN AEreRENTA elo

'
|

pelea

ray
Us

 

 

 

183 FAMILY SECRETS.

found cause to rejoice still more in the prospect of getting
way. Frequent quarrels with Mr. Brown on their son’a
account soured her temper so that she quarrelled with every
thing and everybody; and these family disagreements
brought more prominently forward the unamiable traits in
the characters of Miss Brown and Amelia. As to Tony, hav-
ing fulfilled his mission with regard to me, he seemed in.
dined to leave me to myself.

I managed to part from this family quietly, though evcry
member of it (1 do not include the aristocratic Francis
James), took some pains to let me see they were glad to be
rid of me. I remained a few days with my grand-father
and Aunt Betsey, mending and replenishing my clothes,
and in this way two out of my four pounds, disappeared.
Jem came whilst I was there, and he still continued to speak
of Mr. Chaundy with great glee. My grand-father, how
ever, gave a different account of him.

“ He bears his troubles like a man,” he said, “ but he is evi-
dently fretting himself to-death. It is quite painful to hear
him speak of relations who could help him and won't
Then he is becoming very stout without having any whole-
some flesh upon him; he smokes all day long and eats noth-
img, and if he remains in yonder confined place, I am sure
he will die.”

[T had the same thought about my grand-father and the
close unwholesome atmosphere in which he lived, Every
time I saw him he seemed to be more wan and shadowy ;
his gait more feeble, so that I gave up all hope of realizing
the first wish of my heart, which had been to make his last
days happy. If I resigned this cherished expectation with
a pang, it is no wonder that I dwelt with added bitterness ~
upon the conduct of those who had labored to crush him
down for well-doing, and who had succeeded but too well.
The God in whom he trusted for help stood afar off; no one
sorrow or indignity was to be spared him, and I, how could
I hope a better fate for myself, deserving far less as I did?
The ice about my heart would not thaw, but I possessed even
more of indomitable resolution. Ido not know what it was
that made me long for the quicker passing of time, seeing
that I only expected from time that. it would bring forth mereFAMILY SECRETS. 188

svil, The slow progress of days and months was, however,
A great weariness to me; I was impatient without expecta:
tion, because the aspirations within me had as yet taken no

shape.

CHAPTER VII.

TF gNTERED upon my duties at Mrs. Wilton’s and found
some reason to be satisfied. She treated me with considera-
tion, and the children, who were almost too well behaved,
rendered me ready obedience. When I say that Mrs, Wil-
ton treated me considerately, I mean that she always ad-
dressed me politely, if not kindly, and that went a great
way with me. In other respects I dare say there was much
that a more fastidious or less dependent person than myself
would have objected to. The Wiltons had altogether the
appearance of veople living beyond their means, by striving
to make a great show with little. The servants considered
them mean and never stopped long, and little comfort was
provided for any one. There were seven children and one
nurse-maid, so that I had to take part of her duties, and
one that fell entirely upon me was to fashion the children’s
elothes out of Mrs. Wilton’s old ones. Then we were badly
lodged, crowding together with the children, and fed only
meagrely. As I had never lived luxuriously, nor seen much
of what is called pleasure, as, too, I had no objection to
hard work, I did not feel inclined to murmur, except gene-
rally at fate, for allotting to me a life uncongenial from its
monotony, and dependence, and obscurity. Mrs. Wilton
was a gay woman, with a crowd of fine acquaintances who
seemed to take her a good deal from home. Her husband,
I learned, wasa city merchant. I sometimes caught a
glimpse of him, and thought he had a very care-worn,
down-cast look. I often fancied that he could not feel very
happy in the home from which his wife was so frequently
absent, leaving him to dine alone, and. go out or pass the
evening by himself. I began, too, after a lapse of some

PLS peer teas

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months, to consider my own affairs; to wonder whether
Mrs. Wilton really meant to give me any salary, and what
I should do if she did not. I had poor accounts from Aunt
Betsy of my grand-father, whose eyes began to fail him so
that he could no longer write quickly, or well enough to
give satisfaction. This was a terrible blow to all of us, as
we could only anticipate that he would become still more
disabled. I had not the confidence in Mrs. Wilton that
would have led me to speak to her of this calamity with
the hope that she would pay me something in consequence.
[ dreaded offending her and being sent back, a burder.
upon those who were already poor enough; and yet it was
almost as bad to remain where I was with the conscious-
ness of being unable to help them. I determined, at all
events to ask leave to visit them, and then I could ask my
grand-father what he thought it proper for me to do.

I had been with Mrs. Wilton nearly five months, and as
she allowed her children no summer holiday, I had had
none. I thought she would not consider it unreasonable
that I wished to go home for a day.

“It is quite impossible to spare you to-morrow, Miss Mar-
ples,” she said in reply to my request; “or indeed any day
this week. We wiil see about it next week. But I mean
to give you a treat, and Mary Jane and Raymond too. To-
morrow I shall take you to a meeting of the Anti-Slavery As-
sociation. It will do you all good to understand what priv-
ileges you enjoy in this free and happy country ; how favor-
ed you are above thousands of your fellow creatures who
are trightfully oppressed in_other lands, because they have a
dark skin. Oh, I think it quite shocking, and that it is es
pecially the duty of people with families to set their faces
against such a system. There will be very distinguished
people there, too, and it will be quite a grand sight.”

“ Will papa go ?” asked Raymond, a boy eleven years
old.

“Ono! papa has his business to attend to and must not
be disturbed.”

And, indeed, Mr. Wilton, who had the dull look that “all
work and no play” gives to a man, never seemed to be con-
aidered in his wife’s schemes or recreation. It was very

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FAMILY SECRETS. 186

Liebedpiaehtelaieds Weert eet pester

rarely that she thought of the children in that way ; and
never having been spoilt, but rather severely kept down, all
of them had something of the quiet manner and general
listlessness of their father. This was particularly the case
with the two eldest. All were obedient without displaying
any aiacrity, and all were deficient in the buoyant spirit of
childhood and youth, down to the baby, who tumbled about
umongst us and got on as well as it could.
Neither Mary Jane, the eldest, nor Raymond, seemed to
think more of this treat than I did; however, we all pre-
pared to go on the following day. Mrs. Wilton, who had
no carriage of her own, manceuvred pretty successfully to
get the use of those of her acquaintances, and on this occa-
sion she contrived to distribute us amongst three parties, so
that we set off in grand style. I forget the name of the
building at which we alighted. We walked up a broad
staircase and entered an immense hall, in which was a gale =
lery. The place was crowded to excess, even when we en- . =
tered, and many had not yet arrived. Many distinguished
| people, as Mrs. Wilton had said, seemed to be ‘here. I had
never before seen such a waving of feathers, and glistening
of silks, and fluttering of gauzes. These seemed to me the
right sort of people to understand and appreciate the priv-
ileges they enjoyed in this free and happy country. As for
me, my refractory spirit was at work to consider what was
the particular privilege for which I was individually requir-

serie ces tebelolg hey tbat

Pur cieue weareetet ctr vit

PAI. OL eA

i
> ed to be thankful. The universal privilege, to labor, had g
_ } hitherto proved very unproductive to myself, and I was la- x
| /  mentably ignorant of auy other for which I stood indebted
/ to the land of my birth. Perhaps it was a great matter for :

such as I was to be allowed to bask in the light of those dis-
tinguished couritenances, whose excess of radience only
served to show more distinctly the realities about myself; to
gaze upon that splendor, one of the glories of the land, vall-
ed forth purposely to blazon the Christian meekness, the be- 4
| nevolent seal, that gave to the poor negro so august a band
of sisters and brothers. :
But outward show made little impression upon me. In
thought, I tore down the gay trappings and stripped that
gorgeously attired assembly to the heart’s core, and wonder-UNM A MRNEMA BELA RREA OU. ALA ae

 

TTS ersten ype

  

186 FAMILY SERORETS,

ed how much would be left to get up another exhibition if
a swift and sudden desolation were to come and annihilate
all that was not genuine around me. That much was spu-
rious was evident enough in the manner of all. Taking my
ideas of Christian courtesy from books rather than men, the
excessive politeness of polite people amongst themselves
struck me as being at once vulgar and hollow. _I thought
so on that day, when I witnessed so much cringing and
bowing, accompanied by an idiotic sort of smirk on the
countenances of the men: so much affectation, and flutter-
ing about, and ready smiling, and majestic sweeping of
plumed heads amongst the women. A very important-look-
ing, middle-aged gentleman, hurrying past me before I had
yet found a seat, gave me a sudden push that sent me two
or three paces foreward, and a card which I had in my hand
fell to the floor. He turned round with an impatient glance
that lighted upon me and the card too, and then hurried on.
He had evidently comprehended in an instant of time that
I did not belong to that grade of society to which his at-
tentions were exclusively due, therefore he offered no apol-
ogy, and left me to pick up the card. I set my foot upon
it; and from that pedestal, with the thoughts that were then
upon me, I could have uttered more startling truths than
met my ear through the day; for there was nothing so mon-
strous in the fact of bad men boldly persevering in an eyil
Curse, as appeared in the hourly contradictions practised by
those pretending to abound in Christian. love, and humility,
and charity ; practised, too, in broad daylight, as a matter of
course, and commented upon by none, unless by some such
insignificant observer as myself, whose private opinion went
for nothing, and whose aggrieved feeling stood no chance of
notice from the world,

After placing myself and the children in our seats, Mra,
Wilton bent down and whispered :—

“You will remain where you are until I come to you; I
shall sit at some distance. Thera will be a collection, Mise
Marples; you will give your mite, and the children will
give their mites. It is really a blessed privilege to be allow-
ed to do something in such a cause,”

privilege, which took the shape of an obligation,FAMILY SHCRETS.

Mlled me with dismay. I had a small purse in my pocket
vontaining four shillings out of the five given me by my
grand-father for pocket-money. I had dreaded spending a
penny more than was hecessary, and now, how much was I
to part with in this grand place, and for so stupendous an
object as the emancipation of a whole race of people}

[f those who are personally: free from real wants and
cares, are incapable of feeling otherwise than superficially
for actual distress and Oppression, others may make light of
it by comparison with their own need and sorrow. I was,
perhaps, as capable of sympathizing with the down-trodden
negroes as any there, yet I could not avoid feeling that I
rather stood in need of help for myself, than of being called
upon to help any. Mine seemed the worse case, too, because
as an inhabitant of this free and happy country, I stood no
chance of having my wants recognized or cared for.

A tall, thin man, dressed in black, ascended a platform
and commenced an address. He held a white pocket-hand-
kerchief in his right hand, which he flourished and occa-
sionally applied to his eyes, and I saw that others followed
his example. He had himself seen much of the negro race
in different parts of the world, and he certainly entered in-

to a long detail of horrors. His discourse created a great

sensation, accompanied by a variety of exclamations; ana
his appeals to the people of England were greeted with
bursts of applause. I was not so readily moved to enthusi-
asm. I could not help thinking that, except in the sale and
separation of bodies, there was not much difference in the
kind of oppression that may be and is exercised every where.
Even here, affections may be crushed out and down ; souls
bartered, outraged, maddened—or pushed aside as the most
worthless of all commodities, and here, too, effort. may be
rendered availless. [ thought no more of this, as speaker
alter speaker rose up, and the sensation around me deepened.
One gentleman, of whom a lady near me said, “ That’s Lord
Colvin,” called especially upon the higher classes, whose sen-
sibilities were refined by education and habit, to set a noble
example to the country at large by a unanimous expression
of their abhorrence of the system of slavery, and of their
sympathy with the oppressed. “And as this appeal of oura

  

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188 FAMILY SECRETS.

is intimately connected with the labors of our missionaries,”
he continued, “I shall now resign the subject to abler hands ;,
to one whose whole life has been a labor of love, devoted to
this cause above all others. And what friend of the negro
has not heard his name? What enemy of slavery has not
had his voice borne to him by many winds, thundering forth
the anathemas of the Gospel against the oppressions of earth ?
Who amongst you does not know him, personally or by re-
port for his good works go before him, and his flock call
him ‘blessed ?” I need scarcely add that I allude to the j
good, the pious, the venerable Thomas Selby, dean of oe
A loud burst of applause greeted the name, and it rose to,
an uproar when the dean himself appeared upon the plat-\ {
form. And a very venerable and good old man he did look, / |
with his pale, thin face, and white hair, and half-closed eyes ;|
and very meekly he seemed to bear his honors as he stood \ }
slightly inclining his head, and with his hands crossed upon } #
his bosom. To what purpose did the quickened blood in my
heart rise up against this man, whom thousands were eager
to honor? Who, in that vast assembly would have cared
for me, or what I considered my wrongs? Was there one
that would not have defended him, and said that he had
done right? No, I believe not. For it is true that in Eng-
land there is that worst species of siavery which originates
in a belief that from poverty can proceed no good thing,
and that wealth and rank can commit no evil. This is the
universai creed, whatever else is preached, and in spite of
noisy declamation to the contrary,—in spite, too, of the free
and honest efforts of independent and liberal-minded men to
introduce something better. It is that which a nation prac-
tises in its daily life, not that which it declaims about, that |
influences the heart and mind of a people. |
I, who knew how proudly the dean could bear himself; L |
who had never obtained a passing glance from him, though
he had often swept close past me in his priestly garments; |
how could I help marvelling at the deep humility with: {
which he confessed his unworthiness before that brilliant
company; at the benignant sweetness of his countenance aa
he turned from side to side, as if bestowing a mental bene-
diction upon the whole human race? How could even I |

 

{\\ promoting them.

before me.

PAMILY SECRETS,

 

suspect him of harboring pride in his heart? How resolute-
ly he disclaimed all praise for what he had done! How
his own short-comings stared him in the face when he sud-
denly found himself famous through having performed a

very small part of a large duty !

He was altogether weak,

he said ; only strong in this—having a good cause and de-
termination to do his best for the future. Then he spoke
of the missions, and, notwithstanding his previous disclaimer,
alluded to the part he had taken throughout a long life in

When he finally called upon those as-

sembled to contribute largely for the purposes that had
een specified, there was another thunder of applause that
tunned me, and then there was a jingling of money upon
lates, and I thought of my four shillings and wondered what

should do.

I did not wonder iong.

A gentleman collector approach-

ed where I was sitting. His erect figure, and handsome
xce, with its proud eyes and haughty lip, were always pre-

bnt with me.

And now we had met again, and Colonel
Leigh handed the plate, nearly filled with gold, to the
young Wiltoas, who placed some silver on it. It lingered
I had taken two shillings from my purse, but I
grasped them tightly im my right hand, and placed my open
left hand for an instant, palm upwards, upon the plate. I
did not consider what any one else might think; at the mo-
ment, I thought only of him. He looked down into my

“nturned face, and an almost imperceptible expression of
not-yance, disgust perhaps, swept over hisown. He passed

_arvand I heard several ladies inquiring who that was, so
noble-looking and so handsome.

“Why you didn’t give anything, Miss Marples,” said’
Mary Jane in an astonished whisper.

“T had nothing to give,” I replied.
“But what did you put your hand so for? It looked so

udd !”

“To let him understand that I had nothing.”
We were compelled to sit still a long time, during which
this jingling of money went on, accompanied by a hum of

voices, When Mrs. Wilton at length rejoined us, we moved

139

       
  
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

ar. Ue140 FAMILY SECRETS,

with the crowd down stairs, passing, as we went & group of
gentlemen, among whom stood the Dean and Colonel Leigh.
“How handsome that dark, military man is,” said one ot
the ladies who accompanied Mrs. Wilton. . “It’s the dean’s
nephew, Colonel Leigh.” |
“OQ ma,” said Raymond, “Miss Marples did make that | |
gentleman stare.” A
“Make him stare?” said Mrs, Wilton. “ What do you y
mean 3” hie
But there was no time for further conversation then; we Dee
got into our respective carriages, and drove home. Ray#t- \ \
mond had spoken out of his simple wonderment, and nok, ( i)
with any thought of injuring me, but I foresaw that soms $| |
trouble would arise out of the explanation. Great as wag \ If
my horror of being asked if I had a father, the idea of hinph * "Y
being identified was something worse, and altogether unjy 4
bearable. I must get out of the scrape as well as I could. ser
I had been sitting for some time amongst the childrented
describing to them what I had seen, when Mary Jane anen?
Raymond came up. :
“Ma wants to see you, Miss Marples,” said Mary Jane,
“and I believe she’s cross with you for acting so, and not
giving anything.”
“I don’t know what she should be cross for,” said Ray-
mond. “I]t amused me more than anything I saw.”
I went down to Mrs. Wilton, who, as I expected, was ex-
ceedingly severe and polite. ‘men to
“I have been greatly surprised, Miss Marples, by the\prac-  {
count the children give of your conduct to-day. I think —
there must be a mistake.”

“ Not about my giving nothing,” I said, “as I really had
nothing to spare.”

“That is very singular. But about placing your hand
upon the plate ?”

“T believe I did so in the cdnfusion of the moment.”

“ Believe you did, and confusion of. the moment! De
you mean to say you don’t know what you're about? The
ie around you looking on, and such a great man as
Colonel Leigh is, too,—it was quite dreadful—and such an
Insult to so noble a cause! T’ve often thought you an odd

\
\FAMILY SEORETS. 14]

person, Miss Marples, but I never expected anything like
this. All my friends will know it, for Raymond has told,
and I consider it a discredit to the house. And then it
really surprises me that you should be without money for
ordinary purposes. I have allowed you every advantage,
and I think the least thing you can do is to Keep up a re-
spectable appearance in every way.”

I ventured to mention my grand-father’s affliction, and
the probable consequences of it.

‘Dear me,” she said, “ what is to become of you? ani)
you wanting dresses, as I am sure you do. If you remain in
my house, you must make a respectable appearance. I un-
derstood from your grand-father, when I engaged you, that
if I provided you with a comfortable home he would do all
the rest.”

“I fear,” I said, “that my grand-father did not under-
stand that I was to receive no salary.”

“Well, you do astonish me now! Why, bless my life,
it was as clearly understood as could be. [ repeated my
terms over and over again, so that there might be no mis-
take. But this is what I have always found—selfishness,
nothing but selfishness in governesses! But this is scarcely
being honest, and what I did not expect from you, Miss
Marples, or that old person, your grand-father, who seem-

ed to me to be quite respectable. | Well, what's ‘o be~

done? This is putting me out of the way dreadfully.”

I expressed my full conviction that my grand-father could
not supply me with clothes—that I should be compelled to
arne them for myself.

“Then I must consider our engagement to be at an end,”
said Mrs. Wilton. “As I engaged you for a permanency,
as | supposed, we can say nothing about notice, though there
ig no occasion for you to go in a hurry. I suppose you can
stop the week out.”

I consented to do so, and sat down immediately to write
to my grand-father. I was not quite sure that Mrs. Wilton
was dealing unfairly with me. I had no recollection of her
bargaining with my grand-father about supplying me with
clothes ; but I distinctly remembered that she had said noth-
ing about giving me a salary. But considerihg how heavy

   
  
  
  
   
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 

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142 PAMILY SECRETS

my various duties were, and how faithfully I had discharg
ad them, I could not help considering her conduct unjust,
as well as mean. I had certainly expected something bet-
ter, and I was overwhelmed by the difficulties of my situa-
tion. When I thought of my grand-father in his helpless
state, and my own eager wish to cheer as well as assist him,
my heart grew more bitter against this world, with its imso-
lent assumptions of superiority, its base readiness to take
advantage of necessity, its various and always mean and
vulgar methods for the furthering of self-interest and the
gratification of malice. If these, I said, are the good Chris-
tians of this land, God defend me from them !—from Chris-
tianity altogether, if it leads to nothing better than this:
rather let me be a heathen than live and die with no better
prospect than that of herding for ever with these
wolves, the legitimate representatives of a surely fabulous
flock !

It was a strange idea to me, that of heaven being peo-
pled with such souls as seemed to abound in the world. If
there were any place of future punishment reserved for in-
dividuals like Uncle Stephen, I felt no doubt about prefer-
ring it, and I determined to prepare myself for it forthwith.
As to the doctrine of non-resistance that my grand-father
had taught me, how was it practicable, unless I consented
to be crushed out of life altogether ?

The young Wiltons, who possessed no strong feelings of
any kind, exhibited nd emotion at the prospect of losing me.
I was only a governess, and governesses were plentiful
enough, as they had some reason to know.

“T wonder what the next governess will be like,” said
little Alice. “I hope she won’t be an ugly cross old thing.”

“Pa says I shall go to a school, and he won’t stand any
more of ma’s nonsense,” said Raymond; “so I don’t care.”

This was all I heard from the children in reference to the
subject. I was greatly exasperated with myself for allowing
my heart to take an interest in those who did not want my
regard—who, indeed, would only look upon it as a singular-
ity, or a very great liberty. I had, however, become at-
tached to the children, and it cost me a pang, though I
would not acknowledge it, to wrench aOne day, during Mrs. Wilton’s absence, the servant de
sired me to go down to a lady, who had called upon her, ]
found her in the drawing-room, and she came forward to
meet me. She was young, rather pretty, and very showily
dressed, and I remembered her as one of those whom we
had accompanied to the anti-slavery meeting.

“Ts it true that you are about to leave Mrs. Wilton 9%”
she asked.

I replied that it was.

“Then I want to ask a favor. When do you leave §”

“Qn Monday next.”

“You have not obtained another situation ?”

$4 No.”

“This is my card. I wish you to call upon me on
Wednesday morning. Will you call ?”

[ promised that I would.

“ But, positively, you know. I am very earnest about. it.
You are quite sure you will come %”

I could not help smiling at this earnestness in a very
giddy sort of young lady. I promised faithfully to call.

“ And don’t say anything to Mrs. Wilton about it: mind
that. Now don’t forget; I shall be quite disappointed if
you are not punctual.”

I promised once more, and the lady tripped down to her
carriage. On the card I read the name “Mrs. Bontoft,
Laurel Grove, St. John’s Wood.” What could she want
with me, she who could not have any children old enough
to require teaching ?

I had no great expectation from her or any one, and |
was absorbed in my present regrets. I had received a long
letter from my grand-father, in which he said Mrs. Wilton
had not used me well, but he desired me to trust in God,
and keep a good heart. I had asked him to send Jem for
my boxes, as I could not afford a coach, and he now inform-
ed me that Mr. Chaundy had died four days ago, and that
Jem was lying on the floor of his cellar, overwhelmed with
grief, and refusing aljke food and consolation. He promised
to send another person for my boxes.

The intelligence of Mr. Chaundy’s death grieved me
greatly, When and where should we finc another friend

Teta ee re Hy ‘

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144 FAMILY SECRETS,
like him ; so liberal in mind, so warm in feeling, so disin-
terested, so altogether free from the hypocrisy and the cant
of this world? All kinds of trouble seemed to be follow-
ing upon us at once, and on whatever side I looked, the
prospect filled me with dismay.

On the appointed Monday, Mrs. Wilton took a very po
lite leave of me. A strange man brought Jem’s truck, and
my grand-father himself joined me in the street. I had not
seen him for nearly five months; for so fearful had we all
been of ray giving offence by even a short absence from my
duties, that I had not asked for a day’s holiday. I was
again struck by a great change in him. More wasted than
ever, bent nearly double, and with his poor eyes telling their
own tale, it almost broke my heart to look upon him. “O,
my God!” | said mentally, “Thou teachest me that I do
not exist alone by this body, for if I did not possess a soul
capable of loathing and resisting the cruelty of this earth,
the misery upon which I look would overwhelm me,—I
should lie down at once and die”

Aunt Betsy, too, had grown more gaunt and sallow.

“My eyes are not to be trusted,” said my grand-father,
“but this child is looking very ill, isn’t she, sister ?”

“She’s paler and thinner,” said Aunt Betsy, “but that
was sure to be the case, living in London. You musn’t dis-
hearten her.”

Aunt Betsy set a good example throughout our troubles,
by striving to make the best of everything. I had learned
that my grand-father had been compelled to give up writing
altogether, that Aunt Betsy went out nearly every day to
such hard labor as she could find, leaving him alone till late
at night; and that the two subsisted upon her labor. What
a life! I began to wonder if people felt as I did when they
were going mad. I could not pray to God, for I could not
believe that these heavy afflictions were for our good; and
i turned with deep loathing from the world of which I had
already seen too much.

But my spirit was too active and energetic to be kept

 

down long. I saw that something must be done, and done

speedily. I had at least learned a lesson,—I would not
again drudge for any one without understanding what wasother kind of employment. Henceforth T would work with

my hands instead of my head, and remain at home (what a
home !) if possible. I’ mentioned this, and my desire to
obtain needlework. Aunt Betsy shook her head. She said
~there were hundreds of needlewomen starving, however she
would go with me to the shops and we would try,

“Tf I cannot obtain work of that kind, Aunt Betsy,” }
said, “T will go out and labor as you do,”

“ With those little, delicate hands?” said Aunt Betsy.
“ Nobody would think you worth hiring that looked at them;
and besides, they wouldn’t serve you for such work as mine,
You must do something else.”

My grand-father took one of my hands in his as Aunt
Betsy spoke, and stroked it fondly. “My poor, poor child |”
he said, “I hoped to have done better for you. You believe
I always wished to do the best, don’t you %”

“ Don’t speak in that way, grand-father,” I said, throwing
my arms round his neck, “you'll break my heart |” ae

“Come, we mustn’t have any breaking of hearts,” said
Aunt Betsy. “There’s plenty beside us in trouble, and we
must do as they do,—make the best of it. I promised Jem
that you should come and see him, Margaret.”

“ Yes, poor fellow!” said my grand-father, “ you must go
and seehim. We must not forget them that are in affliction,
Pll put my hat on, and we’ll walk there together, now.”

It was an evening in September, and the day-light was
just going out. In the dingy court where we lived, with its.
tall, crowded houses, it was dark enough. Offensive sights
and smells, and language such as I had never heard aLy-
where before, disgusted me, and made me shriuk into myself
as I passed. No wonder at the world setting its face against
poverty, if these were its natural — products—dirt, and
squalor, and ugliness, and depravity. W as there no remedy
for all this? No wonder that these loathsome objects were
not considered to form a part of the agreeable company des-
tined to make up the assembly in heaven | |

As we were passing out of the court my grand-father
stumbled against something, and we rew back. A te,
looking man with a short pipe in his mouth, drew up and

9

to be the reward of my labor, and I determined to se

  

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UE See tie pret iag!TNGHEA/ GA chet Ma MAUS

etal

 

MAMA Fay HAREM MSIE MALT

 

TURE TERR ena rit

146 FAMIUY SECRETS

kicked with his foot at the obstruction, which proved to be
a woman lying at full length upon the ground.

“Now Molly,” said the man, you just get up, and don’t
be a-blocking up the road this ways.”

The woman groaned. oe

“ T wish I was in the churchyard grave,” she said.

“Ts she ill ?” asked my grand-father.

“Only got a drop too much,” said the man.

“You're a big liar!” sereamed the woman. “ What’
left me but the drink to fly to?—an’ I can’t get it. Holy
mother! how they forget me up yonder, an’ I so wantin’ to
die !”

“God help you!” said my grand-father; “do you feel
fit to die, and go into the presence of your God %”

“Ts it me?” said the woman; “ Wouldn’t [ be thankful
to get anywhere out of this? Don’t I wish Id be a corpse
this blessed minit ?”

“ Are you a Roman Catholic ?”

“Tm that same, blessed be God.”

“Ts there no one to look after this poor creature!” said
my grand-father, addressing the man.

“The pollis "ll be looking arter her, if she don’t take ‘her-
self off,” said the man. “Lord bless you, it’s all a sham
what she says; she only talks in that way when she’s
drunk.”

“Don’t believe that black heretic!” screamed the woman ;
“the curse of Saint Patrick light on him !”

It was impossible to pass the narrow entry without step-
ping over the woman, and we drew back, shocked and be
wildered.

“Them Irish,” said the man, “is the only ones about us
as talks about religion, an’ it don’t seem to do ’em much
good: they can curse the heretics. It’s a queer start, is re-
ligion. Now you just let the gentlefolks pass. Here, Bill,
lend usa hand.”

Bill, who swore awfully, assisted the other to drag the wo-
man out of the way. The language of the three, and the
woman’s screams, completely horrified me. What a peace-
ful home we had quitted for these scenes of turmoil and

deep shame |I felt my grand-father’s arm tremble upon mine. [ im
agined all that was passing iti his mind,—the distress that
such a scene of itself would occasion him ; the anguish he
would feel, knowing that he might not be able to shut out
from me many like exhibitions of depravity. I spoke te
him of other matters,—of Mr. Chaundy, whom he had seen
a few days before his death, when he had spoken of me with
much interest.

“Mr. Chaundy knew the world better than I do.” said my

grand-father ; “he told me months ago that Mrs, Wilton
would serve you as she did, and he wished me-to speak to
her again; but I had better hopes. Well, well.”
- We stood before Jem’s squalid cellar. It was under a
marine-store shop, and we descended to it by three dirty
steps. My grand-father knocked at the door, and opened
it just as a very forlorn-looking woman, fluttering in rags,
came forward from the interior.

“ He’s there, poor creeter,” said the woman, pointing on
our inquiry to where Jem lay, huddled up on a heap of
straw. “I’ve just stepped in to clean up a bit; for he’s
a’most lost, an’ nobody to look arter him.”

A thought struck me at the moment. Does He who is
no respecter of persons dive into these dens of filth and
squalor in search of gems of great price, and find them ?—
hearts like this woman’s, for instance, in the right place? It
was only a passing idea that heaven would be more desira-
ple if the company were thus select.

“It is very good of you to look after him a little,” said
my grand-father.

“1 don’t know about that,” said the woman. “It comes
nat’ral to us poor folks to help one another. God help us,
if it warn’t so. I'll step in again, Jem, presently ; an’ now
you jist get up an’ be talked to.” :

And with a delicacy of feeling that showed in her as well
as it would have done in a duchess, the forlorn creature
walked out.

“Now, Jem,” said my grand-father, “how are you? Look
up and speak to us;—here’s my grand-daughter come to

we you.”

FAMILY SEORETS, 147

   
 
 
 
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 

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148 FAMILY SEORETS

Jem, for old times’ sake. I have not sees

a words he spoke to me that blessed morn-
aid Jem, raising his head. “ ‘Jem,’ says
t seen that young gal as they're makin’ a slave
on yonder for a long while. I'd give a good deal, Jem,’ he

‘if I could help her afore I die’ O Lord, he did be
nq Jem sank down and buried his head in the straw again.
I was about to speak to him further, but a choking sen-
sation in my throat stopped me. My thoughts wandered
back to that poor prisoner who had thought of me in his
dying hours, and the tears sprang to my eyes, for I felt that
T'had lost one friend whose place might not be supplied
readily.

“ We must consider, Jem,” said my grand-father, after a
short pause, “that what we regret so much may be for our
friend’s benefit. He may have exchanged an earthly prison
for a heavenly habitation. Let us not be selfish; I think,
-~] hope,—we have reason to rejoice.”

“Q Lord! if they had only made a bishop on him !” said
Jem, in a passionate burst of grief; © If they’d only a put
him in a palace as J wasn’t let come anear: I should a seen
him somewhere, but now I shall never see him nowhere—
never; never! never!”

“Tn heaven, Jem,” said my grand-father, placing his hand
on Jem’s arm, for he sat on a low stool at his side; “in

heaven !”

There was silence again. I looked round the wretched
place in which I sat, the floor of which appeared to be bare
earth. There were two ricketty stools, higher than that on
which my grand-father was seated; a block of wood, that
seemed to serve for a table; a bundle of rags in one corner
and Jem’s truck in another; a few cracked mugs and plates
on a shelf; a tumble-down fireplace, with a piece of rusty
pent iron for a fender,—nothing more, except a small can-
dle guttering over a bottle. It was a sublime thought, that
of this poor creature being translated from such a place to
neaven |

And why not? © God!—O Earth! the defiled and the
andefiled! how my spirit wavered between them! I felt

¥FAMILY sro

the por ar. of the world Weakening, and r

my old faith com-
ing back t Lo me in scenes like these.

Cares

that afforded me glim

p-
e I
ses of a final and glorious ret; ibution. 1 could annihilate
the dark gulf | between, over which I also was o: called upon to
pass, :
“Fem, look up,” ae my ¢
fo

y grand-father: “this is sinfal sat
is very weak and foolis h too: } ,
srust in God. You na to 8:
amongst us yonder,” ae

So I did, and so I oe
“ Didn’t that blessed creete
sight on "em; help ’em if y
you, I know! iD

“Well, you shail help us. You see, we shal
you as a sort of legacy from our old
be able to get on
about him, Jem,”

“Yes, I see, ” said Jem, setting up and rubbing his hands
together, slowly. “That's what he said to me : —* You'll
often talk about me, Jem: oa an’ them,’ says he. O Lord!
if I could only tell you all he said |”

By degrees we e brought J fem into a quieter and more re-
signed state between us, and when we

look nn d2 hae a ned
‘(OOK UP, And pe a Man, ana

® Ee es
tiLDI@ =e

sald Jem, raisi ng his head again,
eo to me, oa ions lose

U can Didn’t he } Lor bless

1 look upon

riend, and we shan’t
without you. Then we can talk together

  

: arose £0 go he got
up too, and said in his natural manner: “TI: must go ’an see
if there’s any coal wantin’ yond ; and thinking it would
help to reuse him, my grand-fatl allowed him to aecom-

pany ws.

 

I had thought so little about Mrs. Bontoft that I did not
produce her card or mention het request till the following

day. My grand-father thought it was quite right to onl
spon her, and on Wednesday morning wa set out togethe
We had not apprised Jem of our journey, knowing that
ne would insist upon showing the w va} , and co neglecting
his own affairs. We made ingui ries about the situation of
St. John’s Wood, and were a dvised to oN an omnibus as
far as Upper Baker Street, in the New oe which we did.
We then inguired our w ay, and oy t pretty readily 3
and suddenly there came to us the welcome breath of a purer
air, and we had a att mpse of green fields, and the houses,
surrounded by their gardens, seeemed perfect elysiuma,

 
 

  

  

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teteld te:

Sete wt Rene a a150 FAMILY SEORETS.

_ ~ We found “ Laurel Grove” at last, and a beautiful place

it was. The house and grounds were inlosed by a high
wall, and there was a lodge at the gate. I left my grand-
father walking about, and approached the gate and rang
the bell. A woman admitted me, and told me to go on to
the house, which was approached by a fragrant shrubbery.
At the house a footman opened the door, and upon learning
my errand, told me to walk forward. He led me into a
very luxurious drawing-room whose windows opened upon a
lawn. Here was seated Mrs. Bontoft and two other ladies ;
and a stout, elderly gentleman in a showy dressiag-gown
stood with his back to the fire.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come!” said Mrs. Bontoft ;
“sit here by me, I want to talk to you. So you've left Mrs.
Wilton 2”

I said I had.

“Now, if you won't think me too inquisitive, I should
like to know what salary she gave you.”

“I had no salary.”

“There! I always said so!” exclaimed Mrs. Bontoft
clapping her hands. “Qh, the shabby woman! And she
did not tell you till the last thing, that you were to have
nothing ?”

“I certainly expected some salary though none had
been specified ; and I was surprised when she told me that
she thought I had understood that I was not to receive any
from the first.”

There was a chorus of exclamations from the ladies about
Mrs. Wilton’s shabbiness. The gentleman stood with his
nands behind him, smiling blandly, but saying nothing.

“T always hated that Mrs. Wilton for her mean ways,”
said Mrs. Bontoft. ‘Nobody knows what ve endured
from her. I cannot call my carriage my own, and when
rhe comes to the house there’s no getting rid of her. An
ugly. tireseme old thing! Now I shall take this young per-
son’s part, and have a quarrel with her. [I quite admired
your spirit, Miss Marples, in acting as you did at the meet-
‘ng: it was capital |”

And the two ladies said it was capital, and talked a
deal about .t, and the gentleman chased with ceedFAMILY SECRETS. 15]

saughter ; and I found to my surprise that my exhibition of
an empty hand had been construed tnto a satire on Mrs,
Wilton’s meanness. It seemed to strike all present as some-
thing very piquant and clever, and as there was no escap-
ing the applause showered upon me, I bore it as well as I
could.

“Now, Miss Marples,” said Mrs. Bontoft, when she seem-
ed at length to have talked and laughed herself out of
breath, “I am in want of a sort of companion, and I think
you will suit me. My husband here, Mr. Bontoft, likes to
see young and pretty faces about him, so you will suit ham.
(Here the gentleman on the hearthrug chuckled again, and
swayed backwards and forwards on his feet.) I shall not
think of engaging you without a salary, shall I, Poppy ?”

“ What's the use ?” exclaimed Mr. Bontoft, the individual
appealed to, lifting his right leg and poising it in the air. I
thought this brief sentence promised very unfavorably, and
my eyes had just dropped from his face to the floor when,
“ What’s the use?” repeated in a louder key caused me to
look up again. The gentlenan now stood upon his right
leg and held the left in the air, and in a few seconds he
strode hastily across the floor, saying quite hurriedly :—
What’s the use of having money if you don’t make your-
selves happy ?”

This was a peculiarity of Mr. Bontoft’s, as I found after-
wards. :

“ After the heavy task-work you have been used to,” said
Mrs. Bontoft,—“ teaching, making, mending, and doing
heaven knows what, at Mrs. Wilton’s, you will have an easy
time with me. I shall give you twenty-five pounds a year;
and as she must have put you very much about by making
you work for nothing, I will pay you a quarter in advance.
Poppy, give me a five-pound Hote he |

Poppy put his finger and thumb in his waist-coat pocket
and drew forth what appeared to me several pieces of dirty

aper. ;

‘What's the use,” he said, throwing them before Mre
Bontoft and raising his right leg; “ what’s the use,” he con-
tinued, lifting the other, “ what's the use of having money
if you don’t make yourselves happy ?”

 

    
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
   

mS P| A : Peli rae it Pets. ote
Set Cee T MEeMeSe Titi eter eee ier tiere bel co Me

ny pe ai ee rf
pepee eters vit | tect Fearn

rents ete aes

 

et elects een ney“Seeing Mrs. Bontoft really about giving me the quar )
ter’s salary in advance, I roused myself to speak, for though |
I had no objection to this abrupt mode of engaging me, and
the money was very tempting, I did not feel quite sure
about my qualifications for the place.”

“You are verv kind,” I said, “and I would gladly accept
your offer, if I could feel more assured that I snould be able
to give satisfaction. If I understood better what duties
were required of me———”

“ Oh, you are quite competent to anything I shall impose
upon you,” said Mrs. Bontoft, interrupting me. ‘ You speak
French charmingly. I know you play well; you can read
correctly. If I want to make a milliner and dressmaker of
you,” she continued, laughing, “T know you will not be at
fault there. Come, it’s a settled thing; I’ve quite set my
mind on it. When do you think you can come to us?” et

I said I should like to have a few days to prepare my- .

 

self, ))

“Then suppose we say next Monday {” te

B The day suited me, and it was agreed upon. ; X

. “Now make yourself quite happy,” said Mr. Bontoft, ap-
3 proaching the table. “Take a glass of wine and a biscuit,”

Bo and he handed me both.

a “ Ah, you will find a difference betwixt being here and at

; Mrs. Wilton’s,” said one of the ladies. “Both Mr. and

: Mrs. Bontoft must make everybody comfortable about
them.”

‘; What's the use,” commenced Mr.  Bontoft, and he fin.
ished his speech in the usual way.

“ Tt isn’t every one that makes so wise a use of their money,
more’s the pity, said the other lady.

Mrs. Bontoft placed the money in my hand, but I felt a
nesitation about taking it. I dreaded nothing so much as
peing asked to give my address, yet I could not, for the life
of me, help saying—

“T am almost entirely a stranger to you, madam}; you do
not even know where I live.”

“Oh, I am entirely satisfied about that,” said Mrs.
Bontoft; “I know more than you imagine. I know that
f you had had parents to protect you, or if your grand-

wee te
ERE Rae

NT Sera

eae

  

java ae 5
eamFAMILY SEORETS. 153

father had not been poor, Mrs. Wilton would not have taken
the advantage she did; that makes it the more shameful.
You will not find me taking such advantage. Make your.
self quite easy, Miss Marples. We shall expect you on the
Monday, and now, good morning.” js

“Don’t ring the bell,” said Mr. Bontoft; “come with me,
my dear, and I’ll show you through the garden.” 7

I took leave of the ladies, who were all smiles and polite-
ness, and followed him through a glass door out upon the
lawn.

“Pretty place, aint it? he said, looking round him, and
seeming to me in a state of intense enjoyment of the present.

“It is very beautiful, indeed,” I said.

“You like beautiful things, eh? sodol. I’ve money, and
I like to enjoy myself. We’ve flowers, you see, nearly all
the year round. Are you fond of flowers %”

“Yes, very.”

He plucked a rose, and presented it to me.

“<The last rose of summer,” he said; “sweets to the
sweet,” bowing very politely. “I hope we shall be a happy
little company when you come; nothing like enjoying our
selves whilst we can. Good morning.”

The woman who had admitted me stood at the lodge
door; she came forward and opened the gate, and I passed
out. I rejoined my grand-father immediately, and had to
give an account of the interview while its details were yet
fresh upon me, I managed this so as to leave a more fa-
vorable impression on his mind than I had myself received,
though I omitted much that, perhaps, ought to have grati-
fied me. ‘The bare facts of having been engaged at once,
and cared for so thoughtfully, and trusted so implicitly, told
well; but much of what I had seen and heard, the very eX
cess of kindness and politeness, inspired me with distrust.
It seemed to me that, dislike of Mrs. Wilton, and a desire to
be rid of her, perhaps to gratify a little vanity by the dis-

lay of strong contrasts, rather than any real interest i
myself, had led to my good fortune. Then | could not help
shrinking from these people who avowedly enjoyed life so
much, and evidently prided themselves on the power of ob-
taining the good things of this world, and who exacted the

arr at Ce tissdaisbialgohbdetr {a

 

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a

LPlepMomuecaiatertsvantalb iets

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

fi Rata SNORT PAL eR

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
  
 
  
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

    

[54 FAMILY SECRETS.

obedience that was for their especial gratification 80 confi.
dently, though with a show of kindness. I was rather at
odd subject to contribute to the already abundant enjoyment
of fortune’s favorites; and I could only expect to flourish
on the uncertain tenure of a caprice likely to be brief in
proportion to its violence.

However, an unsubstantial good might be preferable te
the hard, coarse reality of evil; and certainly, whatever her
motive, or whatever the end might be, Mrs. Bontoft had
conferred a present benefit upon me. I thought I could
perform wonders with the salary she offered me, for, good
arithmetician as I was, I was too little experienced in the
spending of money to know how far a certain sum would
go in providing the necessaries of life. After a few days,
however, during which [ made some addition to my ward-
robe, it became clear to me that in order to dress well, which
I might more than ever be required to do, the twenty-five
pounds might easily be spent upon myself, especially if I
had my washing to pay for; and, in the course of my re-
flections, I found that I had again made a bargain without
any clear understanding of the terms. These discoveries
filled me with dismay, for the mere providing for mvselt
was a secondary matter to me. | wished to be near my

' grand-father ; [ had determined not to leave him again un-

less I was allowed to minister to his wants; and I was an-
gry with myself for having been so readily hurried into an
engagement that, however well it promised for me, offered
no chance of my helping others. I could not calmly con-
template a life of bodily ease and mental torture; I knew
that I should not thrive upon luxuries with this ever-present
thought of the hard and scanty fare provided for those I
loved, if indeed they got that;—this was not what I had
wanted, and the thoughts of my heart became yet more
bitter ;-—it was not much I asked from God or from the
world, and it seemed hard that the apparently fairest offer
I had yet met with should only promise to be productive of
misery.

It was an aggravation of my trouble to see what conf-
dence and high hope my account of these people had in-
spired in my grand-father. He attributed to true ChristiapFAMILY SECRETS. 155

feeling what I regarded as an eccentric ebullition of selfish.
ness, and his ready trust in human goodness, while it excite
ed my pity, weakened his influence over me still more 5 mak-
ing me feel myself the protector rather than the protected,
the teacher rather than the taught. For how much I had
learned during my brief intercourse with the world, that it
would have been hard for him to comprehend,—still harder
to believe,—and how rapidly in that world had faded awav
the lessons he taught me in my solitude! Had I yet met
with any whose actions and motives, like his, seemed to be
governed solely by the precepts of Christ !

These contradictory teachings and experiences wearied
me in the midst of other distracting cares and thoughts.—
The burden of a mortal life seemed enough to struggle and
provide for, with every man’s hand against me; and I felt
that if I, too, did not become a self-seeker, I could only
make up my mind to let these Christian people crush me
down altogether.

I saw a good deal of Jem during the few days I was at
home. God knows how he lived: he said it kept him alive
to talk about Mr. Chaundy. That gentleman’s few posses-
sions, such as his clothes and books, had been seized in pris-
on for a debt contracted there, and Jem had no relic of him
except a lock of hair, which he kept about his person. A
rich relation, who had neglected Mr. Chaundy in life, came
forward to bury him, and except that he was missed by us
and Jem, he seemed to have left no void in the world. His
fate affected me very much, as an_ illustration of individual
nothingness. After a few years of suffering so also should
we pass away, only more obscurely, and leaving fewer traces
of a previous existence behind us. I learned from my aunt
chat our affairs were desperate enough, the little my grand-
father brought with him being exhausted: but she spoke
cheeringly of being able to maintain both by her own labor
if she could get constant work. I could only resolve to ex-
yend as little of my salary as possible on myself; but when
the Monday morning arrived I set out for “ Laurel Grove”
with a heavy heart. 7

Mr. Bontoft’s was a model establishment for this world.—
Nothing offensive to the ear or eye was allowed to come

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186 KAMEDY SECRETS:

near it. The servants were all young and comely ; the con-
trivances for ease and pleasure were complete ; the furniture
and decorations, the eating and drinking, the constant plane
for amusement, and the daily habits of both master and mis-
tress, all displayed a craving for -luxuriousness. It was
shown in the richly carpeted, and curtained, and cushioned
pew at Marylebone Church, where I had the honor of offer-
ing up my prayers in the company of Mr. and Mrs. Bon-
toft; of handling bibies and prayer-books clasped and rivet-
ted with gold and blazoned with the Bontoft arms. T could

ee)

not complain of my treatment any way, because, as the
lady had said, Mr. and Mrs. Bontoft must have everybody
comfortable about them. And it was not a bad idea eith-
er, that of the general depending upon individual comfort ;
and the plan worked well at Laurel Grove, where every oné
looked happy and satisfied, and where all seemed alike eager
to enjoy the good things provided for them. It seemed ak
st sinful to bring a murmuring heart into such a place. I
could not, for some time, help wondering what Mrs. Bon-
toft wanted with me, as she kept a maid, and required few
ervices from me herself. Days passed on, and | did liter-
lly nothing, except read the papers to Mr. Bontoft, or help
im to garden, or play till he fell asleep, whilst Mrs. Bon-
toft was out visiting. I learned that he was a retired mer-
chant, immensely-rich, who having no children or near re-
lations, determined to have out of the world his money’s
worth of satisfaction for himself. And a happy man he was,
altogether, because he could not believe that there was such

thing as real misery in the world. If people liked to work,
, (and he had himse f worked successfully the great-
ey part of his life), there was plenty to do; if they liked to
be idle, society provided the work-house for them.

“ Anything so that you'll make yourselves happy,” saic
Mr. Bontoft, apostrophising the word generally, Please your-

rAQ aN; ETO es ht ° cr 3
es, and we shall get on capitally.”
1

E

A
a
ede
C

bo

was true that accidents would occur in the best regulated
world, but Mr. Bontoft subscribed to hospitals, dispensaries, and
other public charities ; and having performed his own part of

duty so far, he had a comfortable assurance of all the ills of
life being well provided for. Nothing could be kinder than MxLoi

5 g °. s
Bontoft’s manner in his household ; pet names for
nearly every one. His wife was “ >.” I was “the

little fawn,” the coachman was “ the bear,” and a
smart housemaid “the mouse.” _ , too, to include
others in all his schemes for self-gratification.. He would

ask me for instance, if there was anything I should particu-

 

larly like for dinner or lunch ; but though I was aware that
a gastronomic idea would not have been thrown away upon

him, I could make nothing of it. |! alwa
with themselves, and never was excludec j
company. Sometimes I went out in the carriage with both
of them, more frequently with |} til s
had exhibited me amongst all her acqué
ed, till I was sick of hearing it, the story of my ill-usage at
Mrs. Wilton’s. :

The throng of visitors at Laurel Grove made much of me
as a favorite, but I only shared their caresses with Mrs. Bon-
tofi’s French poodle. In many asides I was told what a
happy creature I ought to consider myself im the possession
of such kind friends. To be sure, Mr. and Mrs. Bontoft
weré Very discriminating ; no doubt I was deserving of their

ae)

¥

ICR my inant
ACCOMPIUSHREG,
az

patronage. I was certainly handsome ana acc
;

bene

¢

OQ.
oO

ee

Q
SS
a ¢
a,
po

ct
aie
5

a

nen

co CRRantotft atone
rs. Hontoll’ aione, ul

and gave every promise of being a comfort ana
: Aiea } Ap ead re a fo ee ans
my benefactcrs. And why was 1 unhappy,

from the thoughts of home? Ali this was no’ WN “*)
_ } : (lor ees
| meee

   

- er ao fle 2 } or ART tA Ppa and ( IVA ag

j conid baye plored in the kardestiare all 9 ac

1 r + a WAY da OQ t Pay > T } ‘ a Yy >t +}; 2 VAT.

commodation, with independence. Here 4 DN’ not the sat-

: : Pa fn ; : he T wae eqr} 11) 0 mV daily hreac }

sefaction of feeling that I was earning my (a™) bread. I
iit Lat A

@ purpose

felt, in fact, that | had been engaged 10} ‘er
ting rid o

: ; : Ves
of displaying an ostentatious liberality, yetting
Mrs. Wilton. How long would these people, so acc ustomed
- ore ‘ a *, 1 e Wiens 1a a “ PAV e
to self-gratification, bear with me if their Dumot changed ?

and

 

 

  

ry’ Tar Sok Bey ;
Then there was no depth in the te L
ae aaemed. ‘These peopleyso lavish) rs, would

 

oy
yat

have been horrified if I had spoken of Aunt Betsys drudg-
ery and my grand-father’s distress and my own Wiel to
help them as much as possible. \d amidst all this Beye
rosity and profusion, there seemed no chance of helping

them. A heap of drapery and millinery goods arriyed one

Ist¢

aca
RTC
eek

 

 

 

 

   

7 saeerai EDEr ras

B

158 FAMILY SYORETS.

r

selected two dresses and some other articles for myself.

“We must have you nicely dressed,” she said, “and you
need not mind paying for them now. I will keep an account.”

Besides knowing that I really stood in no need of these
things—that I had plenty of clothing suited to my station—
[had the additional mortification of being compelled te
wear a costume offensive to me, on account of its gaudy
coloring, and likely to entail further expense, because I had
nothing to match with it. Aunt Betsy had excellent taste
in dress; she could make the commonest and plainest ma-
terial look genteel and becoming; and, perhaps, from, her
I inherited my liking for quietness in attire. It was a real
trouble to me to be dressed up like a doll, especially as it
was to be at my own expense. I remembered hearing Un-
cle Stephen say that he could guess at the temper of a wo-
man’s mind by the way in which she dressed herself at dif-
ferent periods of her life. What was to be said of those
who, like myself, acted under coercion? F ashion, the most
avbitrary of all tyrants, would drag along with it the timid
and the sensitive, who would shrink from any appearance
of singularity ; as for me, I was no better than Mrs. Bon-
toft’s French poodle, that submitted to a beautifying process
every morning.

With all his money and skill in making the most of it,
Mr. Bontoft could not have everything his own way. He
was subject to frequent attacks of gout, that confined him
to the house; and at such times I found enough to do, as
he required a deal of waiting upon; and the task of amus-
ing him fell entirely upon myself. Mrs. Bontoft visited and
attended parties as usual, and I began to perceive that I
was not quite so useless as I had supposed myself to be,

Autumn passed away, and the winter months set in, and
there were great preparations for the Christmas festivities,
I was one morning seated in the drawing-room with Mr,
Bontoft during his wife’s absence on a visiting expedition,
He had just recovered from an attack, and was, as usual,
anxious to make up for lost time; and it was wonderful

how many little contrivances he had for self-enjovment, J

morning for Mrs. Bontoft’s inspection, and from them sheFAMILY SECRETS, 159

was reading to him in a new comic annual, and he laughen
heartily.

“Tsay, Little Fawn,” he exclaimed, suddenly, “give mes
glass of wine. Moonface won’t be home to lunch, and wa
must enjoy ourselves as well as we can. What shali we
have ?”

I suggested several dishes that I knew he was partial to.

“ Cooky shall warm us that hare soup; just the thing for
this raw day. Skip into the kitchen, like a little fawn as
you are, and tell her.” :

I went to the kitchen and delivered the message. On —

my return I found Mr. Bontoft, standing where I left him
on the hearth-rug, with his back to the fire; but his usually
smiling face wore a wrathful expression; he seemed, indeed.
in too great a rage to speak, and pointed with his hand to
one of the windows. ‘There, in the midst of the hoar-frost
that hardened the ground, and whitened over the bare
branches and the evergreens, exposed to the biting blast ana
the inclement sky, stood a miserably clad woman and two
half-naked children, all shivering, and all casting a mute,
appealing look upon Mr. Bontoft, as he luxuriated over the
fire.

“Tsn’t this too bad?” he exclaimed, in a state of excite-
ment. ‘“Isn’t it dreadful? Anything like this happening
at Laurel Grove! Good God !”

I thought his horror was occasioned by the contempla-
tion of so much misery, and that, if only for his own com-
fort, he would be compelled to give something.

“Shall L” I commenced—I was about to say, “ shaut ]
go out and speak to them uy but he interrupted me hastily.

“Of course,—to be sure,—directly. Tell John to take 3
horsewhip to them. Bless my life,” he continued, ring7pDg
the bell violently, “ what an infliction this is! what can be
the meaning of it?”

The meaning seemed pretty clear to me; but what he nag
said confused me, and I stood, not knowing what to do,
when John entered. 3 cous

« What are you all about ?” said Mr. Bontoft, sen porn:
ing to the window; “ what do I maintain a lodge for # Loon

there, sir !”

Piesretrie ee terest MaePAMILY SE CRETE,
“Lor a marcy !” said John, in evident dismay, “ how did
Ley Come anear ?”

He dis ppeared like a shot, and I soon saw-him outside,
ariving the poor creatures before him.

“ Give me another glass of wine,” said Mr. Bontoft; “ thia
8 enough to spoil a man’s appetite for a month! You see
iow well-disposed I am to be comfortable myself and to

i l
make every !

body about me the same; but what's to be done

ther people neglect their duty? I assure you, the
man at the lodge and his wife had strict orders from the
first, not to admit any hing of that kind. TI shall be sorry to
be severe, but I must look after them.” :

Mr. Bontoft seated himself in an arm-chair, and sipped
his wine. I bent over the comic book and thought of the
misery that had just been driven from this abode of luxuri-
ous plenty. I wondered if £ could be more of a slave than]
was, compelled to hide every feeling, and fashion my very
looxs, so that they might not give offence to my employers,
1 these Christians, to whose teach-

bmed

What was I learnin ¢ fron

ing my grand-father resigned me without a fear, after tear-
Ing me from the companionship of Uncle Stephen ?”

~ What’s the use,” exclaimed Mr. Bontoft

; for he was on
his legs again, and he f

finished his speech in the usual way,
the last word bringing him to my side.
“I say,” he said, bending over me, “have you got a
sweetheart ?”
“No, sir.”
“ Have you never had one '”
“ No, sir.”

“What ashame! How do you like Captain Phipps!”
“ Not much, sir.”

“Not much; that means a great deal in the mouth of a
young lady. Well, I have it from Walker, that Captais
Yhipps admires you vastly.”

“T am sorry to hear
misinformed.”

“Ha! Ha! what

=e bush. Come, how, you can’t help being gratified by
f

it, sir; but you have surely been

odd ways women have of beating about

e
‘te admiration of Captain Phipps; everybody admires him.
t have an inclination to h

ielp you up in the world, and Jieee ns

FAMILY SECRETS, 161

don’t know if this isn’t an opening ; Pll talk to Moonface
about it.”

I had a decided aversion to Captain Phipps, who seemed
to come to the house whenever he liked. He always ad-
dressed me with the unrestrained familiarity that, in a young
nan, and a superior, was as impertinent as anything could
well be. I begged that Mr. Bontoft would not think of him
in connexion with myself.

“ Oh, say no more about it,” said Mr. Bontoft ; “T know }
Bless you, I never met with a young girl that didn’t say
exactly the reverse of what she meant in a love affair m my
life. Now, I won’t hear another word: let’s have lunch.”

From what I had seen of young girls, I could believe that
what Mr. Bontoft said was true. Affectation and insinceri-
ty were not incompatible with bolduess ; and for these sins
of my sex I must expect to suffer. Perhaps there was a
better way than my own of getting out of this dilemma ;
but who was to teach it me? I began to have an idea that
another storm was preparing for me.

In the first place, Mrs. Bontoft, young and gay, and
showily handsome, was herself accustomed to receive the
homage of Captain Phipps. Then nothing could be more
monstrous than the idea of his entertaining any serious
thought of me. Mr. Bontoft’s foolish meddling might set
his wife against me, or convert me into a lauging-stock, for
I had.seen enough of the world’s aptitude at twisting the
truth to believe it quite possible that the idea of the man’s
admiration might eventually be discovered to have originat-
ed with myself. Oh, my God, forgive me, how I hated these
people! How, above all others, I loathed that Captain

Phipps, who, under his easy assurance possessed—I was sure
of it—all the cold-blooded villany and disdainful pride of
Colonel Leigh: why was I so beset—not with temptations,
but with horrors, that made life a burden to me, go where
would ?

Mr. Bontoft was as good as his word, and talked to Moon-
face about it that day at dinner.

“ Bless me!” she said, turning an
the face, “this @s news! Whatever

saying to you!”
10

d looking me full ia
has the Captain been

   
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
   
   
  
  
 
  
  
    

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solide sich tad sli
be 5 MPT MCA TE Hid
4 gyela belt Det heete ld lige ob Peer oe mest edalee

        

162 FAMILY SECRETS,

Stata

    
 

TI assured her that the Cantain had said nothing particw
lar to me; that Mr. Bontoft’s communication had surprised
me equally with herself.

“OQ Poppy,” she said, “you must act with more disnre-
tion! Only think of offending Captain Phipps by letting
him see you entertained such a notion,—so absurd! And I
trust, Miss Marples, you will give no encouragement to
young men of his rank in my house: you must be aware
that it would lead to nothing creditable.”

I assured her that nothing would be further from my
thoughts than giving such encouragement, if I had the op-
portunity, and I thanked her for placing the subject in a
right light before Mr. Bontoft. I might further have assur-
ed her, that if Captain Phipps could so far forget himself
and my poverty and insignificance as to make me an offer
of his hand, I should certainly refuse it at once, for many

    
     
 

Sanna alth ALMA BE

  
    
   
   
   
    
       
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
 
   
 
    
    
 
  
     
  

abby (5g) sighs gh OP Aa UMINCPREN USAMA: Ps AGH GLA SN

reasons independent of my utter contempt for himself. }
Several months before, I had formed a resolution to pass ie
through the world alone; I would not bring to any one the \

dower of my own disgrace ; I would not perpetuate it; I
had sufficient pride to sustain me through a solitary life,
and this would not allow me to fail in self-respect. I lifted
my head high above these people by whom I was despised ;
[ exulted in the knowledge that they could not bring me
down to their own level.

From this day I was made painfully aware that Mrs, Bon-
toft regarded me with jealous dislike. In company she took
great pains to make others as well as myself aware of my
dependent state and obscure origin, expatiating not very
delicately on her own generosity in rescuing me. from desti-
tution, and ostentatiously promising her protection so long
as I deserved it. This led to further congratulations from
5 the visitors, flattering to Mrs. Bontoft, but charged with
BE bitterness of the fruit of the tree of knowledge to my-
et Sell.

: In the midst of all this, the conviction was forced upon
me that Captain Phipps was seriously inclined to make him-
self more hateful, and to prove a further annoyance to me,
Supposing that his approaches to myself were in conformity
with es‘ablished custom between a superior and. infers

" - tn eee A ee
Bhd ESE Sey AY
PASI NTT LETTING ES Petr{

 

FAMILY SECRETS. 168

where nothing “serious” was meant, it was sufficiently as-
tonishing to an unsophisticated woman how all the misery
and shame that desolates so many homes could be brought
about. Astonishing that the natural pride, and delicacy,
and resentment of womanhood did not rise up at once, and
with indomitable power put down the insolent pretension,
and base purpose, and inordinate vanity, and hold up to a
scorn that should be everlasting, the vileness that can tram-
ple upon all that should be sacred, and make a boast of the
achievement. If I were here doubly armed, I did not es-
cape without my share of suffering. With Mrs. Bontoft’s

) | jeyes always upon me, | had to repel the Captain’s advances
| ye well as I could, and he contrived to make this a difficult

f

y

matter. If our eyes chanced to meet, he would smile in a

significant manner, as *f there were some secret intelligence
between us: if I were told to play, he fastened himself at
my side; turning over the leaves of the music-book,
whispering extravagant commendations, and, occasionally

/ pressing his foot upon mine, staring me impudently in the

yf

face all the time. When we met or parted, he would extend
his hand where he knew I could not well refuse mine, and
squeeze my fingers till the blood retreated. If any delicately
aurtured and proud beauty, whose position places her out of
the reach of such indignity, should think lightly of the deli-
eacy that could submit to all this, I can only say, that never
did indignation burn more fiercely in any soul than it did
in mine while yet I knew not how to give vent to 1b. I
could not tell how Mrs. Bontoft might receive a complaint
of these freedoms, and the man had said nothing positively
to call for interference. There were plenty ready to stand

d I shrank from the idea ot incurring
a charge of having falsely interpreted liberties that from
him to me might be considered too trifling tor notice.

And that vast difference between him and me—my God!
in what did it consist? Through many long and sleepless,
nights 1 wandered about my room, asking 01 heaven OF,
earth an answer to this question. To what purpose was |
endowed with a reasonable sense of what was right and
wrong, if circumstances were continually to keep me
down, and choke my utterance, and compel my ACCUIESCORCE

up in his defence; anea Sane

164

in what I knew to be evi! ?
ing ended as they beg
lessness, they left be
fierce storm gathering in
the humiliating restraints of my

» And if these outbursts of fee:
an, In a dogged sense of my own help
hind them a lurking belief that the
my soul would some day scatter
position, and set me tree.
No matter about the terms of the freedom, I thought
then. God help me! f had not yet become familiar with
starvation, or with the tender mercies of parish dignitaries.
L was yet a novice in this old world’s ways for grinding
souls into the dust.
In one respect it was well for me that I had sufficient
causes of dissatisfaction. 1 was in danger of being infected |
by the habits of uncontrolled indulgence, and the luxurions
ease about me: I hada craving desire for the beautiful, and
a life of elegant leisure suited me very well. 1 should have
been inclined to overrate the privilege of lying down in
pleasant places, and to leave them with regret if I had not
been constantly reminded that I was an intruder, and ad- |
monished sternly on the folly of cultivating tastes that
could only dissatisfy me further with the uncertainties and
the dependencies to which I was born. 1 was further pro-
tected from besetting weakness by a restlessness of spirit for
which a life of ease and indulgence offered no adequate
scope; and at all times I seemed to hold a mysterious com-
munication with the future, as if a spiritually visible hand
was beckoning me onward, and compelling obedience to its
movements, This feeling of always waiting for something
that must be arrived at, whether I desired it or not, never
left me in the darkest days of my trial; and if it did not
supply me with an incentive to live on, it did the next best
thing,-—of proving that my time was not yet come to he
Jown and die.
; Another weary month passed on, and one morning, late
in January, I was left alone, Mr. and Mrs. Bontoft having
gone out together. I was in a despondent mood, fur Aunt
Betsy’s letters had of late assumed a sadder tone (my grand-
father was now altogether incapable of writing ;) and
knowing her propensity for making the best of everything,
my ‘magination readily supplied what she had left unsaid.
I began to loathe the luxury by which 1 was sarrounded, theFAMILY SECRETS. 168

| leisure that was filled up with bitter thoughts. Conscience
| \brough back to me the many hours during which I had
indulged a selfish forgetfulness in the present: and I felt
hat I had committed a mistake when I last left my relations

| lo bear their hard struggle alone. I thought of my grand-
lather, nearly blind, and left to himself all day, and of Aunt
etsy returning to him at night after a hard day of toil. I

Joad now tried to make a living out of my acquirements
( ine more than twelve months, and I found myself worse
| joff than at the beginning. Worse, because my stock of

iclothes was diminishing, and I had literally not been able

to save a penny. I felt that if I could obtain needlework,
) and remain at home with my grand-father, I should be at
|} once happier and more useful: and this idea fastening
itself upon me, I sat down to write to Aunt Betsy, explaining
to her why my present mode of life was altogether profitless,
{ 4nd imploring leave to return home. I was so absorbed
that I did not hear the drawing-room door open, nor was I
aware of any one approaching until a hand was placed upon
my shoulder, and I instinctively shrank away from it.
p “Tm in luck to-day, upon my soul,” said Captain Phipps,
seating himself beside me on the sofa. ‘ You betwitching
little cweater! how coolly you have looked on, witnessing
mv agonies, when you must have known that 1 was dying
to speak to you! Come, that twaddling old fellow and his
fussy wife cannot overhear us, and you must listen to me or
I shall go distwacted, positively.”

I had risen up and moved my papers away. I stirred no
farther than to the extreme end of the table. I, too, had
something to say, and I was rather pleased than euler
to have this opportunity of giving utterance to the scorn
and indignation that seemed to 0ze out of ort pore in
my body. I felt myself too we! armed against this plgmy
assailant to speak irritably. |

“ And what have you got to say that may not be uttered
before your friends?” I asked. ‘“ What 1s 1% tha you 80
confidently expect me to listen to? Do not ae a dis
concert you: speak on. There is no one to overnear US, a8

‘ho in these days believes im

x js AY
ou say,—not even God 5 for whe
the existence of a God? Besides, you are a soldier, and ough

tto be brave; and I am poor and dependent, and you need
not fear me. You see I am quite ready to listen.” 2
“Upon my soul you are a stwange girl,” said Captains”
Phipps; “but I like a woman of spirit. I hate dolls. And
you are quite right: let us come to the point at once ; that’s
my way always. You know I adore you. I have told you
so fifty times over without speaking. Now Pil tell you
what [ll do for you. I'll dwive you down to Bwighton,,
four in hand, and you shall dwess as you like, and ey
jewelry, and hold your head above them all. Hang it!l/)
when [ first saw you, I felt there was a what-d’ye-call-em— \ |)
a sort of congeniality between us. Come now, be a com-
plying angel. These people are making a slave of you |
With me you shall have your own way, and live like a j{
queen.” }
This was precisely the sort of experience that always fixed \\
for the moment my wavering faith in God, and my own ;
immortality. For I could not believe that there was nothing, |
more than “earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,”\ \ |
betwixt me and this man, who shamed his own nature, if only | \
as a clod of the valley; and I was forced to feel that the \_
- inward quivering of passion that did not move a muscle of i
. my frame lifted me out of my materiality.

The breath of power that swept over me was cold to the
mortal touch, as it had ever been. I stood rigidly erect
before the man with a sensation of my blood turning to
ice ; my lips were cold as marble, and moved as heavily,
though the words they uttered seemed to be produced by a
force within me that struck them out of fire.

“T have heard you to my own shame,” I said; “ not to
yours, because you must have been lost to all shame before
you could so address yourself to one whom you believed te

4 be poor and dependent, and without a free choice. There
fe are no words to express the contempt and scorn in which |
E hold you. I loathe you and your offer alike. But you have
made a mistake, and I must correct you. Iam not so un-
protected that I am compelled to endure your insolence
from day to day. If you are not too shallow to comprenend
what is plain enough, or too effeminate to grasp at stubborn
realities, you may understand that I am even able to protect

 

 

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snyself. You have no right to be here, sir, in the absence
of your friends, and I desire you to quit the room and the
house.”

The door was opened as I spoke, and Mr. and Mrs. Bon-
toft walked in.

“Bless my life!” exclaimed the latter, “who are you or-
_dering out of the room and the house ! Well, I declare, 1
expected something like this !” |

“ Why—why—why what's the matter, Phipps ?” said Mr.
Bontoft.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Captain Phipps, lazily extending
himself upon the sofa, and yawning. “The young lady has
been working herself up into an extraordinary fit of heroics,
and upon my soul I’m sorry you interrupted the fun. Mrs.
Bontoft, if I did not know you had a chawming temper, I
should wonder how you managed her.”

“Miss Marples,” said Mrs. Bontoft, turning upon me,
sharply, “I insist upon your explaining yourself.”

“{ have nothing to explain,” I said, “except that that
man has insulted me, and [ cannot remain in the same room
with him.”

“ That man!” repeated Mrs. Bontoft; it might be that
gentleman, I think, in your mouth.”
~~ > heard no more, for I walked out, and went up stairs to
my bed-room. Mechanically 1 began packing up the few

at belonged to myself. That uncon-

things lying about th
trollable impulse under which I had acted, whether night or

not, told against me *n this world; but it was enough that
I did not regret it. It was however, a battle of the weak
with the strong, and I knew that I should be discomfited.
“Perhaps God is guiding me for the best, in spite of my-
self,” I said. “ At all events, it is well that 1 should return
to my grand-father.”

It was yet early in the day, an
alone, no one coming near me.

Mrs. Bontoft’s maid appeared at |
some tea.

“J hadn’t any orders,” she said, * but I thought you must
be hungry. !’m so sorry you're going.”

“Tt can’t be helped,” I said.

d 1 remained many hours

ength, and brought me

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Mette rc ne

 
 
  
  
 
 
  
  
 
  
   
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
   
  
  
  
   
  
 
   
   
 
  
   
  
    

1iy AAT Hbshe

168 FAMILY SECRETS.

    
   
   
   
   
   
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  

 
 

| Sarah lingered in the room, and at length said :
Pt “T think, miss, if you would speak to Captain Phipps he
would make it all right again. He’s a pleasant gentleman
sometimes.”

“T cannot do that, Sarah,” I said. ‘You do not under-
stand: say no more about it.”

At a later hour I was ordered down stairs. I found Mr.
and Mrs. Bontoft and Captain Phipps seated round a table { },
covered with wines, cakes, and various kinds of confections. |
The Captain was holding a glass of wine to his eye when I |
entered, and he sipped it leisurely whilst I remained.

“JT don’t intend to have more words with you than are
necessary,” said Mrs. Bontoft, “but I think it due to Cap-
tain Phipps to let him see that no dependent in this house
has our authority for acting impertinently. I don’t want
you to say anything: the Captain has given us his word of
honor that his statement is correct, and I am really aston- ‘
ished at your giving yourself such airs. Some people can-
not be indulged without forgetting themselves and taking
liberties. The Captain has been kind enough to intercede
for you, but keeping you here is out of the question.”

 

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: “Oh dear, no, no!” said Mr, Bontoft; “let her go: we {
mustn’t be made uncomfortable in this way. Now, Moon- At
face, get. rid of it and let us enjoy ourselves.” | ‘

“T’ve little further to say,” said Mrs. Bontoft, “ except {®

that as I have overpaid you already, you must not
expect anything more, I suppose that you will not deny
that I have paid you one quarter, and the things | have pur.
chased for you amount to more than is due for the quarter
upon which you have just entered. So, in fact, I am still
, giving you a quarter’s salary in advance. This must serve
° in lieu of notice, which I really could not give with the pros-
pect of being annoyed further.”

“Oh dear, no!” said Mr. Bontoft; “ get rid of nuisances
at once.”

“Then you will prepare yourself to go to-murrow morn
ing,” said Mrs. Boatoft.

I had stood still without speaking a word. To what pur-
pose could I speak? I made an inclination, and was
moving towards the door, when Captain Phipps caliea out

SAE Re SRN IT we pe“Um—aw—just wait a minute. When next you choo
to go on stilts and use stwong expwessions, just stop to con-
sider who you're talking about, will you ?”

The knowledge that 1 could not make matters worse by
saying anything, did not incline me to open my mouth. At
the moment, I did not feel myself so much in the hands of
these people as in the hands of God: and I was rather
inclined to say to the Creator, “ Why 1s this inijcuity permit:
ted ?” than to the creature, “I defy you, I cen still iefend
myself.”

I know, what every Englishman and woman who may
read this knows well, that no negro or quadroon in the worst
Slave State of America is further removed from the pale of
humanity, more really despised and down-trodden, than is
poverty in this free and self-righteous land. In making
use of me for her own gratification Mrs. Bontoft had not
rated me above any other article necessary to her state; I
had never received more personal consideration from her
than I did at the moment of my abrupt dismissal; and
Captain Phipps, though—possessing a mind of extra little-
ness—he took the trouble to rebuke me, cared no more for
my estimate of his “word of honor” than he would have
done if I had been a negro or a dog. And if people well to
do in the world, people of money and position, will analyse

their own feelings and take a retrospect of their own actions
from day to day in connection with their readiness to stand
by their own class and their inborn abhorrence of poverty
in all shapes, they will at once acknowledge my experience

to be nothing out of the way, though they may marvel at
ing anything so common-

my assurance 1n attempting to bri
lace prominently forward.

I will say nothing about my feelings during that long
night, because few would care for them, and those few may
pever read these pages. I had remaining, the little money

brought with me, and this enabled me to pay for the hack-

ey coach that John ordered to the door the next morning.
When | gave my address to the coachman—" Brook’s Court,
Clerkenwell,”—he regarded me with the insolent look that,
in England, is called forth even from the poorest, by an admis-
sion or suspicion of mean circumstances.

Lat,

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Hap nieisierenareti at nnntiviewen pata natin

belie pea rea) STR ASHE ith TUS Fi

Rieder

170 FAMILY SEORETS.
&

  
  

       
     
     
      
   
     
   
    
 
     
    
 
    
    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  

“ Brook’s Court,” he repeated ; “I never heard on iv. In
it any wheres near Clerkenwell Green ?” I could not tell him, |
and after some grumbling he mounted the box, and I was |)
dJriven away from that abode of elegance and social ease. /
I did not see either Mr. or Mrs. Bontoft, and I had the com-),
fort of knowing that my departure would give great satisface |
tion to both these individuals to whose daily enjoyment of Q
life I had proved a slight interruption. I did not seem to {\
have been driven far when the coachman called out to know \\
‘¢ I could direct him which way to turn, but I could not, \ \

    
  

and he got off the box grumbling, and went into a shop to
make inquiries. He seemed to have obtained some clue,
for he drove off again, and presently deposited me and my ;
two boxes at the bottom of Brook’s Court. ee

I can’t leave them ’osses to carry that ere luggage,” he |
said, as I paid him the fare. “ There’s plenty as’ll do it if
you look about.” And so saying he mounted to his seat
and drove away. |

It was a populous neighborhood, and plenty of people
were passing to and fro, but L did not know whom to ad- |
dress. A fat, dissipated-looking woman of about forty, with
a string of heavy beads round her neck, and no cap on,
strolled down to the end of the court, and stood there with
her arms folded. |

“ Are you in wants of a porter?” she said at length, ad-
dressing me.

“T want some one to carry these boxes,” I said; “only a
little way, to number nine up the court.”

“Lauk! Do you live here ?”

“My grand-father does.” |

“Oh, I knows; the old man as is ill, Wait a minute;
Pll fetch a cove as ‘Il do the job if he aint too drunk.”

The old man that was ill! My grand-father had been
ill, then, and they had not told me. My heart beat thick
and fast, and it seemed an age till the woman returned.

“Sam ‘ll be here presently,” she said, on making her
appearance, “an’ him an’ me can carry ’em between us.”

asked her to take charge of the boxes at once, and hur-
ried up the court. 1 rushed into the wrong house, and
was driven out by a hideous old woman, who called mea“biazon young faggot.” I cannot help it if I am compelled to
record much that is horrible; I sat down with the intention
of giving a faithful narrative of the past as it bore upon my
feelings and my destiny.

It is a fact that one shock neutralises another. I found
the right house, and walked upstairs quietly. I opened the
door of our room, and saw my grand-father stretched upon
ja mattress on the floor, apparently fast asleep. There was
8 heaviness about the wan face and attenuated figure that
might well be taken for that of death, and I gazed upon him

| ‘ill my heart seemed to stand still. Presently I heard a
| aoise down stairs, and went out and closed the door gently,

and waited till the woman and her companion came up with

(my boxes.

fr

I told them to leave them on the landing, and asked
what [ had to pay.

“What you like to give,” said the woman.

That indefinite mode of compensation is never more tan-
talising than when you feel that you have little to be-
stow. I had nosmaller coin than a shilling in my purse;
and, as I held one irresolutely in my fingers, the woman
called out, “that'll do,” taking possession of it as she
spoke.

“T go halves,” said the man who was with her.

“You be blowed,” said the woman; “I'll treat you to
three pen’orth, an’ that’s more nor you deserve ; just bundle
down.”

I waited till they were fairly gone, and then opened the
door again. My grand-father was awake, and he uttered
my name feebly, and I went to his side, and knelt down and
kissed his forehead and his pale lips.

“ And so they sent for you, my child,” he said. “YT told
them not, and you see I am now getting well, Yet cuis
surprise is pleasant, too.” ee

I thought the pleasantness would be diminished when he
understood that I was once more driven forth and penniless.
It was painful to me to give this explanation, though just be-
fore I had considered the change for the best. However J

ke out at once. :
car N 5 one sent for me, dear grand-father, and I did noéHLSW ALAORAE HABE PARd 4

Sams

Wbica¥es tiaede staves ea HPL SUbEE ReTLd KEL GE RLEN

a ii ae at ANA

Pet

meacstahiiittuew arid taaberiPaet Tel
Patra eT

peyeroy
Mh tees

   

172 FAMILY SECRETS.

 

   

know ycu were ill, or I should have been here before. Now \ \
I will not leave you again. You require a nurse, and Ij) |,
an work while I attend to you. I shall feel happier than |! \
I have been while away from you, grand-father.” fs
“I am sorry for this,” he said, looking at me wistfully.)
“If not quite happy, I had the satisfaction of knowing that), |}
you were well protected; that you were kept out of the
way of the vicious, whose example shocks and withers the,\
feelings if it cannot corrupt them. I had hoped to get out
of this place before you returned to me.” ‘

Here was my grand-father, like the rest of the world) |
strong in his belief that nothing vicious or degrading could bé,
found amongst respectable people. His simplicity was a species\
of weakness to which I ‘lt compelled to minister, for what yes
was the use of distressing him further with details of the ini- \
quity in many forms by which my heart had been shocked \
and withered, if not corrupted. |

I needed to give no further explanation of the abrupt ter- }
mination of my engagement than was to be found in the \
natural dying away of the caprice that led to it. I was able |
to prove that it would have been impossible to save any- |
thing out of my salary, and that therefore my remaining = |
would have proved to be no ultimate advantage even to my-
self, I was addressing myself to an invalid in the last stage
of weakness, and I tried to speak as cheerfully and hopeful-
ly as possible. And it is astonishing how soon I began to
feel as if I had never been absent from this home, sanctifi-
ed by the light. of affection. Presently Aunt Betsy came
in with some medicine, If she, too, was surprised and
troubled, she gave little expression to her feelings, and en-
couraged me in my hope of finding something to do at
home.

I learned that my grand-father had been ill more than a
month; during which time my aunt had been compelled to
attend to him. How they had lived God knows, and I
dreaded to ask. I missed nearly all of my grand-father’s
books, as well as several other things that used to lie about,

I supposed that they had been sold to procure necessaries,

and I did not shrink from looking these worst horrors in
the face at once.

 
 
   
  

    
 

  
   
    
  
   
   
 
 
 
  
  
     
  
   
   
   
  
   
   
  
    
  
   

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FAMILY SEORETS. 3

My grand-father dozed through half the day, and I sat
consulting with Aunt Betsy. She acknowledged that our sit
uation was bad enough ; that, having herself been unable to
work in consequence of my grand-father’s illness, they had
been compelled to dispose of the books, and such’ other
things as could be best spared. The great difficulty was
paying the rent—six shillings a week for that miserable
place.
“Ido hope that your coming home will turn out for the
best,” said Aunt Betsy. “Whilst your grand-father was at
the worst, Jem was a great help to me; now he is getting.
better, and if you could procure a little needlework you
could attend to him and work at the same time. There’s
two young girls occupying an attic in this house that get a
living by working for the ready-made linen shops. That
is,” continued Aunt Betsy, feeling it neccssary to modify her
words, “ they contrive to keep soul and body together. I’m
an old woman, but I never met with anything like the suf-
fering there is in this overgrown town, Margaret. These
two sisters are orphans, quite alone in the world, and they
tell me that, work as hard as they will, they can only earn
one shilling a day, finding their own needles and thread |
Well, you had better be doing this than nothing. If you
like, you shall go up and see them; they are so lonely, poor
things! they will be glad of a visit from you.” (
I felt quite eager to go to them; and as my grand-father
slept, Aunt Betsy took me out, closing the door gently be-
hind us. I followed her to the top landing, and she knock-
ed at the door of the back attic. A low voice told us to :
gome in.a

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SECRETS.

 
 

FAMILY

CHAPTER VIII.

. | pxnrevz my unexpected appearance disconcerted the
two gurls very much. I was well dressed, which made their
owr shabbiness more conspicuous; and, perhaps, experl-
ence had taught them to look for little sympathy from one
of their own age and sex, whose position appeared to be
above theirs.

“Tt’s only my niece,” said Aunt Betsy ; “if you let us see
that we disturb you, we shall go away directly.”

“Oh, you don’t disturb us at all,” said the eldest of the
girls, who had started up from a table at our entrance, her
pale face flushing for an instant, “We have just been
getting an early tea, and we are very busy, so you must
excuse finding us in this state. Will you sit down, Miss ?”

She dusted a chair, and placed it for me. The early tea,
{ suspected, included the day’s dinner. . The tea-pat stood :
on the hob, and on the table, (a small round one), were two
cracked mugs, a basin containing some coarse sugar, part
of a loaf of bread, some butter, and the remains of a her-
ring.

“T assure you we had quite done,” said the girl, in reply
Be to something my aunt said. ‘Susan was just going to clear
io away, so don’t go on that account. We have set ourselves
a | a task, Mrs. Marples, but I don’t know how we shall get

on with it. Wesat up all last night, and intend to do the
same to-night; but Susan stands it better than I do, and
I’m afraid I shall be falling asleep; it’s a long time to keep
awake, you know, and such tiresome work.”
“And you won’t find it asaving in the end,” said Aunt
Betsy. “Suppose it makes you both ill now?!”

Asis HS MOAUEMUTULA Hei RFFAMILY SECRETS. 176

“I tell Susan so,” said the girl, “ but she has such a spirit |
And then we really have need to try something extra. We
shall see how we get on.”

This elder sister interested me very much. I wished that
she would look ‘me full in the face, instead of glancing at
me furtively, and dropping her eyes whenever they met mine.
As I gazed at her I could not help thinking that if well
dressed, even joyless and in ill-health as she evidently was,
she would look better in every respect than any of the gay
girls I had seen at Mrs. Brown’s. She seemed to be about
seventeen or eighteen years old, and without being hand-
some, her appearance altogether was pleasing. Her soft,
bright brown hair was very neatly arranged, and a beautiful
set of teeth and a well formed mouth rendered her smile,
sad as it was, very fascinating. The other-sister appeared
to me quite a child, though I afterwards learned that she
was nearly fourteen. Unlike the elder one, she was short
and stout, altogether sturdy in appearance and manner, and
our presence did not seem to disturb her at all as she busied
herself about the room. She was not so pretty as her sister,
being slightly marked with the small-pox, and I found that
I had attracted her particular notice for some reason, as she
rarely took her eyes off me.

“Well, Mary,” said Aunt Betsy, “my niece wished to see
you, and now I have introduced you to one another. I
shall leave you together; for young people get on best by
themselves. You must not make a stranger of her; for,
thank God, I can feel that her heart is in the right place,
or I shouldn't have brought her here. I'll take care of
grand-father,” she added, turning to me, “ and you may stop
as long as you like.”

The rapid lifting and dropping again of Mary’s heavy eyes
seemed to betoken some fear of this arrangement; but Aunt
Betsy was gone, and I, who had not yet spoken a word
roused myself for an effort that should break through this
embarrassment.

“You must not let me be an interruption,” J said; “if
ou will allow me to help you, I shall feel quite pleasad ; in-
deed it will be conferring a favor upon me, for as I shall have

— pom

    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
  
 
  
  
   
  
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 

Meera yeu tres ee aieto earn my living in the same way, it is as weil to begin
practising at once.” : eo

Mary lifted her eyes from her work in evident astonish-
nent.

“But you have been well educated,” she said; “ surely
you have no need to turn to such drudgery as ours is.”

“Mine has been heavier drudgery,” I said; “because I
hever was so independent as you are ; indeed, I have never
earned anything that I could do as I liked with, and I
should be far worse off than you are if I had not had a
home to return to. Come, I have got a thimble; let me
help you.”

Mary still seemed to hesitate; but Susan came forward
eagerly.

“Oh, yes, let her help us! You know how badly I want
a new frock; and if we don’t work hard, I can’t get one.
Look here, Miss Marples, you can be sewing that.”

I took what was offered me, and commenced in earnest.

“ You are very kind,” said Mary. “That child.has been
spoilt. She was a great pet at home and I have got in
the habit of humoring her. She is all that is left to me,
too. But you surprise me with what you say about your-
gelf. I have often wished that I had been well educated,
that I might have done something better for Susan and my-
self.”

“T have not found a good education of much use to me,”
I said, “in the way of earning a living. You may under-
stand that, from what I say, 1 am quite in earnest about
trying to get my living as you do.”

‘Tt is very grievous,” said Mary, in her quiet manner
“There seems to be little that we poor women can turn
to with advantage. That makes me so unhappy about
Susan.”

“And not about yourself?” I thought as I lifted my
eyes to look at her. How old, experience seemed to have
made her, young as she was !

“Sister always talks so odd!” said Susan; “aa if we
should be doing this all our lives! I mean to marry, and
make my fortune.”

Mary lifted her eyes to mine for an instant, and we interFAMILY SECRETS. 7
changed a world of experience in the glance. We both
pitied this child, who seemed doomed to a more than ordi-
aary disappointment.

“1 do admire your dress, Miss Marples,” continued Susan,
who was very chatty. “I was always so nicely dressed at
home, wasn’t I Mary? and now I’m quite ashamed to go
out. People stare so when you’re ill-dressed.”

“For my part,” said Mary, “I consider a shabby dress a
sort of protection : nobody cares:to look at you.”

“Now, that’s just like her,” said Susan; “she would
rather not be looked at: isn’t that odd ?”

I had never been so puzzled by a question. Though my
sympathies went mainly with the elder sister, I felt sorry
for this poor young thing, troubled about so small a
matter as a decent dress. Not so small a matter either,
when I came to consider; for I, who had never been so far
reduced, could not help feeling how unpalatable such a final
declension would be to myself.

“ And so, by working hard,” I said in reply, “ you hope
to get a new frock? Well, I will do my best to help you,
and we shall surely manage it amongst us.”

And whilst I said this, with an idea that, poor as we were,
we might afford to patronize these friendless girls, (the idea
of patronizing anybody was very agreeable to me), I brought
into review before me sundry dresses that I had outgrown,
and that would sell for very little, and that with very slight
alteration might be made up for this child. And then I
thought of the profusion at Mrs, Bontoft’s, and wondered
what became of the superfluities of the rich.

Whilst we were busily at work a very chubby-faced child,
a boy of about eight years old, opened the door and peeped
in, and seeing me, was about to retreat when Mary called
out:

“ Come in, James; here’s a young lady that will be quite .

glad to see you. He is such a darling, Miss Marples

I had never seen much of children, and certainly I had
never seen a child so beautiful as this one was. Standing
for a moment, irresolute whether to advance .or retreat, he
gave me a full view of his very fair and handsome face 5 hia
noble head with its clustering curis of sunny hair; his large,
I]

s

posh ebdedt ished pchicly (bes) 5h) path

ati eetrtcent ie att anatn172 FAMILY SECRETS...

liquid blue eyes and pouting lips;—and making a sudden

nu e = * 9 .
dash forward he flung himself headlong into Mary’s lap,

dragging her work out of her hands.

“J'm not going to stand this any longer,” he said: “ you
all make such a pet of me, and it’s nothing but nonsense.
I mean to be a soldier.”

“Oh, he’s a brave boy!” said Mary, holding his head
earessingly with both hands; “and you can’t think how
patriotic he is, Miss Marples.”

“England,” said the child, raising his round face, and
holding out his chubby hand, and elevating his forefinger,
“England shall never lie at the proud foot of a conquerer !
Didn’t we beat the French at Waterloo 2”

“We did, love,” said Mary, kissing him, and her whole
heart seemed to be in the caress—“ we did, and we always
shall whilst we have such brave fellows as you are.”

“Oh yes! it’s all very well talking about brave fellows,
and kissing me that way!” said the boy. “I’m not going
to stand it, I tell you, so be quiet. Women are so silly !”

He glanced slyly at me out of the corners of his blue eyes
as he spoke.

“Well, I never saw such a little Turk,” said Susan.

The boy retreated to the end of the room, and stood
against the wall with his hands behind him.

“When I’m a man,” he said, I mean to march under the
‘flag that braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze P
I shall be a soldier or a sailor; I don’t know which yet.
But Pll let the French see it’s true what the song says: —

‘ Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;

Her march is o’er the mountain wave,
Her home is on the deep.’

Nobody ever conquered ws, did they Mary ”

“No, love.”

“Now you were both saying last night, while reading the
Bible, that fighting was sinful,” said Susan.

“Now you know nothing about it,” said the boy, and hia

baby lip curled with an expression of contempt. “ We snid
It was sinful to quarrel, but not to defend ourselves. You
would look very queer if the French came over some fineFAMILY SECRETS. - 179

day and burned all our houses and took us prisoners. We're
not gving to let them do that, I should think. Tve been
reading about Nelson, Mary; all about his funeral, you
know. Don’t you think Nelson went right to heaven ?”

“T hope so,” said Mary.

“ He was so brave!” said the child. “ But I should like
10 be buried as Sir John Moore was.”

“Why ?”

“TI don’t know, but I should,” said the boy. “Tm al-
ways thinking of the dark night, and the silence, and the
lantern gleaming, and the soldiers bending over him.

‘No useless coffin confined his breass,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.’

Wasn't that grand ?”

I thought there was a grandeur about the child himself
as he stood with flashing eyes, his cheek paling and his lip

uivering with emotion.

“ He’s a strange child,” said Mary, lifting her eyes froim
her work. “He's such a knowledge of things, and he feels
so. You should hear him read. James,” she continued,
speaking in a louder tone, “will you read for us to-day ?”

“Yes, to be sure. What shall I read ?”

“The History of Joseph.”

“Nay,” said the boy; ©
that well. I always feel a
Iam obliged to stop, and Susa
something else.”

“The parable of the lost. sheep, then.”

“Now, Mistress Mary clary, quite contrary, you know
that’s worse still.”

“ Nay, dear, I like to hear you read that so much ; do oblige
me; and Miss Marples here wants to hear it.”

“Do vou?” said the child, turning to me sharply, and
fixing his searching eyes upon me, as if he could not pro-
ceed without an assurance that we were not mocking either
him or God with our request. His grave, scrutinizing look
roused me from my partial indifference, 80 that I even felt

ashamed of it.

, 1 never read
iroat, and then
[ll read

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“J do, indeed,” I said; “you will quite please me by
reading it.”

The boy hesitated no longer ; he took a Bible from a
cupboard shelf, and seating himself cross-legged upon the
floor, placed it upon his knee. Then having found the page,
he rested his chin upon one hand, and laid the other upon
the open book. ?

The boy’s manner of reading the parable impressed me
as 1 had never been impressed before, with its sublimity, and
beauty, and pathos. His full and flexible though childish
voice rivetted attention of itself: his emphasis was correct, be-
cause he knew and felt what he was reading; and the so-
lemnity of his infant look, and the reverence with which he
evidently bent over the book, were striking evidences of the
power of God’s word over the simplest of his creatures.

«“ And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was
yeta great way off, his father saw him and had compassion,
and ran—’ ” Here the boy’s voice failed him. His face
grew pale, and his lip quivered, and his large eyes were
swimming in tears. I, too, felt the choking in my throat; I
heard Susan tittering, and felt shocked, and looked at her
rebukingly.

“Well; we ought to feel,” said the boy, speaking evi-
dently with effort, “when we think that this is what God
does to every one of us. To you and me, Susan ; and some
day we may feel glad to have such a father to turn to. Is
it not so, Mary !”

“Tt is, darling,” said Mary. “But you are more like the
other son who never left his father.”

“Nay, I think not,” said the boy. “I think] should not
speak as he did: but you shall hear.” And he read on to
the end, and kept his face bent over the book for several
minutes, not liking to let us see how powerfully he was
affected.

“You may understand, Miss Marples,” said Mary, “ why
I like to hear James read. He brings out the whole mean-
ing of everything. If one cannot feel oneself, there is no
getting rid of the child’s feeling. Itsets us thinking that we
are ourselves not quite as we ought to be. I am sure it has
been 20 with me.”

   
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
   
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
    

oeI could have acknowledged as much myself, though I did
not. But I thought—perhaps even now God is calling me
back to himself through this child. I called him to me,
and bent over him with a full heart.

“You are a sweet boy,” I said, “ who taught you to read ”

“Papa taught me.”

« And who is your papa ?”

The boy looked wistfully at me for a few seconds and
then turned to Mary.

“His dear papa isin God’s hands,” said Mary. “He
knows that they shall meet again one day, and be happier
than they are now.”

I understood from this that his father was dead, and felt
grieved that I had put the question.

« Yes,” said the boy, “ and I mean to do something won-
derful to please papa and mamma. [| always feel that I
shall when I see mamma grieve. You see,” he continued,
looking down at his tiny feet and then drawing himself
up, “you see I am growing a great boy, and ought soon to
be doing something.”

“You, poor baby! What can you do 2” said Mary.

“Baby !” said the boy, curling his lip again, that’s your
nonsense, Mary. I’m notababy. Why, Ellen isn’t a baby,
and she’s two years younger than I am; we don’t call Lilly
a baby. Babies wear long clothes and people nurse them,
Come now! Mr. Smithson says I shall be a man soon, and

he’ll help me.”
«“ Well, James, you've all the will to do something, and I

hope God will help you.”

“ There, now you talk sense, Mary. Of course, God helps
everybody. Now, I’ll go and see what mamma’s doing.—
You know I don’t like to leave her long, because she frets,
and then Italkto her. Shall I see you again?” he added,
turning back as he was going out and addressing me.

“T hope so, love.”

«“ Where do you live ?”

“TJ live in this house; only just down stairs.”

“Do you, though »” he said, his face brightening as he
eame fairly back to me. © Ah, Mary called you Miss Mar-
ples ; then you belong to the good old gentleman that used

> : Sete
sae rane enc

BEML Hee uae Terr t tCaneeetetnn ctu ite APU LS ney

RE Oeste SECASSHAIMIVRANEILIREIAE ASOT Saed US a

le

Q0 TAMTLY SH CRE TS.

to come up to mamma when she was so ill, months ago!
I’m so glad, and a tell mamma all! about it.

“ What eee ‘ble child he is.” I said, as he closed the
door behind him. “ a Doda he live in the house ””

‘In the next room,” said Mary, “with his mother and
two sisters, younger than himself. It’s a very sad story.—
His father was an author, a writer for magazines and news-
papers, | ink, T They lived very decently somewhere in
[sington, till difficulties drove Mr. Graham out of his mind,
and then his w ‘fe and children came here. I thought her
heart was breaking when she first came, eight months age
[ believe a subscription was raised for her; but friends won’t
do much, and she works hard, poor thing, just as we do, and
pon 1g les S53"

* And v rhere is her husband 2” I asked.

Bethle hem Hospital. It is a large public institution,

and one mig! ht think eae so afflicted would be treated
well in it; but Mrs. Graham says her husband complains
of being Arondiu lly ill-used, and she feels sure that he i is.—
It would grieve vou to see her sometimes. I’m sure,” con-
tinued Mary, suddenly snate hing up a corner of her work
and putting it to her eyes, “it makes one quite wretched to
gee yt misery ther 2 is in the world !”

Yes! Mary was in the right place for seeing it. I sat
lost in mee thought t during several minutes. This outcast
state oe xistence, upon te 1 was myself entering,

 

seemed to a many redeeming points about it. My heart
had vee more int ce my “thoughts more elevated dur-

ing the one hour I had passed in that poor room than during
my more than twelve months’ sojourn amongst respectable

ted people. Here is the balance of good

and world-courtec

and evil, I th hought., Thou bringest us nearer to thee, O
God, by affliction. ee I shall not lose sight of Thee :
here I shall better learn to know myself!

I took a oe bible which the boy had placed upon the
table. On the fiy-leaf I found these words written in a
small but fain hand :-—“ From a mother to her fatherless
children. May the Lord look upon them when they have

no friend left beside Him. Mary Lester.” I turned the
leaves over hurriedly and then put the book down, Thu

onFAMILY SECRETS.

absorbing interest in others was new to me, and I be
feel oppressed by it. Iresumed my work which I had onl
quitted for a moment.

“ And you,” I said, “how long have you lived

“ Nearly three years,” said Mary, sighing.

“Tt will be three years in March since mother died,” said
Susan. “Father died six months before. And see Miss
Marples, they took everything from us but these few things.
and we used to be so well off, didn’t we, Mary ?”

“My father kept a toy-shop, and was in debt when he
died,” said Mary. “It was only right, the c
the things, but you may be sure we found a great change,
losing parents and all at once.”

“ And you had no friends ?”

“Not any that would look to us: no {” said Mary,

quietly.
- How many lie desolate upon earth because those who
should “look to” them consider their poverty a disgrace ?
At all events I was not the only one neglected and con-
temned; in outward circumstances I was not worse off than
those who could look back upon a past that brought no
blush of shame to their cheeks, no throb of indignation to
their hearts.

“But we're not quite without friends,” said Susan, tossin
her head: “and we don’t think to live in this way always.
Mr. Smithson comes in to see us very often, and he’s a friend

of Mrs. Graham’s, too.”
“Mr. Smithson,” said Mary, fixing her eyes with an un-
easy expression upon Susan, “is a comic actor at one of the
theatres. He was a friend of Mr. Graham’s, and I believe
it was chiefly through his means that Mrs. Graham got help.
[ have heard her say so. It was little James that first made
him acquainted with us, and he has certainly been very kind
in calling to inquire how we got on, and sometimes leaving
pes Sat Teo ne pas
us and Mrs. Graham a newspaper to read. It is not his fault
that we have no time to reac x
99. cited Can cass
“ Oh, I always read the newspapers, said Susan.
4

ae

S
J

os

x
+

“ Our poor parents were very religious,” continued Mary,
lays. It would nave

“and they had a great objection to tt wa
grieved them to know that we had even this slight intimacy

kK WY

PMO ret oat

Me atentooertriee ota yey Mem eMereett

Saat reeotabati cia.

wy

BT ores aepprata

ee nner
TT Pa Heri isiy i

184 FAMILY SECRETS

with a player. But, Miss Marples, when one 1s left so lonely
in the world, it seems only natural to be thankful for a little

kindness, from whatever source ‘t comes. Besides, I believe

Mr. Smithson is really a good-hearted man. I hope he is

for Mrs. Graham’s sake, for he seems to be the only friend

she has.”

How soon I had become acquainted with the histories of
these people; how readily 1 had acquired the kind of
knowledge that 1s necessary to a right comprehension of
character! Of the Browns, the Wiltons, and the Bontofts,
I knew no more than met my eye from day to day. They
might have all sprung from the same dunghill, and doubtless
they did: and in different ways, but with the same aim, they
made a struggle to thrive upon it.

The conclusion of my reflections was, that in one material
respect I had profited by being reduced to the society to be
found in Brooks’ Court. Great depravity and horror there
was to be met with, no doubt; but nothing worse than
might be found in the highest circles of society. If there
was a happy medium, this surely was it. I must accept it
with its drawbacks ; and this 1 was the more inclined to do,
because deprivation rather than abject dependence seemed
to be one of them.

And that night, after obtaining Aunt Betsy’s-consent to
my scheme for providing Susan Lester with a decent, dress,
and having from my orand-father an assurance that he was
better, I slept soundly, and had happy dreams, in which little

James Graham figured very conspicuously.

a sae ae
NE Sa arerverss aps= CHAPTER IX.

Ir was some time before I could obtain work, even al
such poor remuneration as the Lesters received; for the
starving female population of London amounts to some thou-
sands, and it speaks well for their first principles that so
many amongst them are ready to wear away body and soul
in a drudgery that scarcely suffices to keep both together,
rather than fall into pauperism, or a life of sin. Whilst my
grand-father was slowly recovering strength, it was a grief to
him to see how I toiled late and early for less than sixpence
a-day. It was grievous to him to keep me in that low neigh-
borhood; and he spoke determinedly about not allowing me
to remain there, when he became once more able to exert
‘himself, But besides having a great horror of again going
out as a governess, 1 knew very well that I stood a worse
chance than ever of obtaining a situation of the kind. f
could not apply for a character to any of the persons I had
lived with, though I had done my best to please all of them,
and I could not expect that my word would be taken in such
explanations as I could give. I myself resolved to try for
employment in some millinery establishment, where I under-
stood as much as nine shillings a-week might be earned, as
well as two meals a-day, and the privilege of returning home
when I was not required to sit- up all night. This was the
height of my present ambition; but I was soon made to
foe] that it soared too high. Mary Lester, who had herselt
vainly tried for such a place trough some years, assured me
that I should not succeed without patronage, as these situa-
tions were eagerly sought for, the young ladies filling them
holding themselves far above those condemned to work as

ahe did. I resolved to try, however; and as Aunt Betsy

ratte tice BEM ATH HH Brey

pe- hie Wks BAT Sore Yee!

had unfortunately plenty of time to spare, nob being able
to procure constant work, she and I spent many weary
hours in trudging to various establishments, not giving up
our vain search until compelled by the fear ot starvation in
the meantime. And in order to understand how preciouge
time is, it is necessary to be reduced to this alternative of

earning sixpence a-day, or nothing. Work as hard as we

could, my aunt and I earned no more than was sufficient to
pay t s she luckily obtained a day’s work out.
It was little satisfaction to me to say I was not hungry, and
eat as little as possible, for 1 saw that both my relations did
the same. that we were all compelled to do it, and that the
one sole satisfaction in the whole matter was the fair pros-
pect of our all perishing together, and very speedily.—
Jem, who looked in upon us daily, received several commis-
sions to dispose of such things as we could best spare; and in
this way I parted with the finery purchased for me by Mrs,
Bontoft. Poor Jem’s face lengthened at these increasing
proofs of poverty ; and I believe that he frequently robbed
himself when he declared himself ready to swear that coals,
potatoes, or bread, were wonderfully cheaper at some distant
shop, lying conveniently on his daily route, but which it
would be quite impossible for Aunt Betsy to attend. It
anything could have been more distressing to me than this

s

pay

7
av

7} i }
t sant WH 1g
VLE rent, unless
;

(Oy

idea. it was to see my grand-father wandering to and fro in
the dingy room, too weak as yet to go out by himself, too
far gone in blindness to be able to read, and too much per-
plexed by our situation to offer any counsel. There was the
additional great grief of knowing that, pined as he was,
there was no chance of his health being restored; and as I
sat at my monotonous and profitless work, from early morn-
ing until late at night, the old bitterness of heart, and im-
patience with Providence, and distrust in God, came back

tome. I thought of my grand-father’s blameless life, as
compared with the worldliness of the dean of , and the
libertinism of Colonel Leigh, and I could not understand
why—if these were alike eligible for salvation—all this stray-
ing into error and trying in the furnace of affiiction should

be needed. I felt sure that there was no wisdom 1n 80 bur-
dening my own mind with these perplexities ; that I couldFAMILY SECRETS. 187

have loved God better and more if I had been allo 1 to loathe
his creatures less; if I could reasonably have entertained one
thought of thankfulness for the life forced upon ae whether
I liked it or not.

Gradually we were compelled to un derstand that these
depths of destitution conta sined a lower deep, to which, in

ty

all probability, we should have to desce nd. We were lodged
even magnificently for our means; we were not able to pay
this high rent, and Jem was eventually applied to, to pro
cure us cheaper lodgings.

But we dragged on for a wonderfully
three months—before we came to this.
the necessity for sitting close at work Breve ented my seeing
much of the two sisters, or of Mrs. Graham, though I
and heard enough to embitter my thoughts still more, and
drive me farther back from. all P

shes

ong time—ne arly
yy aring that period

le
Tr
D

 
 

| as ‘in Providence. Of
little James Graham, however, be wa ae Bee for not
a day passed without his coming down to our room, and he
would recite for us his store ot nanan verses, or sit,
the hour together, reading ae Bible to my gvand-fath
wondered what God mea nt to do with this ahild! whose sym-
pathies were so strong for whatever was good or noble, and
whose prospects were so clouded, whose positi
ae so abject.
was one day hastily ealled up ee
a Mrs. Graham had been taken ill. Aunt b
and I went. I entered the room, and found |
ing fit. Mary was bathing her face witk
James was chafing her hands, and looking up to her pite-
ously.
“She will soon be better,” said ee
her in this way before. Now let M
lace, James, and go to your sisters, there’ a

93
VARS

~<

 

“T don’t like to leave man ma so,” said
“But Ellen and Lilly are ee S

o and tell them mamma will be bett« ecthy
boy left us. “T sent the children in our TO ym, they cried
so,” continued Mary, as | commenced chafing Mrs. Gra-
ham’s thin hands; “she has been to see her t husband thisVARA ELAAAMAAAHAALLAMME ARNT Medor

  

188 FAMILY SECRETS,

morning, and she says they are killing him, and it is just
breaking :

Here Mary brcke down, and large tears fell from her eyes
upon Mrs. Graham’s face. ae

“ You see it is just breaking her heart,” continued Mary,
rapidly ; “and when one thinks what sweet children those
aro, it is quite pitiful. She is half starved, besides, poor
thing! If one only had a little wine for her—but where te
get it!”

I had often thought of the profusion of wine at Mr.
Bontoft’s when I saw my grand-father’s weakness, and re-
membered that he, too, was half starved. Yes, it was
where to get it for necessity! I had seen Mrs. Graham be-
fore, several times. She was a fair delicate woman, still
young, and had evidently been well brought up. There
was the curse of refined feelings upon her in the midst of
this destitution and helpless endurance.

Presently she sighed heavily, and opened her eyes, and
looked round the room.

“ My children!” she said.

“They are in my room,” said Mary; “let them stop
there till you feel stronger. Miss Marples will wait here,
while I make you a cup of tea.”

“Oh, no, no! she said; “J feel better now.”

But Mary made me a sign, and left the room, and just
as she went out James peeped in, and his mother saw him.

“My boy!” she exclaimed, extending her arms, and he
rushed to her.

I shall never forget the look of yearning love and deep
sorrow with which she uttered those words, “ My boy !”

“My child, that I hoped so much for only a few years
back !” she continued, bending over him: “and dear, kind
papa, that would have laid down his life for any one of us!”

“Don’t talk in that way, mamma,” said the boy, lifting
up his swimming eyes ; “ you make me feel so unhappy.”

“T won't, darling !” she said: “ you shall not: be teased,
you dear pet! Mamma will be well soon, and then
Oh, God!” she continued, with a sobbing sigh, “then we

may do better. I am wasting your time and mine too, Miss
Marples,” she said, turningmate

a

St

|

FAMILY SECRETS, 188

“Don’t think of me,” I said. “Shall I fetch my work
and sit with you ?”

“ You are very good,” she said ; “‘Thave met with a deal
of kindness : but, oh; my trouble is heavy.”

As she turned away her face, and I watched its expres-
sion of intense agony, I had some difficulty in restraining
myseif from falling upon her neck, and weeping away some
of the pent-up sorrow that lay like lead upon my own
heart.

I went down to my grand-father, and explained how mat-
ters stood, and then went with my work to Mrs. Graham’s
room again. Mary brought in a cup of tea, and then we
three sat down at our. dreary work together, and James
proffered to read to us. The younger children, two pretty,
gentle-mannered, little girls, remained with Susan. I had
before observed how they could sit playing for hours together
in a nook, hungry, and with no toy to entertain them, and ex-
tracting amusement out of their own yet inexhausted spirits,

As James read, I could not help wondering what we
should do if he was not reading—how we should converse
together—we whose hearts were all so full of pitterness, and
anxiety, and sorrow. There was no topic for us in the wide
world ; its pleasures were nothing to us, and we were sink-
ing “under the terror of its oppression—a terror that froze up
our words. There were almost impassable gulfs for all of us
to overleap before we could speak hopefully of a promised
life beyond the grave. That loving mother’s thoughts were
chained to a world in which her children were yet so young
—in which they might suffer wrong, and drink deeply of the
cup of sorrow, and be driven to the sins of necessity. (There
are such sins, O ye who live in silken ease, fenced about by
all the proprieties of life, and God is the judge of them !)
Mary and I had a long career of unrequited toil before us,
and the imperative wants of every day bound us, like slaves
as we were, to the present.

We were seated thus when a knock eame to the door,
and Mr. Smithson entered. Mary and I rose vp, and we
went into her room. We found Susan reading a newspa
per. The two children were evidently happy in their play.

 

    
    
  
  
   
  
  
   
   
 
    
  
 
   
   
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 

ere eC eure a eee Hi attTO cAI

op,

dear.”

“Pm tired of work—nothing but work!” said Susan:
“and I believe you are all blockheads! You won’t read,
and you don’t know how the world’s going on. There's
plenty of people that would help us if they only knew how
we suffered. How are they to know anything about it if
we don’t tell them? Here’s a lord, a real lord, that talks so
nicely in this paper about poor people like us; I wish we
could see him, or that you would write to him, Mary; I’m
sure he would help us, and Mrs. Graham too.”

Mary shook her head, but this speech of Susan’s helped
to mature an idea that had been germinating in my own
mind during the previous two hours. At Mr. Bontoft’s I
had read many modern works, whose authors seemed to be
imbued with the genuine spirit of humanity. I thought
that poor Mrs. Graham, the wife of an author so stricken
down by the hand of God, had a claim upon these men that
they would readily respond to. I said this to Mary then,
but she again shook her head.

“ Mr. Smithson is a man of the world, as well as a kind-
hearted man in himself,” she said ; “you may depend upon
it that he has done all that could be done in this way. But
he will be sure-te come in before he goes; we might men-
tion it to him.”

Poor Mary! how apathetic she seemed ? how hopeless

about everything save drudging on from day to day! This
was common sense, which taught her to expect nothing bet-
ter trom the world; Susan and I monopolized all -the
genius, and there was a wonderful power in it. I even de-
termined to speak to this Mr. Smithson myself.
_ And Mr. Smithson presently came in. What a singular
face his was | Ugly and ch ubby, and with a twist in it tha
made one side longer than the other! An excellent comi.
ace 1b was, no doubt; but the present expression of thought-
fulness sat oddly upon it. Do what he would, there was a
Grollery about it that made me consider jt especially lucky
that none of us were in a mind to laugh,

” Well, how are you all getting on?” he said,
" Much as usual, Mr. Smithson,” said Mary.

“O Susan {” said Mary, “do attend to your work, that’s a

  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
  
  
   
   
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
 
  
   
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
  

ate ttt APAMILY SECRETS. 19:

“ Work, work, eh ?” he said; “all flat, stale, and uupro-
fitable? Never mind. Here, you, come and feel in my
yockets.”

This was addressed to the two children, who ran up tc
him and dived into his coat-pockets, and drew forth sundry
packets of sweetmeats and biscuits, and ran gleefully into
their corner again.

“So there’s no news stirring in your little world?” said
Mr. Smithson, placing his hat upon the table and seating
himself, and, to my astonishment, giving his face a twist
that sent all the preponderance to the other side of it.
“You remain in statu quo 2”

“ Yes, I believe so,” said Mary.

“ No beautiful variety to variegate existence in this world,
noted for its changes? Pshaw! How ridiculous it is !”

“ What, Mr. Smithson ?” asked Mary.

“Devil a bit of change do I see, go where I will,” said
Mr. Smithson. “Nothing but the same penury, and strife,
and suffering, the same bloated pride, and pretension, and
humbug. Instead of supplying one with wit, the world
brings one to one’s wit’s end ;” and he drew his fingers
through his profusion of dark hair in a desperate manner.

“Poor Mrs. Graham has had another fainting-fit to-day,”
said Mary. “ Can nothing be done for her, sir ?”

“ What the deuce right have yow to trouble yourself about
Mrs. Graham 2” said the actor, making a grimace. “ Why
don’t you wrap yourself up in your—hem ! Well, I suppose
you have nothing comfortable to wrap yourself up in. Naked
we came into the world, and naked we shall go out of it;
but it’s too bad to be naked all our lives. I say, Susan, look

me up that paper.”

“ Here it is, sir,’ said Susan. a :

“ Anything worth reading in it ? said Mr. Smithson.

“Oh, yes!” said Susan; “T've been reading the speeches
of Lord Marchtown. Isn’t he a kind man ?” :

“Lord Marehtown 2?” said Mr. Smithson. “A platform
lord, all words and smoke. Well, you very green young

rson, what do you make of him 2” et

Oh!” said Susan, tossing her head, “I’m sure if he
knew of our troubles he would help us.”PHA aSINA/LEPRET LE sic) ster aatiYe

OT SPR tie,

eRe

 
 
   
  

192 FAMILY SEORETS.

“ You are, are you?” said Mr. Smithson. “N ow, Susan
don’t you think I’m a very ugly fellow ?”"

“ You're not very handsome, sir!” said Susan, to Mary’
evident dismay, for she looked up and reddened.

“ Quite the contrary,” said Mr. Smithson. “Now if I at-
_ tempted to entertain the town with tragedy, action, and sen-
timental songs, the town would cast me off at once. 7 was
born to my vocation, and cannot step out of it. It is just
the same with a platform lord, who spouts sentiment and
lectures for the people. . He is great where he is, and you
must let him alone. You won’t damage him by attempt-
ing to take him out of his place, but you'll be sure to disap-
point yourself. Ifyou know of anybody that nobody else
ever heard of, just apply to him for sympathy and help, but
don’t try the dodge on celebrities.”

I thought this a good opportunity to chime in.

“Mr. Smithson,” I said, “considering that poor Mr.
Graham was himself an author, don’t you think that some
of our popular writers would help his wife and children if
they knew how destitute they were %”

Mr. Smithson turned to me, with a twist of his face that
brought the larger half of it on my side.

“ Oh, that’s your particular kind of worship, is it!” he
said; “you make demigods of authors,”

“No I don’t,” I said, “J worship nothing human; |]
have little faith in humanity altogether. I only speak of
this as a possibility.”

“ Head, Miss What's your name 9”

“Miss Marples,” said Mary.

“ Miss Marples,” continued Mr. Smiths
night sort of wisdom to begin life with.
be an ungracious thing, but it saves a
Now, as you concede that authors are only men, I can come
to the-point at once with you. An author revelling in fame
and wealth is not the sort of man to feel for destitution,
though he can afford to Say a deal about it in books, A
poor devil of an author, who can scarcely live himself from

day to day, will be much more likely to sympathize and
share his crust with you. James Graham, a writer of consid-
erable power, and a very voluminous writer, too, was little

 

on, “you've tne
Distrust is said to
great waste of feeling, -FAMILY SEORETS,

known, as his name seldom transpired. No one coald gain
any glory by helping him—another great drawback in this
world, where people like to have their good deeds known
Besides, there are hundreds of like cases, and the few that
will help cannot do much. Well, the fact is, 4 great many
amongst us are born to a life of suffering, and we must fight
through it as well as we can.”

Everything I heard corroborated the fact that the rich
and the middle classes, while they make use of the poor for
their own convenience and of necessity, hold them aloof, as
something loathsome to the sight and touch ; and, much
stronger in their prejudices than any slave-holder ever was,
(for he does not shrink with horror and disgust from the
human chattel that he buys and sells), produce in England
such a wide line of demarkation—not between vice and vir-
tue, ignorance and knowledge, talent and imbecility, but be-
tween poverty and wealth, as is met with nowhere else on
the broad earth amongst creatures of the same spirit and
clay. I cannot be solitary in my belief that this system is
highly favorable to the growth of infidelity. The pauper
who cannot learn from parish chaplains that he may one
day sit down in the kingdom with a lord or duke, or, to
strain a point, even with a prince or king, may by chance
seize the idea that Christ will be-less fastidious; but the
degradation of his state has eaten into his soul and made it
abject, so that he entertains more reverence for, and more
fear of, a wealthy and influential man in the world, than he
possibly can entertain towards God. It is the same with
the slaves of both sexes, who fancy that they are indepen-
dent because they ara free to drudge, as no slave ever did,
for a pittance too meagre to sustain half a life, or to lie
down in their garrets and cellars and die at once.

I only saved myself from this state by refusing to bow to
anything. That likeness to God within myself sufficed to
me; I was not to be subdued by the craving necessities of
the body; I would not voluntarily le down under the
wheels of this great moral Juggernaut, whose victims might
not rejoice in the sacrifice they were compelled to make.

Starvation and contempt only served to make my resist
ance stronger. I had enough of both to try my powers of
12

   
  
  
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 

Sh A bie toy hin tS” aan? * = x 3 —
BOUL UOt  s Cat ME Mestre thiteoent tee pese treat oe‘ SEER eee ee Pape

104 FAMILY SEORETS.

endurance. In the month of March, in spite of every draw:
back, my orand-father gained sufficient strength to be able
fo walk out He renewed the subject of my obtaining
another situation, and I saw that he was determined to send
me from home if possible. In this matter I was compelled ta
vield, for many reasons, independent of the fact that I never
had any inclination to resist. what I found to be my grand-
father’s decided will. Considering how little I could earn at
needle-work, it was easy enough to prove to me that my ab-
sence would not make those left behind worse off, whilst I
nught at least stand a chance of helping them. My wardrobe
had decreased and was growing shabby, and it was evident
that if anything in this way was to be done there was no time
to be lost. Once more my grand-father and myself proceeded
to the register office, having made a great effort to obtain
money, and I received the address of a lady who wanted a
governess to instruct five young children, and who bargain-
ed for piety and humility as indispensable qualifications,
Nothing daunted by this, but with a misgiving that this
pious lady would be more difficult to deal with than any of
the others, I set out for her residence, accompanied by my
grand-father, on the following morning. We had agreed
that I should refer to Mrs, Wilton for my character, for as J
had given her entire satisfaction, except in the one respect
of not being able to clothe myself out of nothing, we both
thought it possible that she would not say anything to pre-
vent me trom getting another place. I had a suspicion
which I kept to myself, that Mrs. Bontoft's interested patron-
ge had injured me in this quarter; but I had committed
9 absolute wrong ‘in accepting an offer that promised well
at a time when I was quite free and almost penniless,

_ Mrs. Reynolds, the lady upon whom I called, resided in
lortland Place. There was no evidence of self-denial about
this abode of piety, which appeared to be sumptuously
furnished, or in the gaudy livery of the Servants, or in the
luxurious dress of the lady herself.: I underwent a strict
examination, especially with regard to my religious prinei-
ples, and here I could assure her thet I had been strictly
brought up to the Church. This lady stated her teres to
be sixteen pounds a year, out of which I was to pay for my

&

aFAMILY SECRETS. 198

wasting. Still, scarcely sufficient to provide me with decent
clothing, and the great hope of my heart was as far from
being realized as ever, I gave my reference, and was desired
to call on the following morning. ;

On the following morning, when the footman opened the
door, I fancied his look portended no good. He left me
standing in the passage while he went to announce my arri-
val, and presently Mrs, Reynolds walked down stairs, She
poued at some distance from me, and surveyed me with a
ook of virtuous indignation,

“Iam really astonished, young woman,” she said, “ that
you should have had the assurance to refer me to Mrs, Wil-
ton. She tells me that she found you very deceitful and
unthankful, that she raised you from a state of great pover-
ty, and that you requited her by worming yourself into the
confidence of her friends, and spreading reports about her
as false as they were scandalous. I don’t want to hear any
reply ; an attempt to justify such conduct could only be
worse than the conduct itself. I am satisfied that I have
had a lucky escape. John, open the door.”

The lady swept away before I could make-any reply.
The servant, who had stood by all the time, opened the door,
and I had nothing for it but to walk out. If I had not
stood convicted, I had felt degraded by this unexpected at-
tack; and the fierce passions that lay slumbering in my
heart were roused into a tempest of wounded pride and in-
dignation against those whose position gave them an ad-
vantage over me which they were so ready to use ungener-
ously and uncharitably, and without allowing me a chance
for self-help. No wonder there is so much servility and
hypocrisy in England, when it is well known that the testi-

}
I

a

mony of a superior is all-powerful, whether right or wrong,
unless the matter becomes public, and decorum demands that
justice take its course. Even this latter is not always the
ease. As for me, what did these women care whether they
cast me forth to starvation or to sin? With Mrs. Bontoft
and Mrs. Brown I should have fared no better; the one
would have enlarged upon my impertinence, and the other
on my vulgarity and deceit. Bee

The greatest agony in all this was having to explain to

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my grand-father. As we walked along I softened the ao
count as well as I could, while wishing to impress upon him
the uselessness of seeking further for a similar situation,
This was scarcely needed, as we had neither money nor time
to waste in the search. a

God help us!” said my grand-father, after remaining
silent several minutes; “this nas been an evil place to us!”

And what other place in broad England would have been
better? It was the fault of a system, not of a particular
spot; had we fared any better at What was to be
done next? That was the question, and none of us knew
how to answer it. I returned to such work as I could get
of necessity. Aunt Betsy labored at the same drudgery,
rarely being able to get anything else to do. Our clothes
and everything else belonging to us were disappearing fast,
and we knew that we were rapidly approaching a state of
utter destitution. 3

I had often thought of uncle Stephen during these long
and painful months of our absence from him, and contrasted
his uniform and disinterested friendship with what I had met
generally from the world. I did not see that Christianity
made people better; the most rigid church-goers were the
prosperous, who seemed to be uniformly selfish, and over-
bearing, and vain-glorious; and-those accounted as pillars
of the church were the least charitable and gracious of all,
If I respected what I saw was good in my grand-father, I
could not help being aware that his principles chiefly served
to make him a more easy prey to the vicious and the power-
ful, and I turned with impatient disdain from the thought
of follc wing in his course. This spiritual disobedience, which
I could’ not help, was not accompanied by any outward act
of rebellion. Under any circumstances, I would not have
renewed my intercourse with Uncle Stephen without my
grand-father’s sanction. As his name was never mentioned
amongst us, I had little hope that one who dreaded the effect
of his principles more than poverty and death would ever
remove the decree that kept us asunder.

But all this served to convince me that my grand-father
was short-sighted as well as weak-minded. Way would he
mot understand that I was in greater danger of being driven

 

ee:to infidelity by my communication with Christians, than I
could have been by any mere assailing of Christianity from
Uncle Stephen? The separation, too, from this early friend
gave the charm of distance to all that had been amiable and
attractive in his character, softening down its more rugged
aspects, and drawing me towards himself, if not his prin-
ciples, more and more.

Karly in March Mrs. Graham’s husband died. Mr. Smith-
son, who saw him the day before his death, declared it to be
his conviction that he had died from the effects of ill-usage,
He asserted that he had seen his body covered with bruises,
the effect of blows, and that he had threatened to expose
the servants of the institution, who had laughed at and
defied him. Whether this harrowing statement was all true
or not, it had its destined effect upon me. I more than
ever loathed a country in which such atrocities could be
perpetrated by the strong against the weak; where usage
rendered remonstrance availless; and in which the emptiest
forms of religion served to screen iniquities that the heathen
and the savage never dreamed of. Under the same roof
where I dwelt there was agony that I could not bear to
- witness. I was a coward when look¥g upon distress that I
could not relieve, sorrow that I could not minister to. Both
Mrs. Graham and James had clung to a hope that the
husband and father would eventually be restored to them,
and I shrank from the details that Aunt Betsy brought me
from time to time of their overwhelming and wordless grief.
I did all that I could do; I sat two days and nights work-
ing incessantly, unable to think of sleep, not feeling the
want of it. Aunt Betsy, to her honor, and my grand-father
too, devoted themselves to the desolate woman. About one
o’clock on the second morning, whilst Aunt Betsy was yet
up stairs and my grand-father lay sleeping in the closet, the
door of our room was opened, and some one entered. I did
not lift my eyes from my work; I knew that, whatever was
coming, it would come soon enough for me. I did not even
stir when I was aware that some one sat down near me and

athed heavily.
oe believe I Tall hang myself some day ; I see no help
for it,” said a voice that I recognized to be Mr. Smithson’s,

  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 

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FUEL TeLad testa ERET HES EWURRE BI BLep LO best Sale sero Fou

198 FAMILY SECRETS.

“The misery up yonder is enough to make one hate life
Miss Marples, are you listening to me?”

I lifted my head and looked at him, and turned to my
work again. ;

“IT have been talking to Mary,” he continued, “ and now
I must talk to you. You are in the same house with these
poor creatures; you all sympathize with them; and I have
no one else to trust to. To-morrow I am compelled to go
into the country to fulfill an engagement. Yl tell you
exactly how the case stands. When poor Graham first fell
intc this state, overtasked by anxieties and incessant mental
labor, a few amongst those who had known him contributed
from their hard earnings a weekly sum for the relief of his
wife and children. One by one these contributors have
fallen off, for months have elapsed, and most of them are
needy men. 1 have myself a wife and seven children, and I
cannot keep out of debt. You must know that Mrs. Graham
could not keep herself and her children by needle-work,
eyen if she had health, and mv opinion is, that she will never
recover this blow. Now it seems a hard thing to say, but
it must be said—they must all go into the workhouse.”

My work dropped from my hands and I looked up.

“ What! that dear boy?” I said.

Mr. Smithson turned his head away and blew his nose,

“Yes,” he said, “that dear boy. God bless him! he’s a
noble little fellow, and I love him as if he was my own: but
what can I do? I’ve been speaking to the parish authorities
about them to-day; and to-morrow, I expect, they will be
looked after. Don’t drop your head in that despairing
manner, Miss Marples; I look to you to set an example of
firmness. As to poor Mary, she is quite prostrated. You
see how this unhappy lady and her children will need te
be sustained. As to me,-I promise before God, as I did to
her to-mght, that I will never lose sight of her children.
You may think that mine is a hard task when you come to
consider that I am compelled to act the part of a buffoon
every night for the amusement of the public with the burden
ef these thoughts upon me. Unless we are made of stern,
enduring stuil, we may as well he down and die at once.”
“] cannot see them,” I said; “I cannot see her or James.”ee

FAMILY SECRETS. 199

“This is a weakness that I did not expect from you,” he
said; “it is cruel to them. It is better to go where they
are going than to live here and starve, or be turned into the
streets. You see the alternative. Something may be done
hereafter: God knows?” he continued, pushing his fingers
through his hair, and making an odd, buzzing noise with hig
lips. “ When they are yonder, Miss Marples, it would cheer
me very much to know that they were sometimes visited ;
it would cheer them. If only for the sake of that dear boy,
say that you will go. He loves you very much.”

I felt a strong inclination to weep, but heart and brain
seemed alike dried up.

“T promise you,” I said; I could not say anything more.

“ God bless you !” said Mr. Smithson, rising hastily, and
extending his hand. “I don’t know when we shall meet
again. I shall be some months absent, and Mary will write
to me. I shall hope to find you here, but-———”

He wrang my hand, passed out of the room, and I never
saw him again.

I had passed about two hours more alone when the door
was again opened, and little James came hastily forward,
and flung his arms around me, and buried his face in my
dress. I threw my work down and drew him closer to-
wards me.

I had not seen him before since we had heard of his
father’s death.

“Dear boy !” I said, “ you must be a man, indeed, now,
and console your mother !”

He lay heavily upon me for several minutes, neither weep-
ing nor speaking. :

“ How came you to be up at this hour, James?” I said ;
“it must be three o’clock.”

“Pye been to bed.” said James, lifting up his face, that
was very hot and flushed; “I’ve been sleeping in Mary’s
room with Susan, and Ellen, and Lilly. No, not sleeping ;
[ve been waking and thinking there. Ithought I should
like to go and kiss ma again, so I got up and dressed myself.
I kissed all them, too—you know who | mean; and then I
went into ma’s room and kissed her. Mary was asleep,

thare, but your aunt was sitting up, and she scolded me, and

 

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FAMILY SEORETS.

said | must try to sleep. But I can’t sleep, Margaret-—(l
had taught him to call me Margaret.) I kissed ma again,
and she did not notice me, though her eyes were wide
open, and she did not speak a word. You'll remember and
tell mamma that I kissed her, Margaret.”

I thought the child’s mind was wandering.

“You shall go to bed now, darling,” I said, “and to-mor-
row I will talk to you. Come, let me see you up stairs,
James; you will be ill.”

“Margaret !” said the boy, suddenly starting from me,
and standing erect, and throwing his head back proudly, “TI
know what they have all been talking about—Mary, and
your aunt, and Mr. Smithson. I heard Susan say we were
going to the workhouse. You won’t say it’s not true, Mar-
garet, because you know it is. But they'll never get me
into the workhouse, Margaret.”

“My dear boy!” I said, holding out my arms towards
him, but he put them back, :

“Listen to me,” he said: “ Mary does nothing but cry,
and nobody will listentome. For papa’s sake, for mamma’s
sake, 1 won't go to that place. I am old enough to do
something for myself. I can go errands, I can do work,
and there is plenty of work to do. I can do anything but
go to that place,—anything but leave you all, Margaret !”

And he came to me again, and clasped his arms round my
neck, and put his soft cheek to mine.

I held him in a long embrace; at the moment I forgot

everything beside himself, Oh, my God! how much I had
learned to love that child ! :

“ Margaret,” he said at len
“ where is your grand father 2”

“ He is asleep, love.”

“ In there?” he said, pointing to the closet.

“Yes, love.”

“Can’t I kiss him 9”

“Not now, darling; you shall when he awakes in the
morning.”

“Nay, but now, Margaret. I have a fancy to kiss him,
You call me a pet, and you won’t humor me! fee! Ty
fast go in on tiptoe, and I won't wake him. Shan’t I —”

gth, raising his sweet face,There was no resisting him.
he went and came back to me.

“Thave kissed him and he did not stir,” he said, speak

ing in alow tone. “Do you know, Margaret, when I think
of heaven, and I often do, I always seem to see your grand-

. father there—as if he was. there already : that’s silly, you
know, but I can’t help it.”

“You will meet him in heaven, darling!” I said: and at
the moment I spoke as I thought. How strangely I way-
ered betwixt that heaven and this earth !

“Now I must go,” said James. « How cold it is, Mar-
garet! isn’t it? Kiss me again.”

I held him again in a long embrace. It wrung my heart
to hear him say so little about what had evidently affected
him powerfully ; it was touching to see how he tried to feel
as well as appear brave.

“Good night!” he said. “You will remember what I
said to you, and that I have given you a dozen kisses,”

I took the candle and went out upon the landing with
him, and told him to go to bed directly, for he shivered, I
held the light up, and watched him disappear at the bend
of the stairs. Then I listened till I lost the sound of his
small feet as he ascended higher.

It was a raw, cold morning, and I, too shivered as I re-
entered the room. I drew together the atom of fire in the

rate, and brought my chair closer and resumed my work,

was glad that I had seen this child, yet I felt a strange
uneasiness about him. I wondered if he would resist being
taken to the workhouse, and how we shquld all bear to see
force used if he did. Then I wondered if such a luxury as
[ coveted with my whole soul—the luxury of rescuing this
family from a fate dreadful to all of them—had ever been
understood and appreciated by those possessing the means
of gratifying themselves and helping others. Did the hun-
dreds of like cases of which Mr. Smithson had spoken sup-
ply a solitary instance of this union of earnest sympathy,
and power, and enjoyment ? Lo

I did not sit down to bewail what appeared to be inevita:
bie; I was proud, and readily excited to resentment, J
contemplated with indignant impatience this system, im

T allowed him to go, and

     
    
    
 
  
 
 
   
  
     
 
   
 
 
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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202 PAMILY SHEOCRBTS.

Why was I cursed with this

volving a two-fold suffering.
I, that had no means to help

ower of feeling for other—

them or myself ?
In the midst of many bitter thoughts, my uneasiness

about little James was uppermost. I could not feel sure
that he had gone to bed again, and | was pretty certain that
he would not sleep. 1 fancied him sittimg upon the stairs,
‘n the cold and darkness, brooding over what was to happen
when daylight came, Or listening at his mother’s door,
anxjous to know whether she revived or spoke. I had
learned from Aunt Betsy that she had fallen into a kind of
stupor, and appeared indifferent to everything that went on.
I sat tormenting myself in this way, but I resisted the 1m-
pulse that would have led me to go and look after James.
“Tam tormented enough,” I said; “ why should I trouble
myself further? If God can see this child, and under-
stand what he suffers, and must suffer, and leave him with-
out help, I can do the same. I shall be following a great
example, if not a good one; I will not aid Fate in this de-

termination to keep me down !”

If any sleek, unimpassioned individual, one of the com-
fortable growths of prosperity, should shrink at these
thoughts as impious, I can still say that I consider them
something better than his soulless apathy. The germ of
nobler aspirations and gentler feelings was in them; if far
from heaven, they were still farther from the grovelling sel-
fishness of earth.

I sat till the day broke ; and it was not till I felt my fin-
gers too benumbed to work readily, that I found my fire
had gone out. I was busy lighting it, when Aunt Betsy
came in.

“Ts James here ?” she said.

“Nos isn’t he up stairs?” 3

“ He's not with the children; P’ve just been to look at
them. Have you seen nothing of him ”

« He was with me two or three hours ago. Oh, aunt, what
has become of him ?”

“Keep quiet,” said my aunt; ° Tl just go down and im
quire.”

He knew no one down stairs, and 1 had little hope that

  
   
  
  
  
   
 
  
 
  
  
 
  
   
  
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
   
  
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 

   

pope

pina ia pallFAMILY SECRETS. 208
she would find him there. I forgot that I was cold, almost
that I was wretched. I felt that it would be a happiness to
me if she found him. I leaned over the banister, breathless
w th anxiety.

Aunt Betsy returned. She could hear nothing of him
[ told her what he had said to me, and the truth flashed
t pon us both at once.

“Why didn’t you look after him when he said that 2” she
exclaimed, “God help the child! what can have become
of him %”? :

No idea of his intention had struck me when he spoke;
Thad burthened myself with profitless thoughts that shut
out truth from the present altogether. Now I was bowed
down by a terrible remorse and anxiety.

“Is Susan awake?” I said. “She and I had better ge
to Jem, and tell him to make inquiries in the neighbor-
hood.”

“Do so,” said my avnt, “and I'll wake grand-father.”

I threw on my bonnet and shawl, and hurried up stairs.—
Susan was dressing herself, and the two children were both
awake,

“'Where’s James ?” said Ellen.

“He will come presently,” I said. “Susan, I want to
speak with you.”

I drew her outside the door, and told her what we feared
had happened. She was not without feeling, for she began to
ery, and told me she would accompany me directly. I went
down stairs, and waited for her. Presently we proceeded
together to Jem’s cellar, and he, always ready to enter into
a tale of distress, promised to find the boy if he was te be
found in London.

It was a dreary feeling to me, returning to the Louse that
did not contain him. The idea of his being lost in the
world was terrible; death would have been preferable te
this; and I thought that, under any circumstances, I could
never know happiness if he was not found.

The day wore on. Aunt Betsy assured me that this new
calamity would not affect Mrs. Graham, who seemed insen-

sible to everything.

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BO4, FAMILY SECRETS

“The mercy of the Lord!” said my grand-father. “ He
is very good to us!” :

I thought this an odd kind of mercy. I heard him with
impatience as | thought of the certain suffering of the
child.

Early in the day a workhouse official came to fetch this
family. My dislike to mere looking upon suffering kept me
aloof; but I caught a glimpse of the pale, feeble woman,
as they carried her down; and I kissed the children, and
and promised to come and see them, and to bring James

with me if possible.

CHAPTER &.

Taree or four weeks passed and nothing was heard ot
James, and his mother had died in the meantime. In the
meantime, too, our affairs became more desperate. I can-
not tell what prosperity may do in the way of hardening,
but I do know that adversity and suffering may render us
callous to much. ‘This perpetual punishment roused my
rebellion, and I would not help fate to crush us down. I
had no idea of resignation, which appeared to me to be
nothing more than an acquiescence inevil. “There is noth-
ing for it but to be indifferent,” I said; “ what does it mat-
ter how we get through this life, which we did not seek %”
It became clear that we could no longer afford to pay se
high arent, and Jem was applied to, to know if we could nat
procure cheaper lodgings. He looked ruefully at us when
this question was put. Our present lodging was cheap, con-
sidering the accommodation it afforded. We required two
rooms, aud in the confusion of our trouble we had ventured
to hope what was unattainable.

“TI know what you might do,” said Jem, “but you
wouldn’t like it.”

He was urged to speak. His proposition was, that m
grand-father should sleev with him in his cellar, in whic

BU enim ear
oe peaksFAMILY SECRETS. 908
ease he could find a small room for my aunt and myself for
three shillings a week. When we considered that Jem
slept upon a heap of. straw, my aunt and I remonstrated
against this; but my grand-father overruled us, and it was
determined that it should be so.

We gave notice to leave our present abode, and Jem pro-
cured us another lodging. It was some distance off, and I
one day expressed regret at leaving Mary.

“Tt won’t make much difference, Margaret,” said Aunt
Betsy ; “Mary will soon be in a better country, and you
would not see her much longer if you stopped here.”

“You don’t mean to say that Mary is dying, aunt ?”

“She is, though ; and a blessed thing, too, for her: what
has she got to live for ?”

I could not understand the blessedness of being allowed
one fervid glimpse of life, and sickening at it, and turning
away with thankfulness to die. What was there that I
could understand ?

Two nights before we quitted the house, I lay restlessly
beside Aunt Betsy, unable to sleep. I thought of all the
early instruction [had received, and of which J hadnever been
able to make anything. I was particularly puzzled by the
injunction to love even our enemies, and yet not set our af-
fections upon earthly things. I was singularly blinded not
to comprehend that an enemy had an immortal spirit, in
whose welfare God allowed me to feel a common interest
with himself. I was troubled, and in darkness and my
thoughts were very bitter, when I heard a hurried step up-
on the stairs, and some one stopped at our door and knocked
loudly. I called to inquire who it was, and Susan answered
me,—

és It is me. Mary is very ill, and I wish you would come
up to her.” :

I hurried on a dress and shawl, and accompanied Susan
up stairs, Aunt Betsy promising to follow us. Susan, who
had a light, seemed very much alarmed ; as we approached
the door she stopped me.

“ Would you mind going in alone? Mary frightened me
ao. Look: she woke me, making such a dreadful noise in
her throat; and when I got a light she stared at me and

 

 

SS Ses atin «28

hen alg a
et as ee ayThen I ran down to you.

    

said, ‘Oh, Susan, it’s hard to die ?’
I can’t go in again yet.” |

I took the candle from her and went in alone. I caught
a glimpse of the white face, and the silence struck a fore-
boding chill to my heart. I approached closely and bent
over her. Her eyes were wide open and fixed upward ; her
ips slightly apart, showing the white, glistening teeth ; her
hands firmly clenched. I placed the back of my hand upon
her mouth. No breath came, and the lips were cold though
her cheek was warm. I was aware that I stood, for the first
time, in the presence of death.

I was awed, but not terrified ; involuntarily I knelt down
by the bedside and buried my face in my hands. Her death
appeared very sudden to me, who had never observed an
change in her. Was the young spirit yet hovering over
that poor.room, or with the sorrow had all the remembran-
ces of earth passed away from it 3

Aunt Betsy came in, and, without speaking, she closed
the girl’s eyes and crossed the clenched hands over the bo-
som.

“@o down now,” she said, in a hushed tone. Susan is
frightened. She can sleep with you. | shall stop here.
I can do all that is needed for this poor clay myself.” :

I rose up, and bending for an instant over the dead, I.
kissed the pale cheeks and forehead. ‘Then I went down to
Susan. Her grief was very clamorous, and to the last she
refused to look upon her sister again : death seemed to frigh-
ten her. On the afternoon of the following day a pauper
coftin was brought, and at night Mary’s remains were carried
away.

looked over her papers, and found several letters from
Mr. Smithson, which I had seen before. They related
chiefly to James for whom he had advertised repeatedly
without any result. I wrote informing him of Mary’s death
and gave him our new address. :

Susan accompanied us, and remained with us for a time,
for she could not bear to enter her own room, even after her
sisters body was carried’ out of it. We were all anxious
about this girl, whose violent grief soon subsided, leaving
her more thoughiless then before We *» vain tried to keep

Mo inan ann

av agdggia) 204d a aes nkFAMILY SECRETS. 207

her to her work; upon some pretext or other she would go
out and at the end of a week she informed us that another girl
had agreed to live with her and pay half the rent. My grand-
father made inquiries into the character of this girl, and
finding that it was altogether disreputable he remonstrated
with Susan, who defended herself very boldly.

“Tm not going to work myself to death, as Mary did,”
she said. “The world thinks no better of us for that. !
won't be clothed in rags all-my life, and half starved; and
nobody has any right to say anything if I can better my-
self.”

It was, indeed, a terrible thing for a young girl left alone
in the world to look forward to a life of incessant toil and
struggle for what did not suffice to keep soul and body to-
gether. It was still worse to fall into a career of shame and
certain greater misery. These experiences were stumbling-
blocks in my way. I thought of the pious parents, who had
made a pet of this girl; of Mary, who had watched over
her with such solicitude. It seemed a mockery to tell me
that these, the lost, were happy, while thie object of their
solicitude was allowed to cast away all their counsel and
rush headlong into a life of degrad&jion and sin.

Two or three times after this Susan visited us, dressed in
tawdry finery and bolder in manner than ever. The stern
rebuke she met did not suit her, and we necessarily lost
sight of one another. We had lost sight, too, of all those
towards whom we had been drawn by strong cords of sympa-
thy ; sorrow, and difficulty, and privation seemed to lay
waste with the speed of a tempest, and once more we stood
alone upon the earth.

Alone, except for poor Jem ; and how kind he was! He
still contrived to get a little life out of us for himself, though
what with hard work, and poor fare, and anxiety, we had
not much worth calling life left for ourselves. At a time of

reat difficulty, and as a last resource, 4 applied for’a place -

f all-work at a neighboring shop, and was dismissed with

the brief intimation that my looks were against me. |
In what respect they were against me I had not ee

snformed. I felt more humiliated by this repulse than I ha

ever been before, though I did not know why. Was I toe

orn cece tipi t
steered 9

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208 FAMILY SECRETS.

 

e-looking, or too well dressed, or W238
there something worse in my appearance? It was not vani-
ty that made me fee] abashed, almost frightened. With
everything else against me, st seemed hard that my looks
shuld be against me too. Shortly afterwards I fancied I
found the solution to this mystery.

Neither Aunt Betsy nor myself could find anything bet:
ter to do than the ill-paid needlework, and we generally sat
up at it half the night. One morning early I missed her
from my side, and looking up I saw her extended at full
length upon the floor. I went to her instantly, and spoke
to her, but she did not answer. She was lying on her face,
and I tried to lift her. But she was too heavy forme. I
thought she was dead.

As fast as my trembling fingers would permit I dressed
myself, and went out of the room. I knocked at the first door
I came to, but it was very early in the morning and no one
answered me. J ran down stairs and knocked at another
door, and a man’s voice called out, “ What’s the row ?”

I hastily explained how matters stood, and begged that
some one would go up stairs with me. The man promised
that his wife should follow me directly, and I went back. In
a few minutes several women entered the room, for human ex-
tremity will readily excite human curiosity, if nothing more,
though I do believe that the poor are generally willing to
help one another, Aunt Betsy was lifted upon the bed, and
all declared that she was still living, though quite insensible.
Some said that she had had an attack of paralysis; others,
that it was a fit of apoplexy. I asked if there was a doctor
living near, and begged that one might be sent for.

“'The doctors hereabouts don’t like to come to poor folks,
if they’re not paid something beforehand,” said one of the
women. “Have you any tin?”

Guessing that tin meant money I wrung my hands, and
said I had none. “Good God!” I said, “she surely will not
be allowed to perish—some one will come to her %”

“We must have the parish doctor,” said another woman ,
“here, I'll go an’ fetch him myself,” and she went out.

“ Blow the doctors!” said a man, who put his head in a'

young, or too delicat

   
   
  
 
  
 
  
  
   
  
  
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
  
  
   
  
  
  
   
 
 
 
 
   

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Pe aIFAMILY SECRETS. 209

the door. “The woman ’ll be dead afore thou gets back
Cl go and see if old Snelling won’t come.” a

As far as lay in their own power, these poor and evident-
iy coarse people gave us he Ip. Oue of the women Se for
my grand- ae and before he arrived Aunt Betsy opened

her eyes. I spoke to her, but she did not seem to know me}
and we soon ascertained that the use of her right side was

© ers a=
gone, the hand and arm lying quite 2 as if ¢ , Her speech

was gone too, but she made odd sounds, oe strug; oled to
get up, or to push us away with all her remaining strength.
My grand-father was the first to arrive, and |

her with mute sorrow. The man ane . ad been for a doatar
returned to say that old Snelling refused to come; |

it was a case for the parish: and when the woman who
went for the parish doctor arrived, . was only to say that
he would come presently.

It was late in the afternoon when he at lengt h did arrive.
If this had been a case requiring immediat te help, here was
another instance of the power - of 7 poverty to ¢ crush us from
the face of the earth. He e: caniin ed her very coolly, and
declared that there was no hope of her recovery , though she
might live as she was for years to come.

This seemed as terrible as anything ae could have hap-
pened to us. Aunt Betsy had been our main stay, being al-
ways determined and persevering, never murmuring if never

57

 

oat

hoping much ; and I individually had more faith in her reso-
lution than in my grand-father’s patience
had been so strong, and apparently in better health than any
of us, should have been thus suddenly stricken down, was
inexplicable to me, unless [ concluded tha t Providence was
in a league with the world to put us down. There was
something like despair in my heart, but the old feeling of re-
gentment and defiance rose up to neutralize its effects.

The doctor que us rather roughly about our means
of obtaining a livelihood, and he regarded me with a glance
that was particularly offensive. My grand-father explained
his own partial blindness and helple ssness, and the struggle
that my aunt and I had to earn sufficient to keep us alive
from day to day.

13

  
  
 

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210 FAMILY SEORETS.

“Then 1 suppose she'll have to go into the house f” said
the doctor.

“ { did not think my poor sister would ever come to that,”
said my grand-father, clasping his trembling hands together.
“But God’s will be done! This poor child can neither at-
tend to her, nor work for her support; and I, alas! am inca-
pable of doing anything.”

“ Well, I'll report the case,” said the doctor. “I suppose,
the sooner she’s taken away the better ?”

My grand-father only bowed his head, and buried his face
in his hands. I longed to say something; I had never felt so
strong to do as I did in this our worst extremity: all my
past failures seemed as nothing, and I was determined to
rescue Aunt Betsy from this cold and degrading charity if
I could.

“© grand-father !” I said, “do not permit this! I will
work hard, if you will only help me to keep up the spirit of
independence; if you will only not sink down as you do,
lower day by day, till you make life unendurable to me!
I will work, if you allow my aunt to remain with us; if not
you paralyse all my efforts.”

“Don’t reproach me, Margaret,” said my grand-father, in
his meek way. “I may have committed many mistakes in
my life, but I always thought to do for tue best. This
child,” he continued, turning to the doctor, “is unaccustom-
ed to this kind of trial: you see how willing she 1s, but she
has not the power to do what she would.”

“I think you ought to be thankful to have your aunt well
taken care of, eh ?” said the doctor, looking at me.

I turned away from him, all the rebellious pride of my
heart flashing in my eyes: God help me, how I hated the
whole world! how I loathed myself as the chief cause‘of all
this misery! how the anger and contempt of the moment
weakened my affection of my grand-father !

I could not sympathize with tameness, though I could
readily feel for suffering. I could have respected my grand-
father’s piety more if he had boldly stood up in defence of
the rights and doctrines of Christianity, instead of sitting
meekly down to endure its penalties. If I must be mada
familiar with the hypocrisy, and outrage, and wrong practis-

~FAMILY SECRETS. $1)

ed in the name of Christ, I must also be permitted to sneak,
to rebel against it, or die. I considered it an oppression
and a wrong that we, sv willing to work and working so
hardly, should not be able to save ourselves from being
beholden to charity; that the charity thus forced upon us
should be made as degrading and repulsive as possible. I
was in the toils, however; and I only did what I could. I
acquiesced outwardly in the necessity against which my
soul rebelled; and Aunt Betsy was taken to the same work:
house in which Mrs. Graham and her children had been
placed. We had both visited the latter several times, and
had been struck by the great change in their manner and
appearance. Their hair had been cut close, they were cloth-
ed in the work-house livery, aud work-house influences had
changed them spiritually still more. Except that they ap-
peared cowed and frightened, there was almost an idiotic
apathy about them, that contrasted strangely with what
they had been such a short time before. They received our
caresses without making any response , they saw us come
and depart, and preserved the dogged decorum that was en-
forced upon them. ‘They wore the badge of the worst de-
scription of human slavery ; for in the work-houses of Eng-
land no man can bear himself like a man, and no woman
struggle for the smallest privilege of her sex, and no child
Gnd exercise for the bounding thoughts and tender sympa~
thies of childhood.

In proportion as I wrenched myself away from Christiani-
ty—and I did, altogether—what was there to bind me to it,
save the suffering against which I rebelled ?—I felt resolute

about standing boldly in my own defence as an immortal

creature ; for betwixt me and those with whom I came in
contact, there was something more than the clay that can
so readily be beaten down by clay. My aspirations all
tended to what was great and noble, though I had never
been allowed to act greatly or nobly. There was a power
within me superior to the outward power; if L had possessed
no hope or confidence in myself, there was no restraiming
influence to prevent me laying down life at once; and I did
not fear death, or believe that any judgment beyond the
grave could afflict me as had done the judgments of thisoo
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AMILY SECRETS.

baad

213

world. 1 was always within hearing of some apirit-voleé
that told me to go onward; I felt that my rest was not
here,—not amid oppression and degradation—even if

+

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ap
tio)

might only look on to the retributions of time.

I resumed my work, with a conviction upon me that
some new change would’ wrench me away from it suddenly ,
for the wildest hope would not lead me to imagine that I
could pay our rent and get life out of it for my grand-father
and myself. I could not keep altogether from Aunt Betsy,
though she was not conscious of my presence when I went,
and these visits encroached sadly upon my time. During
an interval, when my grand-father was too ill to go out, or

to leave his heap of straw in Jem’s cellar, I one day went to
the work-house alone. I found my aunt much as usual;
her bodily stren
down to kiss her she struck me.

“What, you're at it again !” said the nurse, seizing her
left arm and shaking her violently. “If I had my way Id
put you in a straight-jacket, you old vixen! She’d kill
every one of us if she could, the varmin! and she eats like
a horse !” 3

«Be gentle with her,” I said; “ pray be gentle.”

eee

@

“Oh, yes, be gentle indeed!” said the woman ; “take
care of her-yourself, and see how you like it. People troub-

W
ling us with their relations, and then grumbling! it’s very
nice, that is !”

Troubling us! This woman was a section of the great
We, the potentiality of earth, whose possibilities may not be
interfered with, and whose dictation aspires to absolutism.
{ observed this spirit in all the work-house officials ; a sense
of being personally put upon by the destitution and afilic-
tion placed under their charge, as if they not only bore the
trouble but the cost, and considered both as thrown away.
Could humanity be more degraded anywhere, ye whose
sympathies wander to far-off lands and to another race.

As I lingered at my aunt’s bedside a man came up, whose
dre.s, perhaps, entitled him to be styled a gentleman. The
nurse curtseyed to him as he approached.

“ Who's this ?” he said, pointing to me.
“It’s the woman’s niece, she’s com to see her,” answeredFAMILY SECRETS, 913

the nurse meekly. How meck she could be to that man,
who had his own amount of worldly power over hor! |

“What do you dress in that flaunting way for?” he said,
rudely seizing the skirt of my dress, and dropping it. “You
look as if you could keep your aunt yourself; and you could,
I dare say, only you won’t. The parish has enough to do
amongst you. Do you work at all now, and what do you
get a week? Come, I’m not to be deceived: Pm up to
all the dodges.” :

I had involuntarily glanced down at the genteel, but now
faded dress, which my grand-father had’ bought for me, and
which I had worn at Mrs. Wilton’s, How could I sum-
marily explain to this man that I had not the power of re-
placing this dress by a plainer one; that I was compelled to
wear what I had, or wear nothing?

How, too, could I, at an instant’s notice, quell the insub-
ordination that was in me, and that was so antagonistic to
the spirit of this free British soil? I spoke what occurred
to me at the moment.

“If by work,” [ said, “I could have kept my aunt from
this place, she would not have been here. If any power is
given me in the future, I will take her away from this place,
—-[ am not satisfied with the treatment she receives. I ap-
pea! to God from it and you!”

“She’s drunk,” said the man, turning to the nurse;
“these handsome girls all come to that, the vagabonds!
What did you let her in for ?”

“ Please, sir,” said the nurse, humbly, “how could I help
it? She was let in, and we’ve orders to receive visitors.—
Vm sure J don’t want the like of her here !”

“Now go about your business,” said the man, turning to
me roughly; “and if you come here again, come in a
proper state. Ill look after you sharply, you maj depend
upon it.” ae ae

What had I to appeal to in that place? I east one
agonized look at my aunt, one glance of scorn and defiance
at the two persons in whose charge I left her, and walked
out. Drunken I was, but noi with wine: long months of
starvation had taken effect upon me, and the scene I had

just escaped from confused me: my head was giddy, and I

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914 FAMILY SEORETS.

staggered as I walked on. I hada long way to walk, too,
and 1 was in a crowd, and for a long time I did not notice,
eurther than to hurry on as fast as 1 could, several smart
taps that descended upon my shoulder, as if from a stick
behind. 1 thought this might be the result of accident,
and cross2d the street; but the blows were repeated, and
then I turned round. I found myself close upon 4 stout,
red-faced, elderly man, who had every appearance of being
wealthy. He was attired in the finest broadcloth, and there
was a fat, self-satisfied, important smile upon his face, thet
was as impertinent and offensive as anything could well be
betwixt him and me. He held the ‘dentical stick in his

hand.

“Tf you
thank you to keep your distance.
annoy any one in the streets.”

I turned and walked on, but he now kept up at my side.

-« ome,” he said, “ you've a very pretty face, and | think
you want a new dress. If you'll go with me, I'll buy you

one.”

This was the very way to excite in me a disgust that al-
most took away the power of speech. I hurried on in the
hope of escaping him, but he kept up with me and an-
further, until I was compelled to turn upon him

are the person who struck me,” I said, “T will
You have no right to

noyed me
again.

g
“Tf you wil not believe that this conduct 1s offensive to

ne,” I said, “ 1 must claim protection from some one. You

1
derstand that you have

miserable old sinner! cannot you un
no power over me 4”

I quickened my pace, and now he fell behind; but again
and again the stick descended upon my shoulder as before.
What more could I do than I had done to save myself in
Near home I got into a denser crowd, 0¢-
casioned by some disturbance in the street, and | was cros-
sing over to the other side to avoid it, when my shoulders
were suddenly seized, and I was fairly wrenched round.

« Who the h—ll are you that talk to. respectable people
sn that way ? you infernal tatterdemalion !”

It was the inflamed and angry face of the stout gentle
man with the stick that met my now really frightened gaze

this case ?» FAMILY SECRETS. 215

I had roused his choler; I had spoken insolently to the great
man, and he was not used to such liberties. He spoke in a 4
loud. passion-choked voice, and people turned to look at |

SOP Tee EE ES:

4 us. He had his revenge, and I got home as well as |
could.

It was a sultry, hot day in July,—-hot enough, God

knows, in the close street where I hved, and in the attic,

7

upon whose roof the fervid rays of the sun were poured
down all day long. What, with my exhaustion through j
: want of food and rest, my mental suffering, and this in-
tense heat, I thought during several minutes that there was ;
nothing for it but to die. Feeling so exhausted as I did—
too much exhausted to return to my work—what was I to
do? 1 was in arrear with my rent; I had been threatened
with expulsion if I did not pay it ona certain day, and I
knew that I could not pay. My grand-father, too ill to leave ;
Jem’s cellar, was partly kept by him; and with all this a
help I could not manage to keep myself, :
I sat a long time idling in the chair, upon which I had +
first fallen. One advantage of my experience was, that my z
thorough contempt for the people I encountered served to t
break down the ordinary barries between us. I was not to {
be awed by money or power, used only for base purposes ; —
and I regarded their possessors only as so many brute e
beasts. On the other hand, I loathed myself for thus lying
at the mercy of those I was compelled to scorn. As to
God—lI-did believe there was a God—l could not help it if
he chose to look calmly and indifferently on during these
contentions amongst. his creatures. I came to the conelu- |
sion that I might only rely upon such power and resolution |
as were in myself for self-defence. ok
And what was the use of that power within myself, |
which just served to show me what was right and wrong, and |
wrench me away from infamy, and hold up the abuses of 4
petty authority to my individual disapprobation? I did not
know; but I sat with clenched hands and a detei mined will |
to do something, when Jem came 10. T was afraid that my :
grand-father’s illness had become more serious, | I had seen
him in the morning, and had promised to see him agam 1

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216 FAMILY SECRETS.

“ Now, don’t you never fret for nothin’,” said Jem in
answer to my eager inquiry. “That blessed old creeter feels
hisself worse, an’ he wants to see you; but he'll be better
in no time, I'll tell you what he’s done for me—set me
straight on the way to heaven, an’ I mean to follow where
he goes. Lord? what sinnifies all the good things of this
here world when some day or other they must come to
nothin’ |”

I could not enter into the spirit of Jem’s philosophy. I
was just considering how I was to procure a little of the
chief good of this world—money, without which it was
pretty clear that my endurance would be tried too far. I
could trace all the evil that had befallen me to the want ot
it. Poverty had not only subjected me to ill usage and im-
position, but also: to distrust. As the chandler’s wife had
said, “my looks were against me.” My shabby gentility,
even what small portion of beauty I possessed, only served
to surround me with suspicion. The law of England re-
quires that poverty be made as unsightly as possible—wit-
ness the effects of work-house treatment,—and_ the poverty
that has not yet come to this can only be supposed to be on
the way to it. The world was evidently disposed to believe
that I was thriving on a life of infamy.

Poor Jem, the only human being who would give me
credit for anything better, was being put upon by our
necessities. Even if my grand-father had been well enough
to be removed, I could not have thought of bringing him te
the home from which I myself expected to be thrust forth,
What was to become of me in that event I did not know;
I was determined not to be driven into the work-house: all
‘he rest was chaos to me. [rose up to accompany Jem,
and we walked out together.

  
  
   
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
  
 
 
 
  
   
 
   
   

\ pe ae

aiepemetneFAMILY SHEORSETS.

ee

TE TTS UE

CHAPTER XI. | a

ee

 

| As Jem and I passed along, he pointed out to me two well- i
dressed people, a man and a woman, both of whom he saic it
obtained a good living by singing at night in the streets.— a
People will pay for a momentary gratification of the kind
if they happen to be in humor with themselves, and at

night the pleasure-going people, who are the most liberal, A
are chiefly abroad. I dou’t know what made this account A
dwell in my mind at the moment ; I had no thought of do- a
ing likewise then: perhaps it struck me that this form of a

pauperism was more attractive than the other. © :

i found my grand-father very weak; he seemed to be 3
sinking gradually. Jem had managed to prop him up by a 4
placing a sackful of shavings behind, and when I had seated =
myself at his side on a low stool the faithful fellow went
out, saying he should be back in no time,

My grand-father took one of my hands and held it between
his own caressingly.

“My poor child,” he said, “I did not think to bring you
to this when, nearly two years ago, I came here in the hope
that we might be able to live by our industry. It has ,
leased God that two of us should be stricken, and you are lett a

 

P : 3 |
to struggle alone. In this extremity I can only advise, I will :

not pretend to dictate to you. I have no fear that you w.ll |
stoop to anything that 18 dishonorable ; it 1s dreadful enough s
to contemplate for you a long life of toil and privation like =i

this. I may not be allowed to remain much longer on the :
earth, Margaret, and then you will be still more desolate ;
then, too, you will have to be your own advisor, and you
are young to be 80 left. [ have tried to bring you up im

omnes

‘
pice tpi atiowtinie: te

ay,

Sui ia ms:ara he MALT LIU reds ley est MIN ARE LANAI i FH: Faded tsb ESCORT ETL HL PHP Teibd aes stchgresels Mei PHHLS Fiisadstae uae MIMS aft Wiabidbig aise

218 FAMILY SECRETS.

the fear of the Lord, but I will place no further restriction
upon you. You know the reason why I have kept you out
of the reach of Uncle Stephen; I account the death of the
body light in comparison with the death of the soul. Con-
sidering how I am leaving you, however, I can but. leave
you free to act as you think best, or as you may be com-
pelled to act. Uncle Stephen would not allow you to want
bodily, perhaps—I may say, I feel sure he would respect
my last wish that he should not interfere with your spiritual
welfare. I however dread the influence of such a man over
an impulsive creature like yourself, as much as I ever dread-
edit. In him you have already found more truly Christian
practice than you found in many professing to be the fol-
lowers of Christ. I have not been blind to this fact, Marga-
ret, all these months, and it has pained me to the sonl.
Now, I do not say to you, continue to keep away from Un-
cle Stephen ; I cannot do that now: but while you honor
him for the help that he will readily afford you, shun his
dangerous sophisms, for there is spiritual death inthem. If
this must needs be, Margaret, it had best be done at once :
not for my sake but yours, for it is little more I may re-
quire upon earth, and I do not personally shrink .from a
pauper coffin and grave—poor Betsy will have no better—
though for your sake I wish it had been otherwise.”

This speech was painful to me for many reasons. I was
already sufficiently alienated from Christianity without the
intervention of Uncle Stephen. I could not afflict my
grand-fatiicr by telling him this truth; I could not reassure
him by any evidence that I remained firm in my first faith.
My pride revolted at the thought of throwing myself upon
Unele Stephen in this abject penury, and as a last resource,
after not treating him well by disappearing so suddenly,
and hiding trom him so pertinaciously. I could not bear te
contemplate my grand-father’s death; I clung to the hope
of his recovery. There was no part of his speech to which
[ could give a satisfactory reply, so I answered evasively.
Without intending to make a merit of shunning Uncle
Stephen, I prayed to be allowed to struggle on a little while
without his help. As I spoke hopefully of continuing my
own efforts, my grand-father gazed wistfully upon me.

pict EePAE Ae Se OR ow ee 219

“There is one thing to be seriously considered,” he said :
* ghether it is more degrading to enter a work-house, and
eo be indebted to public charity, or to allow one’s-self to be
a burden upon a poor fellow like this Jem. You cannot,
my child, maintain us both by your labor; you must not
be left alone in the world. I wish you to consent to my re-
moval at once from this place.”

I knew that it was madness to think of him remaining where
he was, lying upon straw that scarcely protected him from
the earthen floor, that seemed always damp; half suffocated
by the close, impure atmosphere; and almost all along
without attendance, as well as medicine or proper food. If
I would much rather have seen him dead than the inmate
of a work-house, I had no thought of allowing him to linger
on in this state until more than a parish coffin would not be
needed. The vary desperation of wy thoughts had struck
out an idea, and I resolved to make one more t1 ial before |
gave up. |

“Give me this one day, grand-father,” I said; “I fancy
that fortune is about to turn in our favor. If I am disap-
pointed, I will not seek to detain you here longer than to-
morrow.”

My grand-father fell back exhausted with the effort he
had made; he murmured a few words expressive of his ac-
quiescence in what I thought best. I had never before had
so much responsibility upon me; there was no one to Con-
trol me in any way, and I launched out in a manner that
neither Aunt Betsy nor my grand-father would have ventur-
ed to do. When Jem came in I sent him to fetch the wo-
man whom I had seen in his cellar some months before, and
who had lately been kind in occasionally waiting upon my
grand-father. She had washed for him, refusing any fur-
ther remuneration than an occasional pound of soap; and
no one that has not been reduced to the same straits, can
imagine the relief that this assistance afforded. me at a time
when everything fell upon myself. Upon this occasion, |
gavé her nearly all the money I had, to purchase some sago
and wine for my grand-father. I was convinced that his
chief ailment was starvation ; and I did not see the use of
hoarding the trifling sum that my ordinary labor would not

 

 

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290 FAMILY SECRETS.

allow me to increase. These petty cares, the sordid produce
of days for whose return I felt no thankfulness, inspired me
with an impatient disdain.

I left the woman with my grand-father. I could make
no bargain with her for any further attendance than what
her own natural kindliness of heart prompted her to give.
I could not promise that I would pay for her time and la-
bor; yet when I thanked her with a full heart, and she told
me not to bother myself, I felt more confidence in her than
I could have felt in any mere hireling.

It was still broad day-light when I went back to my room.
The house in which I lived was tenanted by people who
seemed to be honest, and who worked hardly enough, but,
like many hard-working people in England, they were im-
provident. The men _ were generally drunk from Satur-
day until Tuesday or Wednesday ; yet they could in the short
time left earn enough for dissipation, if nothing for comfort.
The man who earned most in this house was an ivory-turner
and carver; he was very clever in his way, but his family
was in a more forlorn condition than any other in the place,
because he was seldom sober. Then the locality was curs-
ed with all the horrible consequences of drunkenness;—
ae foul language, fighting,—miserable wives with
their eyes blackened,—more miserable children, dragged up
in any fashion that ehanced, running about wild, always
ragged and dirty, and half-starved, sometimes crouching in
curters in terror, and sometimes running out in the middle
of the night screaming murder. No man who brings him-
self to the work-house by this reckless course of improvi-
dence has a right to better treatment than he receives; and,
doubtless, a large proportion of the pauper slaves of Eng-
land is supplied by like means.

A portion of my work was lying upon a chair, and I tossed
it away impatiently. I had not returned to set down to
that. I had tasted no food since the morning; and the
woman who lived in the next room came in to tell me that
her kettle was boiling, if I wanted to make tea. I accapt-
ed her offer; and I must say for the very poor, amongst
whom I lived so long, that such little acts of kindness, ap-
parently trifling, but very serviceable, are not unfrequent¥ A Melee yo GHORETS. 99} : 4

amongst them. I swallowed a cup of tea, without milk or | ae
sugar, and ate some dry bread ; and then I sat down to 4
wait for the night and darkness.

I needed both for the work I intended to do. The great i
scheme upon which I had. been brooding half the day, and i:
which I trusted to save nre from something worse, was to ea

ee aT Pe HS Te

 
  
  
   
  
  

siny in the streets, as Jem had informed me others did with i
advantage. I did not allow myself to shrink from this task ef
distasteful and terrible as it was to me. My horror of the 4
work-house officials was something still a | ;

a

oozed away. I called to my aid the contempt with which :
+ ° 7’ +

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)
human beings had inspired me. What did their thoughts ae
matter to me? As to the exhibition I bout t a
of myself,—none knew me; none would
passing out of my sight. There was, f
and at about ten o'clock I walked out of the id
muffled myself up as well as I could, an 4

towards a quiet quarter, not far of

genteel streets and squares. I persuaded m self that | a

would be best to begin in an empty 7
one, and sing on until some one came, D3 om
might becone more used to it. I could si i
taste and skill, for my grand-father and ;
been excellent singers in their day, anc
great pains with me. I at length found a 4
made a desperate plunge into the middle of

menced.
] T 7 1 year ae
when I heard a Goor open.

I had been singing some time wh

 

Some one called,—‘ Here !” | a footman

placed sixpence in my hand. gi ; took my |

yoize away for several minutes eo ake ate vb ut poor little :

James called a “ choking in his throat ” but I made anotkel |

desperate effort, commenced again. |
nearer and f

Presently I heard footsteps approaching ; neare : #
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nearer they came, and then stopped; and 1 sang On i
lifted my eyes, and saw that two gentlemen were standing a
verv near me; then I began to falter again, and was about ;

stators came forward and .

to stop, when one of the two spectat
seized my hand.
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223 FAMILY SECRETS.

“ Margaret !” he exclaimed, ‘why, this 1s worse than
singing the songs of Israel in a strange land! Come with
me.”

It was Uncle Stephen, and he spoke with the old tone of
authority. He placed my arm in his, still grasping my
hand, and turned to his companion.

“You go home, George, and tell your mother I have
found them,” he said; and George disappeared. “Is thir
the best thing you can find to do in a Christian land ?” con-
tinued Uncle Stephen.

“The very best,” I said, “as you will acknowledge when
you hear all. O Uncle Stephen! we have suffered since

ou saw us last !”

“But Thomas Marples to permit this! Is he dead, or
has trouble driven him out of his wits ?”

I explained that this was my first attempt of the kind;
that my grand-father knew nothing of my intention; and I
begged that all knowledge of it might be kept from him.
We were walking slowly down the street, when Uncle Ste-
phen stopped.

“You must show-me where youlive,” hesaid. “Are we
going the right way ?” ,

We were not, and we turned back. I told him he would
be still more shocked when he saw the place in which my
grand-father was lying; too ill, I feared, to be removed. I
gave him a brief account of our troubles, and Aunt Betsy’s
affliction.

“Betsy Marples in a work-house !” he exclaimed. “She
who was always so energetic, so resolute to struggle for in-
dependence! Damn the ——! the devil!”

I had never heard Uncle Stephen swear before; I was
sorry to see him so moved.

“Tam almost grieved that we have met,” I said; “it is
too bad that we should bring further trouble upon you.”

“ Hold-your tor, Margaret ; you know nothing about
it,” he replied. “There wasn’t one amongst you fitter to
enter this inhospitable wilderness of London than a child!
For the future I shall expect you to obey me.”

I thought it necessary to announce him to my grand
father, who was too weak to endure any sudden emotionVAM ERY SECRETS.
he therefore agreed to wait outside when we arrived at Jem’s
cellat~ I found the latter standing cver the fire, stirring
some/sage he was boiling. He said my grand-father was
much better, and had had a long sleep. :

“Ido feel stronger, Margaret,” said my grand-father, who
was now awake. Of course he did! He had simply been
starved, and nourishing food was the remedy for his com-
plaint. I told him, as gently as I could, of my meeting
with Uncle Stephen. For a moment he seemed greatly
moved; then he requested Jem to raise him up.

“You have brought him with you, I suppose ?” he said.
“Tell him to come to me.” ?

I fetched Uncle Stephen in. Tears rushed to my eyes as I
witnessed the meeting of these two, who had been friends
from boyhood, and through the course of a long life.—
Grasping each other’s hands in silence, both looked eagerly
into the face of the other. Uncle Stephen at length shook
his head.

“ A pretty dance you have led me this year and a half
he said. ‘ George and I have been looking for you all over
London. I even advertised you, as I might have done any
other missing articles. I promised, in the usual style, that
if you would communicate with me all the past. should be
forgotten and forgiven, and that I would never interfere with
your plans. Did that never meet your eye #”

“Yes” said my grand-father ; “JT saw the advertisement

19

?
Mr. Chaundy,” he continued, turning to me, “ point-
ed it out to me. What could I do, Stephen? If we had
been prosperous, you would have heard from us, as I told
you; as it was, I knew we could only bring trouble upon
you, perhaps more upon ourselves.”

“ O Thomas, Thomas, you might have trusted me !”

“T hope to be able to do that now,” said my grand-father.
“You see this child has no friend left beside yourself.—
As for me, I am nearly blind, Stephen, and I ought to hope
that I shali not trouble any one long.”

“ You've had your own way long enough,” said Uncle
Stephen; “now I’ve got you fast, and I shall have no mercy
upon you. I shall expect you to leave this place im the
morning, whether you are well enough to leave it or not.—

twice.

 

 

 

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FAMILY SECRETS.

The longer you stop here, the worse you will be. Where is
that fellow gone to ?”

He looked round for Jem, who, with his usual delicacy ot
feeling, had gone out. I opened the cellar door and saw
him leaning against a lamp-post, and beckoned him in,

“ Jem has been about the best friend we ever had,” said
my grand-father, turning towards him. “I don’t know
what we should have done without him,”

$6 TF A)

He’s a fine fellow !” said Uncle Stephen. “I saw that

at first. So you don’t preach one thing and practice ano-
ther, eh? Shake hands!”
nD

or Jem seemed
some diffidence, but

“We shall be capi
I must give you some instructions. I want to remove this
old gentleman to-morrow; in the meantime, he must have
some nourishment. What have you got to give him ?”

Jem said he had some sago and wine, which seemed to
have done him good,

“TI don’t know that he could have anything better,” said
Uncle Stephen. “And so you are his nurse ?”

fe an’ Sally takes it turn an’ turn about,” said Jem.
ee ;

t
a l] 99
4

;
al friends by and bye,” he said. “ Now

4

“ A neighbor of mine, as ’ll do a’most anything for eny-
body,” said Jer
into capital company, Thomas,” said Uncle
Stephen. |, I must see Sally to-morrow, and you too.
Now, Thomas, I shall take Margaret home with me to-night,
and remember that you are to come to her. If you don’t
by Jove, you shan’t see her again 9”
My grand-father smiled,
“TI have nothing to say against your arrangement, Ste-
phen,” he said. “I don’t know how to thank you for tak-

ing such a heavy load of trouble off my mind. God bless
ees 54
you

—

s you, Thomas! TI believe in- God as
muchas you do, though Betsy always would say J didn’t.
Now keep yourself quiet till morning, you've talked enough.
Margaret, bid your grand-father good night.”

I approached and kissed him, and received his blessing

    
  
 
  
  
  
    
  
    
    
   
   
 
 
  
 
 
   
     
  
 
  
    
    
   
  
 

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FAMILY SECRETS, 925

nd I shook hands with Jem. Uncle Stephen drew him in
to a corner, and spoke with him for a minute, and then we
two walked out. We walked to some distance in silence: |
and then Uncle Stephen called a coach, giving an address
to a street in Camden Town. .
We drove on for sometime in silence; at length Uncle 4
Stephen spoke :— | 4
“Tm taking you to my sister’s house, Margaret,” he said. #
“Tn her young days she knew your grand-father and Aunt 4
Betsy well: she ought to be glad to see you. My nephew, ©
George, is of the right sort, though, confound him ! I can
make nothing of him. You must feel quite at home, re- 4,
member.”
I murmured out something. I did not feel quite sure of
a welcome from these relatives of Uncle Stephen, who were,
I understood, partly, if not altogether, dependent upon him-
self, He was not rich, besides; he had lavished nearly all ,
he possessed upon them years ago, and it was natural to sup- :
pose that they would regard with jealousy such claimants
upon his bounty as we were. I was further troubled about
my dress, remembering that first impressions go a long way.
I had that night attired myself in the most dilapidated gar-
ments I possessed, and none of them were by this time in a cf
very flourishing condition. I anticipated something disa- .
ereeable; but at the samre time I felt that this new state 4
was not to last long. It was only a step forward in the a
weary march that was to lead me—to what? The coach
stopped. I saw an open door, at which stood a gentleman-
ly young man, with a lighted candle in his hand. He led
the way into a nicely-furnished front parlor, and then Un-
cle Stephen introduced me to his nephew, and George Rat- : 4
cliffe held out his hand very cordially. is
“T am happy to see you, Miss Marples,” he said. “I am ;
sure | may well say 80, in consideration of the state Uncle .
Stephen has been in about you; but I can truly say so on A
my own account. I hope you found the dear old verger and
~ Aunt Betsy all right, uncle ?”
Uncle Stephen shook his head.
er?” he asked.

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936 FAMILY: SEORETS.
“She complained of headache when I got home, and
went to bed. You see, uncle, we didn’t exactly know o
“ Pshaw !” said Uncle Stephen, interrupting him ; “ ring
the bell and tell Jane to bring some supper.”

Uncle Stephen took off my bonnet and shawl. I wished
to retain the latter to hide my ragged dress, but he would
not let me. Jane, the single servant of the small establish-
ment, who was very smartly dressed, eyed me curiously as
she brought in and arranged the supper -tray. Uncle Ste-
phen addressed me in French, and alluded gaily to old
times. He reminded me how rigorous he had always been
about keeping me at my lessons.

“T always had the future in my mind,” he said ; “I wish-
ed to make you perfect in as much as I was able to teach.
Now see the result : you speak French better than George
here, who has been to a public schop] and a university. As
a musician, I should not be ashamed to exhibit you any-
where. As to general knowledge, Heaven defend us from
all that is contained in that little head !”

“T owe you a great deal in this respect, Uncle Stephen,\
I said: “and yet these attainments seem to be of little use}
to me in the world. Do you really think I shall ever be
able to make a living out of them ?”

“ Why, if you dwindle down into an old maid, we may
set you up in a school asa last resource,” said Uncle Ste-
phen. ‘As to drudging in the ordinary governess line—
that sublime idea belongs wholly to your grand-father. I
never entertained it, nor do I now; nor the other plan eith-
er, just yet. Take a glass of wine now, and go to bed, for
it’s nearly one o’clock.”

Uncle Stephen went out for a moment, and I heard him
whispering with Jane in the passage. In the absence of the
mistress of the house there might be some difficulty about
accommodating me. George seemed uneasy: out of his
uncle’s presence he was, either purposely or helplessly, re-
served. Isat upon thorns till Uncle Stephen came in the
room again.

Presently he entered. “ Jane will show you to your room,”
hesaid. “Now good-night, and mind you sleep soundly
To-morrow we will see about a thorough reformation.” __FAMILY SECRETS. 927

He Kissed me, and George shook hands with me, and I
followed Jane to a back sleeping-room on the first floor.—
She was very civil, and showed me a bell that I could ring
if I wanted anything. I found a night-dress on the pillow,
andthe bed looked luxurious enough to invite one less
weary than myself to sleep. I could not sleep, however;
f was already impatient with this new state of dependence,
and what Uncle Stephen had said roused my anxiety as well
as curiosity. It was not his intention to make a governess
of me, and never had been ;—what, then, did he intend me
to be or to do? It was useless speculating on this subject.
I only felt that Uncle Stephen had ill studied my character
if he entertained any idea of condemning me to a life of
dependence and idleness. The destitution from which I was
just rescued had been accompanied by a wild sense of free-
dom from control that had an especial charm for me. I,
who had all my life been so completely under the strict gov-

ernment of others, had a passion, if not talent, for govern-

ing my own affairs, which gained upon me after that brief
trial of the sweets of liberty, under circumstances otherwise
discouraging enough. The only one thought that gave me
real satisfaction was the belief that my grand-father would
now recover speedily. All the events of the .ast two years
came back to me that night, from my first meeting with my
father, whom I detested, to my last parting from little
James Graham, whom [I Joved so much. I wished for ma-
ny changes of circumstance, -but this that had happened
was not one of them; I was still left powerless as ever in
myself. Late in the morning I fell into a heavy sleep, from,
which I-was awakened by the servant, who came with hed
mistress’s compliments to inform me that breakfast was
ready. I was annoyed at having overslept myself, and hur-
ried to go down, though I would have given a great deal
to have been a hundred miles away. My dress altogether
was in a terrible condition when examined by broad day-
light ; and I was angry with myscaut for having accompani-
ed Uncle Stephen so readily, when I might have remained a
night longer in my own lodging. Regret was, however,
availless ; | was compelled to go through with what lay be-

fore me. I descended to the passage, and was ushered by

    
     
   
 
   
   
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
   
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
    
 
  
   
 

mereeriCe Vt eevee a, pene eed

 

BRT Meare HERTT FT Tees eMerH TLV

928 FAMILY SECRETS.

Mrs. Ratcliffe was seated aloné
at the breakfast-table, and she rose at my entrance and ex-
tended me three fingers, which, when I touched them,
seemed as cold and unpliable as might have been the
three prongs of a fork. She looked younger than her
Jrother, and might have been fifty-three or four ; rather
slightly made, fair in complexion, and with evidences of
having been pretty. She was quite what is called lady-like
‘n her manners; but that does nq} mean having the man-
ners of a gentle-woman. It was the very excess of her po-
litenesa that gave me to understand how much of an in-
truder I really was. I inquired after the gentlemen, and
asked if they had gone out.

“ Oh, you are laboring under a mistake, I see,” said Mrs.
Ratcliffe. “They did not sleep here last night. My house
being so small, and only having one servant, | could not de
with them at all. They sleep at my son’s chambers in
Gray’s Inn, and ‘sometimes take their meals there. What
they are about this morning I can’t imagine; however, my
brother left word he should be here to dinner.”

This disconcerted me very much, for the prospect of pas-
sing several dreary hours in the society of this very frigid
lady would have been intolerable enough if 1 had not been
so encompassed by perplexities and anxieties. I had, my-
self, managed badly, and Uncle Stephen had done no better,
though he meant well; and the very best-intentioned men
are the most liable to commit blunders in apparently small,
but really important, matters. In his determination to take
care of me, Uncle Stephen had overlooked or disregarded
the commotion my sudden appearance would occasion in

the orderly household of his sister. From her manner al-
together, and from what she said, I could only undeystana
that she was very much surprised to find me there, and that
she was in a state of some anxiety respecting what was to be
done with me.

“Tt distresses me to put you out of the way as I must be
doing,” I said. “I expected to have seen Uncle Stephen

this morning.”
“ Dear me! do yon eall him (/nele Stephen! It seems

Jane into the back-parlor.ee ee

  

PAMILY SECRETS, 229
very odd to me, you know, as there is not the slightest re-
lationship.”

Here was another repeller. My face flushed, and I said,
“ Having been taught to address him by that title from my
nfancy, I scarcely knew how to name him in any other
way.”

“My brother has always been very eccentric, I know,”
said the lady. ‘“‘ In fact, it would have been a great advan-
tage to him if he had married early in life; he has many
extravagant notions that a wife might have corrected.”

This speech, delivered in quite a cordially-confidential
tone, was followed up by a string of apologies for the ap-
parent rudeness of leaving me alone.

“The fact is,” she said, “I have for several years past
been in the habit of visiting every morning an old friend of
mine who is bed-ridden; and if I missed once she would
think directly that something dreadful had happened. 1
am really so sorry, but I hope you will excuse me.”

I begged she would not mention it.

“If you want anything,” she continued, “you have only
to ask Jane; and I shall be back in an hour or two.”

I was left alone in the very snug parlor; and I might
have been placed there for the purpose of learning the real
unimportance of externals in the matter of human happi-
ness. I had been much happier in Jem’s cellar. There was
a book-case and a piano in the room; but [ did not turn to
either. Isat lost in thought, or paced moodily about for
several hours, during which Mrs. Ratcliffe did not return.—
At length a loud knock came to the street door, and to my
great joy Uncle Stephen entered. ) a .

“Now, how. do you get on?” he said, holding out nis
hand, briskly ; “all right, eh! Where’s my sister ?”

I told him she had gone out,

“ Gone out!” he said, with a slight frown. “ Oh, well,
never mind. I only told her to be sure and be at home at
dinner-time ; and we dine here at four o'clock. Now, have
you had any lunch 3”

I said I did not want any. ee :

«Qh, stuff and nonsense |’ he said, ringing the bell vie

      
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
     

 

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280 FAMILY SECRETS.

lently. “Jane,” he called out, “ why don’t you bring some
lunch up? Jome, make haste I’m in a hurry.”

I assured him that I could not eat anything; but he
made me take a glass of wine and a biscuit.

“Now,” he said, “ put your bonnet and shawl on directly
and come with me. I’ve got a coach waiting at the door,
and as we go along I’ll give you all the information.”

I obeyed him very gladly, and in a few minutes we drove
off.

“ve given the driver the address of your lodgings, which
I obtained from Jem,” he said, when we were seated. “ You
must pay the rent, and bring all your things away. George
and I took your grand-father to a nice airy lodging in Isling-
ton this morning, and we left Jem to attend him. He'll be
quite strong in a week, and then we shall get on famously.
As to you, you must at present remain with my sister.”

“Uncle Stephen,” I said, “I feel grateful for your kind-
ness, especially to my grand-father, but I cannot consent to
become such a burden to you or your sister. I wish to do
something to maintain myself. I have hitherto failed,
chiefly through being unable to obtain a character. If
either you or Mrs. Ratcliffe gave me one, I should, I dare
say, do very well,”

“TJ told you last night, said Uncle Stephen, “that I had
no intention to hire you out. My views are at present al-
together different, and I will explain them shortly. As to
being a burden upon me, you know very well; or ought to do,
that you will be nothing of the kind; nor can you ver
well be a burden upon my sister, seeing that she is qu.
dependent upon myself. I have some claim upon your
obedience, Margaret, and | shad claim it.”

One of the great facts of life is, that every individual’s
personal experience brings out latent truths, that can only

be thoroughly understood or dealt with by himself. I had

found this out before now, and it was the basis of my strug-

le for some independence of action. I could not complain
of Mrs. Ratcliffe’s conduct to her brother, or say, what I-
knew to be true, that my presence in the house was a great
nuisance to her, and that she regarded his interference in
our behalf as a personal injury. I, who could ‘scarcely beFAMILY SEORETS., 231

said to belong to anybody, dreaded above all things becom.
ing a burden to any. I could not help thinking that Uncle
piepion s eccentricity was leading himself wrong.

‘I know,” I said, “that you have always been lavishly
generous,—always forgetting yourself in others. I learned
that long ago. All that I have learned since teaches me
that [ ought to have some reliance upon myself. Ido not
pretend to be wiser than you are, Uncle Stephen; but, cir
eumstanced as I am, it seems clear to me that I ought to
be placed in some way of earning my own living. I have
been a burden upon others too long already; and the very
few who care for me may not remain with me always. Don’
you see #

“Oh yes, I see,” said Uncle Stephen, interrupting me ,
“T see that you are going to kill us all outright! Now,
you very wise little person, since you will make an old wo-
man of yourself before your time, let us talk reasonably to-
gether. You like to be independent; that is your great,—
what do you call it ?—/forte. I want to make you indepen-
dent. You would rather patronise others than be patro-
nised. Well, you shall patronise my sister: will, that do?
Tam quite serious, Margaret; I hope to place you in a
sition that will enable you to do this; I expect to see you
sise in the world, and drag us—her, at least—along with
you. This is an old-cherished plan of mine, and I think you
are in duty bound not to thwart it.”

“You are mocking me, Uncle Stephen,” I said. I could
make nothing of his words.

“Bless my life?” said Uncle Stephen, “am I not old
enough to know that getting through the world is no joke ?
I tell you I know what I’m about, and you must trust to me.
There’s only one thing I stipulate for ;—you mustn’t allow
George to fall in love with you.”

“Uncle Stephen!”

“Don’t mistake my meaning: if he was good enough
for you in all respects, I should wink at your running off
together to-morrow morning ; but he isn’t, and I have cther
views for you. Now, you see, here we are; 80 make haste
and collect your things. Take this purse and pay what you
owe, and get some one to help you.”

 

RPP ns i ter

CG ia gp i i iN RN i es ES « nia Or
Mi nay 7 a tn ADE falt; aii AEE
beldeia desks tankbal sede! bebaet alta i eae HE ME ALPEETOM Pont ateh Piatt ee Dogs beeen

iF ung

    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
   

hb da bled es ts apayyeleed] ade eo a

Gacall x

niet
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ite sec ereutem y: seers

uit Merctbesectaetet, teres waa eae eee

 

. i sep . 7 r
ees aberete dale ity

rl ' ‘| ‘« rf 5 nt} “aD EY 1
METH ttl Ment te tatatriatorassten ter roaeti peyton itiCia ets

sabe tihe ted tak ene : '
Hye ry mutT Aenea ven treritnenetetieen rant

yc bl ane:

   
  
  
   
 
 
  
 
  
  
  
  
 
 
  
 
   
  
    
  
  
   
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
    
 
  
  

 

FAMILY SECRETS.

I ran hastily into the house, paid my rent the first thing,
and then went up to my Toor. ere | changed my dress,
and easily bestowed ‘, one box all that- belonged to me.
Indeed, we had been compelled to dispose of 80 much, eveD
to the boxes, that only one dilapidated trunk remained, an
this I gave to the woman who lived in the room next mine,
and who helped to carry MY box to the coach. When I
was again seated, Uncle Stephen took out his watch.

[ve ordered the driver to go on to Islington,” he said 5
“we've plenty of time to see your grand-father and ga!
home to dinner.”

d thoughtful and I said 80

I considered this very kind an
«Qh! you think I can do right sometimes, eh, Miss Mar-

garet 2” said Uncle Stephen, laughing.
A very short drive brought us to the pleasant cottage-
house, with a small garden before it, in which my grand-
father now dwelt. We found him reclined upon a sofa in
the parlor, and Jem with him. And what an odd-looking
Jem he had become! Uncle Stephen had clothed him from
head to foot ; not with new clothes, but good ones that fit-
ted him. At present he looked awkward and confused, but

very happy-

We passed half-an-hour with my gt
ready seemed much better, conversing
Betsy.

“J shall see her to-day,” said Uncle Stephen; “ and for
the present I shall pay a weekly sum to ensure her proper
attendance. Who knows ? she may recover.”

“ And in the meantime what 4a burden w all are upon

you, Stephen ? said my grand-father.

“Nay, if you begin that subject I’m off,” said Uncle Ste-
phen, rising. “ Margaret here has been harpizg upon it till
Ym tired. Oh, Thomas, Thomas! thou man of little faith !
do not wrong our old friendship by talking and thinking im

this way !”

There was scarcely any resisting the heartines* of Uncle
Stephen. As for me, I was young and romantic, aud whs
he had said to me filled my mind with many vain dreams,
He might know more about me than I knew about myself;

perhaps my father’s heart had been touched, and he hw

283

and-father, who #-
chiefly about AuutFAMILY SECRETS, 2388

seen that it was, at least, his duty to help me on in the
world ; perhaps he meant to adopt me (I knew that he was
unmarried when [ saw him last); perhaps he was dead, and
had bequeathed me the means of independence. I had
something to learn from Uncle Stephen, and I could not
separate what he had said from this haunting idea of Colonel
Leigh.

And though I really did not wish to see this relenting spirit
in the latter—though I would much rather have risen up
myself and kept aloof from him and his, circumstances
made me contemplate, with satisfaction, such a second-best
sort of destiny as the above possibilities promised. There
was so much that I wanted to gain and to do—and at once!
Relief, in the first place, from this heavy sense of obligation
to Uncle Stephen. Then the pleasure of myself providing
for my grand-father and Aunt Betsy, and of prosecuting the
search after dear little James Graham; and tending his sis-
ters; and striving for the reformation of Susan. All this I
wished to do, and what I considered a glimpse of the power
to do it broke down all my patience. O money, money | did
ever any one need money as I did?

The dinner that day was very dreary to me, with all my
thoughts thus occupied, and my spirit on the alert after the
unattainable. George came in just as it was served up.
He appeared to be about twenty-eight years of age, and had
good, but rather heavy features, and was inclined to be stout.
Tt struck me that he was very listless in manner, and sloven-
ly in dress, for a young man ; and he did not appear to be
addicted to study or dissipation, either of which pursuits
might have accounted for his appearance. I had been in-
clined to dislike him, but I changed my opinion before din-
ner was over. Uncle Stephen seemed quite at. home, and
iMrs. Ratcliffe was frigid and polite as ever.

“Sit here, Margaret,” said Uncle Stephen; “you shall
have George for your vis-a-vis. He’s a sad, dull, ungallant
fellow, but you must excuse him. You know you're a sort
ef cousins, though you meet uow as strangers to one an
other.”

“ What nonsense you will talk , Stephen 1” said Mra, Rat
eliffe, glancing at Jane, who was in attendance.

 

 

ait,

Ratu te nel een)Fee Watab Ses eI ALN Aah RPA LE LAM ONC aE APU SMS

conaranamtrenmmnsrrane tine
MMAR STEP ES eI ae PENA REREE Wha 8472

red haitasha Manet it aa

Cae ha atirstit!
PEPPER Seater er chert t see tt etd
e

  

FAMILY SECRETS.

“ Not such nonsense as you suppose,” said Uncle Stephen,
“T should have been Margaret’s uncle in reality, if, years
ago, Betsy Marples had not refused me for a husband.”

“ How you talk, Stephen!” continued Mrs. Ratcliffe, evi-
dently annoyed. .

“ It’s quite true,” said Uncle Stephen; “she refused me
twice.”

“Do tell us all about it, uncle,” said George; his face
quite brightening up with expectation. He did not notice
his mother’s attempt to frown him down.

“ Well,” said Uncle Stephen; “I first made an offer to
Betsy when I was about thirty yearsold. She was a year or
two older than me, and not at all handsome, but there was
a principle in all she did, and a sturdy independence about
her, that pleased me. She heard me out, and answered me
hike a woman. ‘Stephen Leath, she said, ‘I respect you
because you are an old friend of my brother’s, and because I
never knew you act unlike a man. I respect you too much
to burden you with a wife, whose only portion would be an ~
old bed-ridden mother; for I will never leave her, Stephen,
and she shall not be thrown upon you. Let us be the friends
we have always been, and say no more about it.’ I tried to
alter this decision, but in vain. Some years after, when old
Mrs. Marples died, I was in the same mind, and tried my
fortune again. ‘Stephen,’ she said, ‘you are looked up to
as a thriving man, but you are not thriving: you know no
more of the value of money than a child; you squander it
on all sides, and I will not help you to squander it. I will
be your friend and advise you, if you like to take my ad-
vice, but I will be nothing more. You have a position to
keep up, and so have I.. While David Marples (that was
her brother) holds his head high above me, and disowns both
me and my brother because he has money and we have
none, I will not become the wife of any honester man. We
must be friends still, Stephen, and nothing more’ This was
the substance of what Betsy said, mixed up wth some ob-
jeetions on the score of irreligion ; which, however, went for
nothing, as she had made up her mind independent of them,
Now, if Betsy Marples had been a less nobler woman than
she was, she would have been my wife,”FAMILY SEHEORETS. 935

“Well, I'm sure you’ve some wonderful things to relate,”
sail Mrs, Ratcliffe.

“That's just the sort of aunt I’ve been wanting all my life,”
said George; “she would have given me good advice, and J
might have profited by it.”

oe Pm sure that’s very, complimentary to me, George, com
sidering that I’ve been giving you good advice all your life,
and to little purpose,” said Mrs. Ratcliffe.

o My dear mother,” said George, “ with the best intentions
in the world, you haven’t the knack of going the right way
about it. » You’ve always taught ine that to keep up a gen-
teel appearance in the world was the main business of life.
Now [ve discovered for myself that gentility is all smoke !”

“You've very odd, notions, I know,” said his mother,
“and it’s astonishing to me who you inherit them from.
You would even have been mad enough to give up your
profession, if you had not seen that doing so would kill me.
You have not an atom of proper pride about you. Instead
of directing all your energies to the maintenance of your
dignity as a professional man, I verily believe you wouldn't
care about turning to any common drudgery to-morrow.”

“T certainly shouldn’t, if my besetting sin, indolence, did
not place an almost insuperable bar to my pursuit of so
manly a course,” said George.. “I have, however, a horror
of growing grey in this service, that may one day save me,
It is a lamentable fact, mother, that if there be anything
substantial about gentility, I have never been able to grasp
it. Ihave always been mocked by its shadows, I walk in
and out of yonder old Gray’s Inn like the ghost of some-
thing gone by, or the shadow of something yet to come, and
not as a creature of flesh and blood, animated by the con-
sciousness of having a purpose in the present. I have no vo-
cation there, no pursuit, no position. I don’t know a soul
in the place—I am alone in my glory ; and it sometimes
strikes me that gentility and idleness would have been more
formidable as a primal curse than labor, from which springs
all the good there is upon earth. I suppose the meaning
of the latter was, as Byron says, ‘ That curse shall be for-
giveness !’ Certainly we should get on very badly without
+ ™acta n tp ieaniiaetane.

Sua MASE eT

 rhaeadl
Ae

pis

Tet bade ani bed bosib aSUPEELD Hide! Sle pLiti she tanta tes
Ta MUA LP CES Gi tees

  

236 FAMILY SECRETS

“Yon are quite eloquent to-day, George, for you,” said
Uncle Stephen. “If you can keep up a little longer, I
should like to recommend to your serious consideration the
folly of shirking people in the street, or so conducting your.
self that no one can make anything of vou. I have obsery
ed this several times. It is as if you took your indecision
into the highway, as a special protection to your gentility. ;
or are you really modest, after all? A great deal depends
upon your allowing people a right understandiug in this
matter.”

George reddened very much.

“The truth is, uncle,” he said, “I got into this habit a.
school, and it has grown with my growth. It had been so
dinned into me that I must make none but genteel. acquain-
tance, and gentility is so hard to be defined, that I never felt
sure | was doing right. Then I believe I had a natura’
propensity to associating with what my mother calls inferior
people; and what with trying to correct myself in this re-
spect, and ascertaining what was exactly proper, I got hope-
lessly perplexed and confused.”

Uncle Stephen laughed.

“Your getting into that state was your own fault, not
mine,” said Mrs. Ratcliffe. “1 always gave you plain in-
structions to maintain your own dignity, irrespective of oth-
er people. If you had done that from the first, there would
have been no question about your position, and no difficulty
in upholding it.”

“My dear mother, you don’t understand it. The dignity
of a school-boy is a very small matter at best, and no one
eares about it. In fact, by mounting the stilts, one only in-
sures the certainty of being brought lower than agrees even -
with the dignity of the miniature man. At college I had
ho money to compete with the rich, and the studious did
not take tome. Since I entered chambers it has been sti.
worse. A briefless barrister has small opportunity for being
fussy ; and the fact is,a high head don’t answer with an
empty pocket. As to shirking people in the street, Uncle
Stephen, what’s a poor fellow to do? Some of the barristera
in my place, who have more work than they ean attend to
have established a bowing acquaintance with me; but theyVPAMILY SECRETS. Zoi

will bow one day ; and >verlook me altogether the next. I
can’t look out for notice of that kind, and the predicament
makes me nervous. If I see one of these big-wigs coming, I
shoot out of the way, or turn back. I always had a horror
of meeting acquaintances in the street, even intimate ones.
It’s constitutional, and I can’t help it.. Well, I shall not
go the wrong way for loving greetings in the market-
place. :

“The fact 1s, taat under an injudicious training for_wita
you were never fitted to be, you have come to nothing,
George,” said Uncle Stephen. “I expect that you will
rouse up some day and set yourself right. By Jove! if I
could do nothing better, I'd set fire to Gray’s Inn and rup
away by the light of it!”

“Well, I suppose I must do something desperate some
day,” said George. “I can’t make matters worse than they
are.”

“Tam sure you might make them a great deal better than
they are by conducting yourself in a proper manner,” said
Mrs. Ratcliffe.

“But what, my dear mother, do you call a proper man-
ner ?”

“ Why, I think you ought to throw yourself in the way
of those barristers who have shown an inclination to notice
you, instead of shunning them as you do in such an undig-
nified way. Here you have been nearly two years in cham-
bers, and you have no business, and not a single acquaint-
ance in the place.”

“Come, mother, I have one, and a capital fellow he is,
too.”

“A poor attorney’s clerk!” said Mrs. Ratcliffe, with 4
sneer.

“Poor enough, Heaven knows,” said George. “He has
a hundred and twenty pounds a-year, and a wife and sever
children to keep out of it. He was an attorney himsel,
remember, once, and if he had had a little more money té

begin with he would not have passed che prime of his life

in slaving for old Reece, who keeps his carriage, and wouls
see him rot in a work-house.”

sneer Sy gE¥} ris haa ined

iartneyyreser severyente anager eet yr

Hh alisenteed eoiee aia etas A

a

Fahne aah

SEMI LTTAI
ree!

mS

isi tie ati

sis teed Laud oid bashatitbeal tna Li

tT beats at

 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
   
  
   

    

988 FAMILY SECRETS.

“T wish you wouldn’t use that language,” said Mrs. Rat
cli ffe.

“No, George, be genteel, whatever you do, especially 1
-peech,” said Uncle Stephen. “ As to that poor fellow, Hi
liott—a capital fellow he is, too, I believe—his position re
mores him out of the pale of your sympathy. You shoulc
certainly look higher, George, considering your position.”

I saw that George in his simplicity, and Uncle Stephen
out of pure malice of the sly and good-humored kind, were (
getting Mrs. Ratcliffe into a high state of irritation and
wrath. Uncle Stephen seemed to see this, too, and he re-
sumed at once the stern manner and authoritative tone, that
seemed to me more natural to him. -

“ Now you understand, Eliza,” he said, “that for the pres-

ent Miss Marples must find a home with you. You have
only to make it as pleasant to her as possible. As she has
nothing better to do just now, and has some skill in needle-
work besides, I wish her to be replenishing her wardrobe.—
You can help her here, for you have excellent taste in dress,
I know, Eliza. Margaret has the money, an! you must su-
perintend her purchases. I have a deal of business on my
hands, and you won’t see me again till to-morrow, at din-
ner.”

“Can’t you stop with me?” said Mrs. Ratcliffe, turning
to George ; “ you can sleep on the sofa-bedstead.”

“ Why, the fact is, my dear mother,” said George, and he
stammered, and hesitated, and blushed, “_I—I—that is,
having nothing to do, you know, I have been employing
myself in teaching the young Elliots. You can’t think how
they are getting on! Henry and Lucy in French, and all
the rest in writing and reading. They’ve quite a natural
talent for learning that makes it a pleasure to teach them,
and they expect me this evening, and would be so much dis-
appointed if I didn’t go. I'll stop with you to-morrow night,
if you hike.” i .

“Well, upon my word, you're enough to drive one
mad!” said Mrs. Ratcliffe. “I never saw anything like

ou !” :

“Thou most veracious of fellows!” said Uncle Stephen,

slapping George on the back; “I wonder if fate has in reFAMILY SECRETS. ~ 989

werve for thee prevarication and a latch-key! Come, Eliza:
be thankful for a bit of truth—a rare thing in this world!
—for which I would vouch with my last breath. George
might be better occupied for himself, but I know he never
has any worse occupation than this. That isa great thing
to say. Come, be quiet.”

“}’m sure,” said Mrs, Ratcliffe, putting her pocket-hand-
kerchief to her eyes, “ he might as well. turn schoolmaster
at once; he would then earn something, at all events.”

“ Not a bad idea, either; eh, uncle?” said George, who
seemed all afloat about his future prospects.

Uncle Stephen langhed again, and after kissing his sister
and me, walked out. George took leave of his mother and
followed him, and then turned suddenly back and approach-
ed me, and held out his hand.

“Tm a very thoughtless fellow, Miss Marples,” he said,
“and you musn’t consider me uncivil, for I believe my thick
head will only entertain one idea at a time. Good-bye for
the present. I hope you'll feel quite at home till we see
you again.”

George was evidently a generous fellow, but I could not
help feeling something like contempt for him. I had no
idea of a man allowing himself to be unnerved by the mere
punctilios of life, while the glorious opportunities of his
youth and vigor were slipping away from him unheeded.—
If I were in his place, I thought, I would be something de-
cided, if only a hewer of wood and a drawer of water.—
There would have been no fear of my forming any serious
attachment to him, if the resolution that strengthened with-
in me from day to day had not put away from me every
thought of the kind.

I obeyed Uncle Stephen so far as to expend upon such
articles of dress as I most needed a portion of the contents
of the purse he had left in my hands. Mrs. Ratcliffe, as
eonstrainedly polite as ever, and evidently acting upon com-
pulsion under her brother’s control, accompanied me in my
shopping, and readily agreed with me as to the prudence of
being economical. Understanding that I had already filled
the situation of governess, she supposed that her brother in-
tended to send me out again in that capacity ; and the idea

ree:

 

z

ah eM peat et aE

  
   

i el BStha

ae.

Bisf tia! sHatahA

FSSci vit LskeSaMaa is VAS HMALEOE LAN DSESLGHGAGE RE

eee ren s
% : eet IMA abide venatnrrsitai ryan ina rity er nts TST PETIT TeearELEROTE AEST TEITT

  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   

240 FAMILY SECRETS

seemed to afford her so much relief that, besides not being
able to guess for my own satisfaction what his intentions
really were, I could not disabuse her of it. With plenty of
work before me, Isat down, wondering over it what the com-
ing days were about to bring forth.

Uncle Stephen and George dined with us every day, and
voth spoke of my grand-father and Aunt Betsy : of the one
as daily recovering strength, of the other as being hopeless-
ly stricken. On one occasion, when Mrs. Ratcliffe was out,
I spoke to them of James Graham.

In the midst of many overwhelming troubles of my own
I had neglected to answer a letter from Mr. Smithson, and
to the one I had written from Mrs. Ratcliffe’s house, I had
received no answer. The actor did not remain long in one
place, and my late communication had doubtless missed him.
Time had not weakened, nor trouble diminished my affection
for the dear boy, or my anxiety about him. In this interval
of quiet both came back to me more powerfully than ever.
I spoke to these two of my first meeting with him, of our
brief intercourse and sudden parting.

“God bless my soul !” said George, in the midst of my
narrative. I glanced at him as he sat with his hands clasp-
ed and his mouth open. This seemed only to be an expres-
sion of the fecling of which he was capable, and I went on.

“Margaret,” he said, interrupting me again,—* may I call
you Margaret 3”

“To be sure,” I said.

“Then, I think, Margaret,” he continued, “I think I can
tell you something of that boy; I think I have seen him,
I think (now don’t you fret), I think he is dead !”

I had my work in my hands, but I dropped it, and
raised and clasped them. “Bless God!” I said involunta-
my.

Involuntarily, for I had no great trust in God, but some
thing within my spirit compelled me to feel that it was
pet so than that the child should still be lost in this
world.

“T’m glad you take it so,” said George. “Tl tell you all
I know about it. Mrs. Elliott was one day out shopping,
and she had a parcel to cerry home. Just such a little cur-FAMILY SECRETS. 941

ty-headed handsome fellow as you describe, asked if he might
carry it for her. She had children of her own, and, as she
afterwards said, she was unable to resist his appealing look,
he seemed to be so pretty and intelligent, and so forlorn, —
She took him home with her, and gave him food, and kept
nim with her own children till Eliott came in. He ques-
tioned hire, and learned from his replies that he was quite
destitute—out in the world on his own account, to get a
living as he could. He said his father was dead, but begged
they would not question him further about his family, as he
could not say anything more. And they did not trouble
him with questions, but kept him all night, and the next
morning Elliott took him to the office and employed him in
going errands, and I’ve heard him speak of the little fellow
as a marvel of intelligence, and docility, and gratitude. One
morning he did not come to the office as usual. Elliott made
inquiries after him, and found that he had been seized with
scarlatina, and conveyed to the work-house. It was in the
work-house that I first saw him, for Elliott took me with
him; but he was then delirious. I afterwards saw him die.
He repeated all the names that you have mentioned, over
and over again: Margaret and Mary, Lilly and Ellen. Mar-
garet, he said, would tell mamma all about him; and towards
the last, he said an old man with white hair was beckoning
him up to God.”

I wept as I never had done before, and never have done
since. Real, bitter, heart-wringing grief mine was; for, be-
sides loving the boy as I did, there was something in his
spirit kindred to mine, that held us two together in the eter-
nal tie that may not be broken, and that can only be a pro-
tracted agony to them whose trust is not strong in the Lord.
I vainly wished that I had seen him once more—that I had
beer with him when he died. |

Uncle Stephen, who had been walking about the floor,
oid making attempts to clear his throat, came to a dead
stand.

“ Now let us have done with this,” he said. “If you live
to be old, Margaret, you may recall this circumstance as a
tender memory of the past, but at present you have no time
to waste in lamentations that are altogether idle, You say

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243 PAMILY SECRETS.

you wish to see your aunt again—now the fact is, Marga-
ret, she has had another stroke, and is so near her end, be-
sides being quite unconscious of everything, that I think
your going quite useless. 1 expect to hear that she is dead,
and a very happy release death would be for herself. We
shall still have enough to do and think about in the world.
Your grand-father has got an idea in his head that nothing
I can say will drive out of it. He is determined to return

“To ——!” I-said, now thoroughly roused; “ what will
he do there {” :

“ His purpose is to see his brother. He thinks it right
that they two, who have not exchanged a word together for
nearly thirty years, should meet once before they are called
away from earth, and, if possible, speak words of forgiveness
and peace to one another. He hopes, too, that, in consider
ation of his infirmity and sufferings, and the destitution he
has himself no help for, David will, out of his abundance,
allow him a small annuity to supply his own few wants. It
is only right that they should meet: they are brothers, and
there should be peace between them; but David, the sole
aggressor, is about as likely to attend to these petitions, es-

ecially the latter, as I am to fly. I have, however, said
nothing to dissuade Thomas from acting as he thinks fit.—
This is Friday, and on Tuesday he wishes to set out. I shall
accompany him, for I have myself some business to transact
at ——, which, as I told you, I quitted for good some months
back. At present, there can be nothing like order amongst
us; you must wait with patience till I can let you know
what is to be done.”

I had lately importuned him several times on the subject
9: the useless life,I was leading; and I could obtain ne
more satisfactory reply than this. It seemed expedient te
await the result of my grand-father’s visit to , and to
see Aunt Betsy, if so near her end, quietly laid in the earth
before I rebelled, as I felt I must, if 1t became necessary.—
Uncle Stephen must have been sufficiently acquainted with
his sister’s character and with mine to understand how beth
were punished by this juxtaposition.

_ My grand-father wished to see me, and I went to him,—FAMILY SECRETS. 248
Unole Stephen, who accom
with Jem while we conversed together.

“You have been early taught, my dear child,” he said
“that life is a very serious matter, even if only with refer-
ence to this brief time, with its troubles and difficulties,—
You are not a novice in trouble now ; you understand that
it may be borne, if not overcome. It will not do for either
of us to encroach further than we shall be compelled to do
upon the generosity of Uncle Stephen.”

I assured him of my earnest acquiesence in what he said
and of my determination to seek employment.

“T expect no less from you,” he said; “I know you would
not be able to endure a life of idleness and dependence, espe-
elally on such. reckless liberality as Uncle Stephen’s. He has
been the same man all his life, lavishing what he had upon otb-
ers and forgetting himself: and it grieves me to the heart
that we should be this burden to him, for I know he no
longer possesses the means. And the Lord has not lost
sight of him, Margaret, though he now resists the teaching
of the Lord. He will be remembered for his large heart:
he will be gathered into the fold: I know and feel it, and
th» assurance gives me deep joy !”

panied me, walked in the garden

My grand-father clasped his hands and looked upward
with an expression of calm, hoty trus. in bis eyes, I
shrank into myself: how little ne knew that I also had
astray |

“As for you, Margaret,” he continued, “ you have learn-
ed to trust God rather than fear man, and I shall expect
you to meet trial bo dly. You understand for what I am
going yonder. If David’s position and mine had _been re-
versed—if he had suddenly become poor, and I rich—I
should have been more eager-to do what I am about to do
now ; but, as it is, my chief motive may be misconstrued :
I may not even be able to obtain an interview with him. In
that case, Margaret, and in any case, if he does not consent
to help me, so that [ may not be a further burden upon Ste-
phen Leath, I shall enter the work-house at , and end
my few remaining days in it.”

I uttered a cry, and started up. There were already ar-
rows as of death, piercing my heart: I might have said,

gone

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
 
 
  
  
  
  
  
 
  
  
   
   
  
 
   
 
 
 
   
   
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 

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IA un CRAs aH UN RANTS OUR ASE RT RATES
PEPER TS

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PET Dera at escort petit eal aitipe Mts MP

 

     
   
   
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  

G44, FAMILY SECRETS.

“ Why should I be stricken any more !” I resisted being
beaten down further : I wasinclined to say, “ This is not the
way to bring me back to God Y

My grand-father’s distress aroused me. I relapsed into a
resentful apathy that he mistook for resignation. Under its
influence I was enabled to leave him quietly, understanding
how we might meet again, if ever. :

This was a trouble which I could not impart to so gente=:
a person as Mrs. Ratcliffe, neither had. Uncle Stephen any
idea of it, for my grand-father would not subject himself to
his remonstrances. On considering the subject calmly, I
could but acknowledge that my grand-father was right in
the determination he had come to. It remained with my-
self to make another attempt at turning my acquirements
or my industry to account.

And more than ever I distrusted Uncle Stephen’s wis-
dom: my foolish dreams were dissipated, and I despised my-
self for entertaining them. On the second day, after my
grand-father and Uncle Stephen’s departure to , Mrs.
Ratcliffe spoke to me of the latter, of his thoughtless liber-
ality and his difficulties.

“You would scarcely believe now, Miss Marples,” she said,
“from the way in which my brother goes on, that he really
has scarcely enough money to keep himself, without en-
croaching upon the small s.am that he secured to me and
my son, years ago. Ido not murmur at his doing, that if
he really needs it—of course it would be very ungrateful 1D.
me if I did—but I know Stephen so well that I should not
be surprised if he brought us all to beggary together. He
has been taking me to task for not buying you, or leading
you to buy for yourself, expensive dresses. I reminded him
that your aunt being so near death, all you could shortly re-
quire, would be a change of mourning. He had overlooked
this fact altogether—and men are in the habit of blinding
themselves similarly—but he has more than the ordinary
thoughtlessness of his sex. Now I think you must feel that,
under any circumstances, you will not require expensive
dresses.”

This was coming to the subject at once, and in a way that
I did not at all dislike. I had reason to believe that MraRatcliffe spoke nothing but the truth, and I was not in a
condition to deal with delusions. JT informed her of my de-
termination with regard to myself, which she approved of
highly. She also promised to make inquiries, and give me
all the assistance in‘ her power towards obtaining a situation,
either as governess or as needle-woman in some large estab-
lishment; and with this understanding between us, we be-
came much better friends,

CHAPTER XII,

On the fourth day after my grand-father’s departure, rath-
er late in the evening, George came in hurriedly, and asked
if his uncle had been there. Mrs. Ratcliffe had gone out to
tea, and I answered him.

“We nave not seen anything of him,” I said: “has he
returned from — 9”

“TI expect he has,” said George. “I waited for him yonder,
and ashe didn’t arrive, I thought he must have come on
here. I’ve missed him—I’ll just post back.”

“Is my grand-father come, too 2”

“No, I think not,” said George, who had got outside the
door, and seemed in a desperate hurry ; “ but you'll hear all
about it from Uncle Stephen.” And he darted off.

At about ten o’clock Mrs. Ratcliffe returned, in high good
humor. She had won at cards, and it was one of her weak-
nesses to be greatly elated by that kind of success, I told
her what George had said, and the news seemed to please
ner,

“Oh, then, there’s no doubt but that David Marples has
taken charge of his brother, as it was only his duty to do, so
ich as he is,” she said. “We shall see my brother in the

morning, and hear all about it.”

I expected to hear something very different from this ;
and though I had been prepared fort, I felt a strange sink-

 

FAMILY SECRETS, | 245

    
    
      
  
    
 
  
  
     
   
    
 
 
 
  
   
 
   
   
  
  
  

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FAWILY SEORSTS.

ing of the neart. Presently a loud knock was heard at the
door, and Uncle Stephen came in with George.

“ My orand-father,” I said, “ has he returned ?”’

“No. he hasn’t!’ said Uncle Stephen. ‘“ Here, George,

take my coat out with you, and your mother too ; I waut
alk with Margaret alone.”
‘hey went out, and Uncle Stephen sat down beside me.
A sickening presentiment of something dreadful came over
me; for my grand-father had promised that Uncle Stephen
should write to/me on the day after their arrival, and he
had not done so.

“He is dead!” I said, determined to know the worst at
once.

“No, he isn’t,” he said, “nor likely to die just yet. Da-
vid Marples is dead: died just when he had no business,

e . ’ 99
after leading a useless life. That’s part of my news.

5

“Then my grand-father has not seen him ?”
“ Gonfound it! yes, he did!” said Unele Stephen, rising

up and walking about, and sitting down again: “that’s

what I’m coming to. Now don’t you break down like a
very woman, but collect all your energies, as I’m obliged to

do. Your grand-father. went to see his brother the day af
d not meeting with him then, he went

ant

ter our arriva
again yesterday. He had not been gone an hour when a
report reached me that David Marples was dead, and that
his brother was accused of murdering him.”

I did not utter any ery, but I turned sick and faint.
Uncle Stephen went out and returned with a glass of water.

“ Now don’t be weak and nonsensical, Margaret,” he said ;
“T’ve told you the worst, and your grand-father is not in
any danger. “TIt’s all stuff. David Marples has had an at-
tack of apoplexy before: yesterday he got in a passion and
finished himself off. In falling down he struck his right
temple against the fender, and produced a severe contusion.
Your grand-father rang the bell violently, and raised his
brother’s head up as well as he could; for David Marples
was twenty stone in weight, and Thomas has not at present
much more strength than a fly. They were found in this
state. There was a poker upon the floor, with which the
doctors agree that the wound uvon the temple might have2
FAMILY SEORETS. PAT

been produced. Thomas was in great consternation and
grief, but he gave a straight-forward account of the truth
and people affect not to believe him. Bless my life! in 4
town where the man’s harmless and quiet character is se
well known, where his piety is so well known, t

a“

his is too
bad. But who cares so little for piety, on its own account
as your church and chapel-goers? David Marples, wth |
money, and his blustering importance, and his ostentatious
liberality, was the sort of man to be considered a valuable
member of society. The society at —— is loud in its lamen
tations and demands for justice. I spoke out, and got my-
self insulted. Never mind, when this comes before a jury,
the truth must appear. George is going to ¢ tl
defence ; and I can tell you that when he feels—and he
feels strongly now—he can brighten up and speak like a
man,”

“ And my grand-father is ——

“ Well, he’s in custody, of course. He begged me to come
off at once to you, and I’d a long string of pious exhorta-
tions to deliver that I forget, but which you may be able to
imagine for yourself. Don’t, however, fall into the vulgar
error of having no self-dependence. It is almost an explod-
ed one, and it won’t do for you. Just rouse yourself up,
and be determined to bear whatever may come. You may
rely upon my doing my best.”

If any inclination to turn to God in extremity, and ac-
knowledge my helplessness and implore his mercy, had lin-
gered in my heart, it departed from me now. That my
grand-father should be allowed to fall into this fearful trou-
ble at the close of a blameless life, and after so much severe
suffering, scattered the remaining atoms of my faith, and [
stood bare and desolate as a tree whose last leaves have been
swept away by the tempest. My heart might be wrung,
but I resolved not to be more the slave of circumstances
than I could help; I would reserve for future action the
strength that I had hitherto lavished in a useless waste of
feeling. eS

My grand-father had begged that [ might not be allowed
to see him, as an interview could only be productive of ad:

}

ditional pain to both. 1 could scarcely have urged such a

bP]Fe OT

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248 ¥AMILY SECRETS.

request, as I coula only undertake the journey at a great
cost to Uncle Stephen. George came in the room before
his uncle left me, and held out his hand frankly, and
promised me he would do his very best. He said he felt
sonfident of success.. He had brightened up wonderfully,
us his uncle said he could; he who shrank from the appari-
tion of an acquaintance in the street seemed to experience
no failure of nerve at the idea of standing before an assem-
bly of men in defence of one whom he considered to be in-
jured.

I passed a sleepless night, for do what I would, the tide
of a terrible agony swept through my soul. I did not see
Mrs. Ratcliffe again till the next morning, and then she had
so much the air of a martyr,—was evidently so horrified at
having me in the house after what she had heard, shrank
from me so perceptibly, and spoke so shortly, that if it had
been possible to make me more miserable than I was, here
was opportunity enough to sink me altogether. But I
did not feel inclined to sink in that way. I would neither
anticipate the worst, that might never happen, nor suffer
myself to feel too keenly the silent but well-expressed con-
tempt and reproach of one whose good opinion would really
have been worth very little. For my own comfort as well
as hers, however, [ determined to rid her of my presence, if
possible ; and as she had said that a friend of hers promised
to make inquiries for me at a large dress-making establish-
ment in Bond Street, 1 ventured to ask if she had heard
anything.

” Really, Miss Marples,” she said, with a stare of utter as-
tonishment, “what do you take us for? How can I give
you a recommendation under present circumstances, or al-
low any friend of mine to interfere in your behalf? I should
get myself into pretty disgrace. I assure you I have never
been used to anything of this kind.”

I had never been used to it either, and that was, perhaps,
the reason why it had not occurred to me that, as the grand-
daughter of a reputed murderer, an unenviable notoriety
would mark me out, g where I would. This difficulty
seemed to set me fast. Fortunately, the assizes were close
at hand; and as some one would have to endure my presPAMILY SECRETS, 249

ence in the meantime, I thought the punishment might aa
well fall upon her as upon any one else,

_ I, therefore, settled quietly down to my work, and took
little notice of her. I wrote to my grand-father, and had
difficulty so to word what I said that he should not be
shocked by any outburst of the impetuous and bold resent-
ment that I dared to entertain against this decree of Provi
dence, and that I found it hard to keep down. I went to see
Aunt Betsy, who still lingered, several times : for Uncle Ste.
phen and George being now busy, and rarely coming to th«
house, I could go in and out asI chose without exciting ani
notice.

When I look back upon those dark days I wonder how,
having nothing better than my own strength of endurance
to trust in, I got through them so well as I did. As the
day of trial approached, I felt it hard that I might not be
allowed to be near my grand-father, and I said so to Unele
Stephen, but he called the wish foolish, and I knew that he
was going to great expense and did not need to be burdened
with more. I read an account of the Supposed murder in a
newspaper that came to the house, and the statements made
respecting my grand-father astonished me, and staggered
my faith in his acquittal. It was currently reported that
Mr. David Marples had been compelled to discountenance
his brother, on account of the disgraceful conduct of the
latter’s children, and in which he had encouraged them.—
Now, as my grand-father’s children had all died in their in-
fancy, except my mother, who was herself little more than
a child when she died, I could not help wondering if “the
children” meant herself and me, and if the disgrace, which
we had small part in bringing about, was to this extent in-
tolerable to an immaculate world. My heart burned with
indignation, while my face flushed and my head bowed un-
der this shame. I had intended to be very courageous; |
had resolved to preserve my self-respect in the midst of
depreciation: but my courage and my equanimity were
severely tried when I came in close contact with the world

and its opinion. :
I never knew more of my grand-father’s trial than what
was told me by Uncle Stephen. He was found guilty, but

 

   
    
   
  
   
   
 
   
  
  
     
  
   
 
  
  
  
    
   
  
  
 
 
  
  
 
  

 

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250 FAMILY SECRETS.

was respited, and finally sentenced to transportation for life

IT passed a lone interval of unconsciousness, during which j
£ S y f

was additionally burdensome to Mrs. Ratcliffe, and a convict

Was

ship being about to sail to Australia, I only recovered in

time to be carried, like a child, to take leave of my grand-
father. If I had had any remaining faith in saints aad
martyrs I might have looked upon him—so meek, so un-
complaining, so steadfast in his strong trust—as being both 5
but as it was, I only regarded him as one hardly used by a
godless world, and vainly dear to myself; and my heart
bled inwardly, and I relapsed, and lay for a long time be-
tween life and death.

Uncle Stephen had provided me with a nurse, and I sel-
dom saw anything of Mrs. Ratcliffe. When I was at length
well cnough to go down stairs she would not remain in the
same room with me. This, to do her justice, was not any
horror of me individually, but rather her way of expressing
disapprobation of Uncle Stephen’s liberality, to the detriment
iS slations. He was compelled to notice conduct so
, it could not escape my observation, and one

—

of his own r¢
marked that
evening he launched out against her in a manner that only
heightened my distress.

“ Gonfound the woman !” he said, after telling me not to
mind her, “she goes to. church twice on Sunday, and I don’t
know how many times in the course of the week, and yet
she has never learned that it is expedient to show a little of
what is styled Christian mercy! Tve been wondering for
years, what people go to churches and chapels for. Your
grand-father’s last request to me was, that I would not at-
tempt to undermine your religious principles. I told him
that you had strong common sense, and that in the
matter of faith you would be sure to judge for yourself. “My
God! haven't you seen what Christians are? If you
meet with a man who is a man, or a woman who is @ wo-
man, and nothing more, you may find something human
about them; but the quibbles and quirks, the hypocrisy and
meanness, and heartlessness, and treachery, and sordidness of
pious people, floor me altogether. It was chiefly the pious
people of ——that floored your grand-father. The sneaking,
pitiful hounds, took part with wealth and power; and when

JFAMELY SECRETS. 2651

1 #ied to get up a petition in his behalf, they refused to sign r
b cause the dean refused. Tl hey pretend to act under spinit- 7
ual guidance !” og
e ‘And you asked the dean to sign ?” ae
“Y did. It was gall and wormwood to me, but : asked if
him. I would have seen him hanged before I would have *

asked him a favor under any other circumstances

 

 

 

driven to it, Margaret!” (He had been walking : about the y
room, and i now stopped and oe ae clenchec dl hana :
upon the table.) “If your granc or h ee nae been tried a
by aay of Christians he vould now be free; for they do ‘
not judge as betwixt man and man, nha accor ling to the a
distinction ns, that every form of religion has tended to intro- a
duce, until we have become a mass of corruption alto- ‘
Beier. a
“Uncle Stephen,” I said (I was st till weak, and was more
fitted to receive the gentle an rations of one of my own 4
sex, than to enter ae any contest with him or the world), as a
“Jot uss speak of other matters. I shall soon be strong ua
enough to do something for myself, and you know that I ot
cann ot remain here. “T am placed under the ban of a 4
double disgrace, and I must deal with the world as I find it. 4
Cannot I change my name and try aga a . earn what will . ae
: : 4

keep myself? “You once spoke of some plan for me, Uncle o
99
Stephen : what was it?
: ? yp? |] cain = (wa cae | am hs f
“Don’t drive me mad!” he said; “you see I am half

 

 

mad already. Before you were born, Margaret, when I saw

how my friend aoe his child were es I vowed to ¢e-

vote what energy was in me to redressing them, I poss sible. “A
I had a burning ie for revenge upon Colon | Leigh that a
has never left me, and that could not have been s tronger if 4
Alice had been my own child. oe Sey 1g made me take .
to educating you. I determined t at you i yuld riseim the i
world, in spite of the dean and his ec ere L for und you apt J |
and intelligent, and as you grew up 1 au tha t you would oe
be beautiful. All this favo ored the plans I had for you. In 4
short, Margaret, 1 considered it would be an easy matter to a

stn i Speman est

find for you a husband,—w ealthy, t if not high in rank—and
so secure for you position and pe ion at once. In toy
don [ hal opportunities for getting you out in good societ}

agen
Dc piete

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Hebets dol an ee aeare Ee

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TES TOPROSEST PEPER TTEO CTL TERN PA Bis PERT

 

 

Well, this was my scheme: to get you married before you
had seen and suffered enough to make the knowledge of
your position of itself an intolerable burthen. Your grand-
father frustrated this design for a time—in one respect he
defsated my purpose altogether: you have suffered to an
extent that has roused all the energies of your character
before you have yet made a step in advance towards securing
the power, without which you can only suffer on. All the
powers of this world seem to be against me; here | am
again foiled by this most unhappy affair of your grand-
father’s. But never mind: we are compelled to bear the
life that is given us—we have a right to make it as tolera-
ble as possible to ourselves. In a little time we shall see.”
Uncle Stephen’s scheme would, at any time, have been
an impracticable one for me, though even yet he did not
seem inclined to give it up. As he said, I had suffered to
an extent that had roused all the energies of my character ;
I was too independent and self-willed to yield to dictation
in matters of importance; and I, too, saw the necessity of
trying to make a life like mine as tolerable to myself as
was possible. There was nothing in that life that I would
share with another: its difficulty, and sorrow, and shame,
above which I could rise in my solitude, with a proud con-
sciousness that I and all of mine had preserved our integ-

Aity and borne ourselves bravely, would only have been so

many waves to overwhelm me, if I had sordidly attempted
to barter them for position or wealth. It seemed so clear
that I could only stand alone, that I could not help marvel-
ling at Uncle Stephen’s want of common foresight in think
ing otherwise. Thus much of good had come out of
avil, that present circumstances had rendered contention
with him unnecessary. |

“Just now, Uncle Stephen,” I said, “I must think of the
«neans of existence. I neither can nor will remain a bur-
then upon you. I would rather at present enter some dress-
making or millinery establishment, for there I could at least
earn enough to keep myself, which is more than I could
well hope for, in going out again as a governess; and there
would be less inquiry into my connexions. Do you thin}
you could procure me a situation of this kind ?”FAMILY SECRETS. 258

“There is time enough to think about that,” said Uncle Ste.
phen. “At present you are not well enough to du any-
thing ; you must keep quiet.”

“IT am well enough to work now,” I said; “I cannot, I will
not remain here. I shall never be any better while I stop
here. I require some rest of mind as well as body, and I
cannot rest in this state of dependence.” .

“ You are uncomfortable enough, I know,” said Uncle
Stephen. “ What can I say to this woman, with whose fol-
lies I have borne all my life, and whose principles I don’t
understand? Save me from any useless contention with
her, Margaret, by keeping quiet till I have time to look about
me.

I dreaded nothing so much as any contention between
these two on my account. If I had been strong enough to
do so, I should have looked out for myself at once; and sit-
vated as I was, I would willingly have taken the burthen
and the disgrace of my presence from all of them, if possi-
ble. For a disgrace as well as a burthen I was to Uncle
Stephen, too, though he would not acknowledge it. It was
laying a hard task upon him, even asking him to procure
me a place. I was aware of all this, and the thoughts that

burned within me, kept my bodily strength down. I hyow.-
busy, though as yet shapeless schemes for the future, thehat
kept my brain ° onstant state of activity; I resolved by jp
some method or -....1 to get the means of rejoining: my at
grand-father, for the thought of our eternal separation upthers
earth, under such circumstances, was more than . could e,wn,
dure. Surely I had not been endowed with a bold spirit-fe,ar,
no purpose, nor was I uselessly haunted with a convictiorep
that I must go on at any risk towards something yet to bak
attained,-whatever difficulty lay in my path! I felt as -neut

who has lost his way in the dark, and feels conscious that a
glimmer of light would enable him to reach the end of his
journey in safety. I waited for one step forward in a fevas
of impatient hope.

I had seen little of George :::ve his journey to , the
county town where my grand-father was tried, for his syr-
pathy was of the intense kind that distresses to the extent of
embarrassing expression, and he rather shunned me; but J

 

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Uncle Stephen had given me an account of his eloquent ap:
peal on my grand-father’s behalf, which had obtained fo:
him the commendation and notice of men high in the pro-
fession, and which, doubtless, had its weight in procuring
a commutation of the sentence. I began to love him as a
brother, not only because I felt that I owed him a debt of
gratitude, but because | believed there was much that was
noble in his nature; and I was grieved that there was so
much on every side to interdict a free communication be-

thought more highly of him than ever, for many reasons

tween us.

T had not seen Aunt Betsy since my grand-father’s trial.
From Uncle Stephen, who visited her frequently, I learned
that she remained in the same state, and now that I was
strong enough to go out, I determined to see her. I was
sitting one day, expecting Uncle Stephen to come in, when
George entered in evident agitation.

“ Miss Marples—Margaret,” he said, “are you alone in
this house? is my mother gone out %”

She had gone out, as she frequently did.

“Uncle Stephen sent me,” continued George, hurriedly.

a “oe thought your firmness and gentleness would effect some
above Win the midst of the great distress for which we would

8Cl >
rae Oeast your sympathy. Will you at once accompany me on

errand of mercy? I will explain to you further on the
many...»
. he expressed my willingness to go with him, and after
ki a Gly putting on a bonnet and shawl, I accompanied him
oad . coach that stood at the door. As we were driven
a Sno, he told me that his friend Elliott had that morning
et be himeelf and that his widow and children were as yet
ce , 100 great distress to consider that they were left destitute.
[f any one should be inclined to think it extraordinary that
I, in my brief career, should have witnessed so much hu-
nan suffering and calamity, I can only say, that any one
placed as I was, favorably for such acquaintance with mis-
fortune, may see enough of it from day to day, merrily and
complacently as the world seems t» go on for them that
know no more of the struggles and trials of poverty than 1s

furnished by newspaper paragraphs. It would have been

ined Da Behe

   
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

FAMILY SECRETS. 956

: a
« J if anything better had met my view under the circum- -

®-<nces in which I was placed. As regarded myself, I had 7
been singularly fortunate in meeting with kindness. I had
not suffered the worst extremity of distress.

The Elhotts ocenpied apartments in a street near Man- i
chester Square. George led me into a room where I found ;

Uncle Stephen and Jem surrounded by six children, the eld-
est, a boy of about ten, all except the baby crying bitterly.

 

Jem held the baby upon his knee. I had not seen him .
since my late heavy trial, but Uncle Stephen had told me 4
that his grief had been immoderate. I approached him and j

held my hand out. Mi

“ Oh, Miss Margaret,” said the poor fellow, bursting into
tears, “I can’t get life out of nothin’ nohow now, though
there’s life enough to be had, too. Somehow it all goes
wrong.”

I took the baby from him, and understood from Uncle a
Stephen that the landlady ‘was up stairs with Mrs. Elliott,

and that the dead man lay in the next room to us. [| shud- {=
dered at the sight of a long towel, very much saturated with A “
blood, lying upon a chair. George took it up and went out a
with it, and presently returned, ' ey
“T sent for you, Margaret,” said Uncle Stephen, “ know- a &

ing that you would feel for these poor children, and that
you would help us as far as you could. You are scarcely in v
a condition to be taxed so heavily, but you see we are at H
our wit’s end in this case. The Elliotts, like many others
who have been reduced in the world, and then kept down,
have no friends. Christianity provides nothing better than
a work-house for desolation like this, and we wish to keep
away from it, if possible. George and I are going to look Ms
over poor Elliott’s papers, and see how his affairs stand ; but re

nt ROR

 

they must be desperate. He has a brother in uhe country ‘
well off: but, bah! we all know what brothers generally are 4
when poverty stands in the way. I know old Reece, Elli- . i
ott’s governor, for whom he has slaved these twelve years, i

and I’ll see what can be made of him. Have you any mo
ney left, Margaret ?”

I drew from my pocket the purse he had formerly given
me. I had spent cnly a small portion of its contents, andsrriunsieenverpaeneasatrrmnera tier rien AIP MY

Livarter Sud kbd ot StL ALE

PE LENT EP ret

set bai en] Tislatcltiisatarasecitecte cnt ree
Ic Wat GH SN ag

ort orteaatl

956 FAMILY SECRETS.

I had since wished to return it to him, but he would not take
it.

“Make use of it for anything that is wanted here, Mar-
garet,” he said, “for just now I am out of money, but I ex-
pect to get some in a few days. This is altogether distress-
ing, Margaret. EElliott’s eldest child, a poor, vale, overtask-
ed girl of fourteen, is a sewer in one of the great fiddle-fad-
dle establishments that you want to enter. At present, she
knows nothing of this misery, and we think it best to let
her alone till she comes home at night. Can you stop here
all night ?”

I said I would.

“That’s right,” he said. “As to me, I’m not of much
use, for I waste half my time in considering what had best
be done first. Confound it! I seem to have been born for
no purpose but to be a plague to myself, for as to any real
good I ever did, with all my striving, where is it ?”

Baby had taken a fancy to my curls, and pulling them so
as to draw my head aside, I caught a glimpse of George
with his arm round the eldest boy, who lay sobbing upon
his shoulder.

‘Come, Harry, my boy,” he said, “this will never do.—
You must be a man for your mother’s sake. Little Frank,
there, bears up better than vou do.”

The boy turned his swollen eyes in the direction of little
Frank, who was seated on a low stool before a chair, on
which his arms rested, and his face was buried in them. I
fancied he had wept himself to sleep.

“ Come, George,” said Uncle Stephen, “ we mustn’t waste
time now; let us see what can be done.” And the two
went out into the other room.

Jem had got two of the little girls upon his knees, and
was trying to amuse them. I called to the third to come
and kiss baby, who jumped in my arms and seemed inclined
to be very happy. As to Harry, who sat helplessly ix the
chair where George had left him, leaning against the back
of it with his hand across his eyes, I did not so well know
how to deal with him. Perhaps he knew better than my-
self to whom to flee for consolation,

It was late in a Septembor afternoon, and the shadowsFAMILY SECRETS. 257

were deepening round me, when a hurried step was heard up-
on the stairs, and the door was burst open, giving entrance
to a very slender, pale young girl, who held in her hands a
-arge wicker basket lined with oil-cloth, which she flung up-
on the floor before running up to the boy Harry.

“Oh, Harry,” she exclaimed, throwing her arms round
his neck, “ tell me it isn’t true what I have just heard down

stairs—tell me it isn’t true, or I shall die !”

The boy’s grief was aroused afresh, and he only replied
by sobbing convulsively. I beckoned to Jem to take the

baby, for I thought the girl would faint.

I went up to her

and threw my arms round her, and for several minutes she
reeled about, wringing her hands, and neither weeping
nor saying anything. At length she burst into a passionate
fit of weeping. What she said, and how the children began
weeping afresh, and how poor Henry’s frame shook as if the
soul would burst out of it, I cannot take upon me to relate.
When she at length became calmer she glanced at the

basket.

“ What shall I do?” she exclaimed.

“JT feel as if I

could not take this now. I ran nearly all the way, that I
might have time to call here for a minute and see how you

all were. I did not expect
afresh.

 

bP]

Here her grief burst out

“Can I take this anywhere for you ?” I asked.

“Will you beso good ?” she said, looking uptome. “It.

is a dress for Miss Wilson in Portman Square. We sat up

all night with that and others.

my dear, dear father, since yesterday morning

O God! I have not seen

9

If I had not held her up she would have fallen to the
floor. She was aslight burden, but I was myself still weak,
and we staggered together. I got her to tell me the num-
of the house; and telling Jem I should be back presently, I

went out with the basket.

By inquiring, I easily found my way to Portman Square.
When I was admitted into the house a lady’s-maid hurried
to me, and desired me to follow her up stairs with the bas-
ket, saying as we went that Madame Campan ought to be
ashamed of herself for not sending the dress sooner Ip an

upper passage she took the basket from me and told me —
16

 

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968 ‘FAMILY SECRETS,

wait, with the additional information that she expected ]
should catch it nicely.

I had not waited long when the maid re-mppeared, and
told me to walk forward. I heard as I went along a con-
fused sound of angry voices, that assailed me altogether
when I entered a dressing-room, in which I found the lady
of the house and her two daughters. One of the young
ladies had the dress I had brought, on; and besides being
too tight in the waist it was deficient in some kind of trim-
ming, that the three directed my attention to at once, ex
pecting that I knew all about it.

“Whatever have you people been thinking about to treat
us in this way?” said the lady of the house. “It is per-
fectly scandalous, and you knew the dress was wanted to-
night.”

“Pm sure I hate the sight of it; I could tear it all to
pieces !” said the chief sufferer, giving a savage pull atthe
dress that seemed to me a very superb one. “Ill not wear
it! I can’t wear it! and I’m to be kept at home all through
those dirty wretches !”

“Don’t worry yourself so, dear,” said the mother; “I'll
never patronize that Madame Campan again, you may de-
pend upon it. I always thought she kept an idle, dressy
set of young women, that didn’t know their place or care
what they did. What hand have you had in this work 2”

“ Why don’t you speak, you great fool!” said the other
young lady, enforcing the appeal to myself, that at the mo-
ment I was too much confused to answer; “can’t you open
your mouth ?”

O ye pampered and _ soft-spoken daughters of the rich !
how many amongst you are capable of thus opening your
mouths to an inferior, before whom you can make the exhi-
bition with impunity ?

I suggested that I could soon remedy the defect of fitting,
and in my zeal I ventured to touch the dress which the
young lady had not taken off.

“Don’t come near me, you nasty, impudent thing !”
eo recoiling in horror; “go and stand by the door,
oO

“Who taught you to take such liberties with ladies {*FAMILY SECRETS. 259

screamed the mother, growing redder in the face, “PI
call Madame Campan to account for this !” i
“ Oh, they’re all a lazy, impudent set!” said the other a
ee lady, throwing herself into an easy chair, and yawn-
“Take the dress off, love, and let that person run back
with it,” said the mother. ‘“There’s three hours to spare,
and they must bring it back in one. Mind that!” she said
to me. 5
This was a poor opportunity for bringing in the trouble of
the young girl whose place I had taken; but after listening -.,
for several minutes to explanations about trimmings that a
only puzzled me, I confessed that I did not understand,—
that I did not belong to Madame Campan’s establishment,
and [ mentioned the affliction that had detained the proper
messenger by the way. .
“ And that’s the wav we're treated!” said the young lady i
actually bursting into tears; “we’ve to put up with ant 7
thing because vulgar people rust attend to their own baa
troubles !” i
“Why didn’t you say that at firat?” said the elder lady.
* (tet out of the house, and don’t show your face here again | a
Watson, see her out, and take the dress to Madame Cam- a &
pan’s yourself.” i
The maid seemed to be quite as much put out of her way x
as her mistresses, and she continued railing at me as she
drove me before her. I am not sure that I did not send
something like an anathema back upon the house as I walk-
ed out of it.
Thus far and no farther extended my experience of you,
O women of Engand! It may be said that I met with ex |
treme examples of meanness, and arrogance, and _heartless- ee
ness; but while the wealthy are allowed to rise in self-de- t
fence, let the voices of faded girls and squalid women be for
once heard in reply, from crowded work-rooms or cheerless
garrets, or from wherever they may be allowed to congre-
gate as machines set apart for hard use ; not recognizable as
human, except in their scantily-rewarded toil ; not thought Ly
of in their wants, that make life a daily death ; not cared on
for in the spiritual degeneration, for which there is no help! 7

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Wiser ata rerrteell as ri
. Spar ap ET bases er ER PBR TS
Sate 5 anne Re ate heey , ZLIPS AAA MA HRA AMES EMRE OU SNL aan

shad LdvireoverisiaboPade SEES ATPL

bis whaaeh io Mbakcets kb teed Laid atid tenet need hia es phe yh eres P ar
ttiitediai dtl: Pad sTie) IRL Oued aa OMeYeL2G RANMA DREUED AMAIA CAPE

epee UREN MIE

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

260 FAMILY SECRETS,

The fire that was ready lighted in my spirit was fed by
what I had just seen and heard, till it blazed up into a
farce fame. I was already familiar with this system, which
produces tyrants and slaves of the worst description ; but
the contempt and insolence expressed in the words and
looks of those people were more than I could promise my-
self to take tamely, even though they included seven or niné
shillings a week as it might be, and the privilege of setting
up all night to adorn sumptuous robes for my betters. I was
clearly not fitted for my station; I was unfitted for Christi-
anity, which enjoined upon me humility and forbearance,
and patient waiting for the vengeance of God. I could and
would protect, if not avenge myself. “TI will not remain in
this country !” I exclaimed passionately as I walked along ;
“if there be any spot of earth where the air of freedom
may be breathed I will find it out. O cruel and cursed place,
in which I and mine have suffered so much wrong’and ago-
ny! I here trample upon your institutions which you dig-
nify with the names of Religion and Liberty ; I laugh to
scorn your attempts to beat me down, til! I become loath-
some to myself! You shall not annihilate my intellect
and then deliver me over to the privileged murderers in
your mad-houses; you shall not drag me into your work-
houses, and reduce me to the pauper imbecility that sinks
man beneath the level of every brute that walks or crawls!
I will not wear my fingers to the bone and heap the dust
of death upon my heart daily, for the miserable privilege of
sustaining an impoverished and degraded existence! I hate
you! Oh, my God! how I hate you all, ye people whe
claim the admiration of the world !”

I spoke in a high tone, and'I felt bold. It mattered not
to me that I was poor and apparently helpless; I had all
the strength of my indignation, as well as the strength of
my youth and native energy, to bear me through.

Before I had reached the abode of the Elliotts I had
uade up my nind what course to take.

One miserable misgiving lingered with me,—I thought it
,aite probable thet the poor slave, Lucy Elliott, might lose
her situation througe the wrath that I had helped to kindle
in Portman Square I told her of the dissatisfaction of theFAMILY SECRETS. 281

great personages upon whom I had called, but she did not
seem to heed it then; and Jem was that night despatched
to inform Madame Campan on what account she was com-
yelled to absent herself from her work.

\n pursuance of the resolution I had taken, I sent Jem
tu Mrs. Ratcliffe, with a request that she would for-
ward by him whatever belonged to me. As Uncle Stephen
seemed to wish me to remain with the Elliotts for the
present, I was enabled to do this without exciting any re-
mark. Nothing was clearer, however, than that I had no
business there, where I was only adding to the expense and
doing little good. Lucy was quite capable of attending to
the children, if, as the poor are compelled to do, she put
forth all her energy in the midst of heavy grief; and thera
were women in the house, who seemed to attend willingly
and sympathizing to Mrs. Elliott.

There was, however, mourning to be made, and I defer-
red my purpose while there seemed a chance of my being
really useful. Late in the evening of the second day (an
inquest had then been held and a verdict of temporary in-
sanity returned), Lucy and I were busily at work and all
the children, except Harry, were in bed, when Uncle Ste-
»yhen and George camein. With all his kindness of heart,
Uncle Stephen was not the sort of man to mince matters
out of a regard for the feelings of those he addressed.—
This he would have called an unmerciful sort of mercy, and
he declared that he left all sorts of prevarication to the
Christians. He and George had found poor Elliott’s affairs
in even a worse condition than they had expected,—there
was 10 money, and he was, for him, deeply in debt. Old
Reece, as Uncle Stephen called him, declared that he was
himself a creditor, and he would not give a penny towards

helping the widow and children. All the hope that re-
mained rested upon the brother that had been written to.
Uncle Stephen blurted out these facts without remorse, gar-
nishing them with some severe comments on the injustice
and inhumanity of old Reece.

“If the slave-driving curmudgeon,” he sald “had paid
Elliott a fair salary for what he did—conducting altogether
a business that yielded above two thousand a-year—nothing

 

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962 FAMILY SECRETS.

could have been said. He knew that he had the man in his
toils, he knew that his large family compelled him to slave
on, and he took advantage of this knowledge to keep him
down. He spoke to me of Elliott as he would not have
spoken of a dog,—that is the worn-out man’s reward. He
said a hundred a-year was a princely income, and that those
who could not live on it deserved tostarve. He is a Metho-
dist, and he occasionally. holds forth himself, and in due
time he expects to be translated to what he calls ‘the king-
dom. Deliver us from a kingdom so peopled! I tell you
what, George, I more than even don’t care a fig for the laws,
civil and religious, with which we are saddled like so many
donkeys. If I met this old Reece in a convenient place, |
would no more mind easing him of what I consider to be
due to Elliott, than I would mind shooting down a wolf._—
There is a tale—a legend I’m afraid—of one Robin Hood,
a sturdy Saxon, who in the midst of Norman oppression
stood boldly up for the poor of his race, and successfully
levied contributions on the rich by whom they had been
despoiled; and if a like career was possible in these days,
in which redress is also needed, I should desire nothing bet-
ter for myself.”

“Uncle Stephen,” said George, dryly, “you have a pecu-
liar way of teaching the young idea how to shoot. As
your plan is an impracticable one, we must turn to some-
thing else. Harry writes well; and he may be got into an
office where he can do a little in that way, and run errands.
You, Lucy, say that your mother has a rich uncle some-
where: what’s his name ?”

“ Bontoft,” said Lucy.

“ What!” said Uncle Stephen, “the Bontoft of the firm
of Bontoft and Greaves, City merchants? I knew them
years ago,—both men of immense wealth.”

Lucy said it was the same.

“Why, Margaret,” he said, turning to me, “that’s the
fellow you met with. Do you think anything could be made
of him ?”

“Vm afraid not,” I said. “ He has a great dislike to the
sight and sound of misery ; indeed he won’t believe that
there ia any real suffering or want in the world.”FAM?) LY. SECRETS,

“A common complaint,” said Uncle Stephen; “I wish ]
had the curing of it! We'll try him, however. 3] go to
him myself: give me his address,”

Being furnished with this, Uncle Ste

phen and George
left us; and Lucy and I continued our labors through the
night.

QELS AE Sem

CHAPTER XIII

Poor Elliott was buried decently, Uncle Stephen, George
and Henry attending him to the grave. The brother of the
dead man acted well—perhaps to the best of his ability.—
He sent fifty pounds, and proffered to take two of the chil-
dren under his charge. Nothing, however, could be made
of Mr. Bontoft. There seemed to be a fair chance of the
family being provided for, as George took entire charge of
Henry, and Uncle Stephen proposed to establish the widow
in some small way of business.

There was no pretext for my remaining any longer with
the Elliotts, and I would not return to Mrs. Ratcliffe’s. The
members of this family all interested me greatly ; and they
rewarded my slight services with an excess of grateful at-
tachment that pained me, knowing how soon and suddenly
I should be separated from them, probably to meet no more
in this world. On the day following the funeral [ went out
early, telling Lucy I should soon return. During the time
i resided with the Bontofts I had heard Colonel Leigh
spoken of, and understood that he lived with an uncle, a
General Leigh, in Berkeley Street. I had at the time no
thought of storing up the address with the view of making
any future use of it; but now, when I had tried my best,
and saw nothing but failures or impossibilities on every side,

——now, when I had become resolute to leave these and try
my fortune elsewhere, and cease to be a burden upon one
whose generosity had been sufficiently tasked, I thought I
had a right to ask that man’s help; and I nerved myself te
the undertaking.

   
    
   
    
   
    
    
   
 
 
    
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 

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$64 FAMILY SEORETS.

And in the ordinary acceptation of the term, it did not
require much nerve in me to do this, The great difficulty
was, overcoming my strong disgust. I cared nothing for
the wealth or rank of Colonel Leigh; my religious educa
tion had done me the service of levelling worldly distinc-
tions, so that I cared nothing for power unaccompanied by
such worth and honor as my own soul compelled me to
look for in those who commanded my respect. I har at-
tempted to write, but could find no words that would satisfy
me: for I did not intend to supplicate or reproach, and I
felt it was best that we should meet face to face.

I knew the number in Berkely Street, and I knocked
boldly at the door. A porter opened it, who seemed half
asleep. ~I saw in the hall, the leathern chair from which he
had just risen. I asked if Colonel Leigh was at home.

“ Don’t know,” said the man, looking at me from head to
foot. “ What's your message ?”

“T want to see him on particular business, which I can-
not explain to you,” I said. “ Will you inquire for me if
he is at home ?”

The porter again surveyed me in a very leisurely manner 5
then he told me to walk in, and he would inquire.

While I stood upon the door-mat he rang a bell, and
presently a man having the appearance of a valet came
down stairs. The porter mentioned my errand, and asked
if his master was at home.

“T don’t know, I’m sure,” said the valet. “I don’t think
he is. You'd better leave your name and cali again.”

“T have no time to call again,” I said; for I had seen
this kind of prevarication at Mrs. Wilton’s and at the Bon-
tofts’, and I felt sure that Colonel Leigh was in the house,
et you. are not sure that he is out, you can at least in-

uire.”

“What name did you say ?” said the valet; and turning
his face towards the porter, I saw him put his tongue in his
cheek. His cool impudence, and.'eering look, broughi for-
cibly back to me, the heartless horror that had preceded my
birth. I felt sick with disgust. There was still nothing t
dismay me further; but that loathing——how was I to over
eome it fVWAMILY SECRETS, 265

“} did not mention any name,” I said; “and I have no
name to give. Tell Colonel Leigh that I wish to speak with
him on a matter of life or death—that I must speak with
him.”

Perhaps my flashing eyes had some mesmeric power upon
the man, for he bowed rather politely and left me. The
porter sank in his chair and commenced reading a newspa-
per. I had been standing at least ten minutes, when the
valet reappeared and told me to walk up stairs. 1 followed
him into a narrow gallery with doors on either side. A
very erect and portly gentleman, in a dressing-gown, who
seemed to be upwards of sixty, honored me with a fixed
stare as he walked out of the room, into which I was tmme-
diately ushered. There was a breakfast equipage upon the
centre table, and Colonel Leigh, also in a dressing-gown,
was seated with his slippered feet upon the fender. He rose
as I entered, and, to my relief, I heard the door close behind
me.

“The devil!” he exclaimed, after looking at me for a
second.

“ You cannot shrink from me more than I do from you,”
1 said; “and it is in your power to make our conference
very brief. I wish to leave this country, to which, if pos-
sible, I will never return. If I could have procured the
means of doing this by my own labor I should not have
troubled you; I already owe a large debt to one, on whose
generosity I will encroach no further. I want twenty
pounds; will you supply me with this sum? In return I
promise, that if I can help it, you shall never see or hear
of me again.”

“ Well, but—aw—it’s an infernal bore! What you say
about not being able to earn money is all stuff, if you
choose to work,” said Colonel Leigh, lounging over the fire
and tossing his slipper from his foot and catching 1t.—
“There’s plenty to do in England, and you'll be bo better
off in any other country, if you're not industrious.”

“T have not found work plentiful in England,” Isaid; “at
least, not such work :s I can or will do.”

“'That’s it!” said Colonel Leigh; “just what I’m told is
the case all over the countrv. The English work- people are

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266 FAMILY SECRETS.

too well fad, and get saucy. I have it upon good authority,
from gentlemen who make a business of inquiring into such
matters, that there never was a time when work of all kinds
was more plentiful, or better paid than just now. It’s no
use telling me it isn’t so, you know; I am in possession of
facts.”

“T have no inclination to dispute with you,” I said.—.
“Will you, or will you not, grant my request !”

“ Upon iny soul, I haven’t got twenty pounds about me,”
said the Colonel; “you might as well try to get blood out
of astone. You must not suppose that I am rich, because
you find me pretty decently lodged and attended. This
house and every thing in it belongs to my uncle. I have
been poor all my life, and remain so.’

“Then I am to understand that you refuse ?”

“| didn’t say that: you’ve a devilish cool manner, where-
ever you got it. In the course of a short time I may be
able to send the money, if you leave me your address.”

“T have no address. You speak of an indefinite future,
and I have no means of existing in the present. Give me
now any sum that will enable me to set my’foot on the
coast of France.” ;

He had been paring his nails with a penknife; now he
turned and looked at me.

“ Do you speak French %”

“ Yes.”

“ That’s lucky for your present purpose, but it would have
been better for you if you had been brought up to regular
work. You must understand that you have no legal claim
upon me. However, as far as ten pounds go I suppose I
must make an effort. There,” he continued, taking two
notes from his pocket-book, and holding them out fluttering
iu his fingers; “I hope you'll make good use of it.”

“If you will place them upon the table I will take them,”
I said. I had a horror of approaching him nearer or
touching his hand.

“ Oh, very well,” he said, with some confusion in his man-
ner, and he threw the notes down. I took them up and
was walking out.

“Stop!” he said. “TI hope you are leading a .FAMILY SEORETS. 267

He doubtless intended to say, “I hope you are leading a

reputable life,” but he thought better of it.
_ “Thope,” he continued, “you will see the necessity there
is for exerting yourself. There are hundreds of ways in
which a young woman like you might earn an_ honest liv-
ing. You are very handsome, too upon my soul; and if
you marry honorably I may——”

I had stopped without looking back, and now I turned
upon him.

“It cannot matter much to you how I live,” I said.—
“ Marry I never shall, for I will not bring the disgrace of
my connexion with you to any honorable man’s hearth. I
do not thank you for this help; I should not have thanked
you if it had been given willingly. It will be well for you
if, through the future, you can bestow as little thought upon
me as [shall do upon you.”

I walked out of the room and encountered the same erect,
portly gentleman, who met me full in the face, and stared
as before. I ran down the stairs, the porter opened the
door, and I found myself in the street again. It was still
early in the day, and I walked on to Piccadilly, and took
an outside place in the Dover coach, that was to proceed to
that place the next morning. Then I purchased a small
carpet-bag and returned to the Elliotts. I packed up such
few things as were most necessary, including my grand-
father’s Bible, which I prized for his sake. Then I selected
a dark merino dress, the only one I could take with me,
and such other articles of outward attire as promised to
last longest. I had still much to do: I wished to see Aunt
Betsy once more, and I had a long letter to write to Uncle
Stephen. Lucy Elliott offered to accompany me to the
work-house, and, late in the afternoon, we set out together.
The work-house people had been more civil to me since the
appearance of Uncle Stephen; and Aunt Betsy, now quite

 

passive as well as unconscious, could do nothing to provoke»

harsh treatment. She had changed greatly since I saw her
last. All her limbs were now paralysed ; her features were
distorted, her mouth twisted to one side, and her open eyes
appeared to be fixed. The nurse told us that we did not
seo the worst of her; that they had been compelled te

at es ee ae a

   
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  

 

 

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268 FPAMILY SECRETS.

plaster her back with lime, in order to keep tac bone. to
gether. All this was horrible tome. Here was none of
the peacefulness that I had always associated with the idea
of deatb.

And the soul, the immortal soul, was it sleeping during
this prostration of the flesh? Here was no more evidence
of its existence than might have been found in a dying dog.
I fell on my knees by the bedside, not to pray, but awed by
this inexplicable mystery of my own being. I brought
Aunt Betsy’s life into review before me: her early spirit of
independence ; her disinterested devotion to her brother in
his troubles ; her early care of myself, ill requited; her la-
ter affection and courage, to which I owed so much. This

_was her reward at last,—dying as she would least have likeu

to die—a pauper, make the best of it we could, with only
strangers to close her eyes, and unable to recognize those
she loved if they might be present with her. I could make
nothing more of it than this asI rested my face upon the
already dead hand and kisssed it with the passionate, but
hopeless, affection of earth. As my burning tears tricklec
through the cold, inanimate fingers, I remembered the use-
lessness of my grief. I dashed them away with a sort of
disdain, and kissing the distorted mouth, I took a last look
and walked out.

I was writing my letter to Uncle Stephen in the evening
when he came in. Lucy was up stairs with her mother,
whom I had not yet seen, and I was alone. I hurried my
papers away and welcomed him: I was really glad to see
him once more.

“ For an old bachelor,” said Uncle Stephen, throwing him-
self into an arm-chair, “I am about as much bothered as a
man can well be who has not a dozen children all going the
wrong way. . I have just discovered, Margaret, that George
is a most undutiful dog.” 3

“TI hope not,” I said; “I am sure not: you are joking.”

“Tm in no humor to joke, for I shouldn’t. wonder if you
too, turned rusty on my hands. Do you think you owe me
any obedience, Margaret ?” :

This was a startling question, at a moment when I was
about to wrench myself aw:y from a’ authoritv. I had atFAMILY SECRETS. 369

no time, however, been more inclined to feel and acknowl.
edge how much I owed to this early friend. |

“There must be something very wreng about me if I

have led you to entertain a doubt upon the subject,” I said ;
“hut, oh, Uncle Stephen, my obedience, like everything else,
can only make me a further burden upon you: I cannot
bear this.”
_ “You are a silly child ! What do you suppose a fellow
like me has to live for, if he has no interest in life beyond
himself? If I hadn’t you and George to think about, what
would become of me? Mind, though, I don’t bargain for
being plagued in the wrong way. First, with respect
to George; the fellow has taken it into his head to fall ip
love.” :

This appeared to me a very foolish procedure, considering
George’s circumstances. I thought he would be better em-
ployed if he roused himself out of his lethargic state, and
struck out a new path for his exertions, and commenced in
earnest the struggle for independence.

“Tf he is serious,” I said, “I hope the lady is rich.”

“ What a mercenary thought, off-hand! To do you credit,
Margaret, you never had much romance about you; how
should you, poor child! George has had little to do, except
dream, all his life. He has had no real trouble, and a natu-
ral indolence has inclined him to take everything easy.—
Now, however, he is brightening up wonderfully. He has
conceived what I call a sublime idea—he wants to go out
to Australia.”

“Ah! he will see my grand-father!” | exclaimed.

“Of course he will! So will his wife; so shall I: for if
he marries and expatriates himself, I shall certainly follow,
so soon as I can settle my affairs ; taking my sister with
me, if she will go; and if not, providing for her here as
genteelly as possible. Could you part with us all so, Mar-
garet ?”

I had nerved myself up to the parting with them all, but
not in this way. It was easier work to wring other hearts
than bear this wringing of my own. I wondered if Unels
Stephen could really so leave me.

a t a blank look!” he sai approaching me, and

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FAMILY SECRETS

placing his hand upon my head. “Did you think for s
moment that we had not included you in our scheme}
Why, Margaret, we couldn’t live without you, neither George
nor 1. Look here! what do you call this—a love-ditty ?—
Confound all verse-makers! I’m such a prosaic fellow my
self, that if the lines hadn’t been addressed ‘To Margaret,
I should have been inclined to throw them behind the fire
I found them in George’s desk; and upon interrogating him,
I learned that he had dared to disobey my injunctions by
falling in love with you!”

I glanced at the lines placed in my hand addressed “To
Margaret,” with a feeling approaching to terror. I could
not have chosen George for a husband, even if no such ob-
stacle had stood in the way as the mental resolve, respect-
ing which I had no wish to speak.

“O, Uncle Stephen!” I said, “you cannot wish that J
should marry George ?”

“Can't 12” he said. “ Well, I didn’t a short time ago,
when I thought you might do better; but as matters have
turned out, and if you can put up with him—and he’s a fine
fellow at heart, Margaret—l desire nothing better. He has
no energy of his own, except by fits and starts, and you
would make a man of him. Your union would reunite us
to your grand-father. I don’t intend to hold this out to you
as a motive, Margaret, because your decision must come
from your own heart, and be unbiassed. I only want to
prove to you that George has my best wishes. Now, don’t
screw up your mouth to answer me. J’m not making love to
you. To-morrow, George will see you himself, and you can
talk it over together. I must bid you good-night, for I
have a deal to do, and had no business to be here so long.”

“Oh, stop one minute, Uncle Stephen !” I said. (How
much harder this had made our parting!) “ Everything
you say, makes me appear to myself a monster of ingrati-
tude, and yet I am not ungrateful; everything you have
done for mein the past crowds upon me now, and over-
whelms me. I love you dearly, Uncle Stephen; I would
do anything to please you; anything to prove my gratitude
and my sense of the duty I owe you; anything that I coudd
do! Remember that I have said this ; for, oh, it is true!”FAMILY SECRETS. 271

“ What is the matter with the child ?” said Uncle Ste
phen, coming back and taking my hands, which, in- my ex-
citement, I had held towards him. “Do you think I should
wish you to do anything that you cannot do! Come, know
me better, and trust me altogether as a friend, the same to-
morrow as to-day, happen what will. Compose yourself,
now. Bless you! bless you!”

I threw my arms round his neck and returned the warm-
est caress he had ever given me, and then I found myself
alone.

And then I tore up the letter I had commenced, and be-
gan another. I wrote to George, too; such a letter as a
sister might write to a beloved brother on the eve of an
eternal separation : but neither satisfied me; how should
they? I had said so much from which so little that I felt
could be understood.

I had resisted two strong temptations,—an uninterrupted
union with those I loved well, and the prospect of soon meet-
ing with my grand-father. I could not help it. I had no
affection to return for that, proffered me by George: I was
firm in my resolve to battie with life alone. I might only
be going to my own destruction ; but an irresistible impulse
urged me on, and I felt that it was impossible for me to act
otherwise.

I felt that Jem, as well as Aunt Betsy, wou.d be kindly
looked to by those I left behind me ; and I passed a sleep-
less night, thinking of them all, though I tried to avoid
thought, shrinking from the idea of the distress I was leav-
ing where I would willingly have left peace. I slept with
Lucy Elliott, and I did not tell her until we were about to
retire for the night that I should have to rise early in order
to proceed on a journey. She expressed surprise and regret,
but did not question me closely, and I left to her care the
letters for Uncle Stephen.

I had one brief doze, from which I started with a sudden
xclamation of pain and terror that awoke my companion.

had been dreaming that my heart was rent in twain 5 that
I had it in my hand, and was looking at it; and that its
throb, like the beat of a sledge-hammer, shook my whole
frame. 1 awoke with an agonizing pain in my heart ; folPE At ROE IROL LS

INE pa ein eT teenie Pas saeare cre rieneaneietortenrehcseyees stir areeiyeeen fy

Wed bam anti teabet lias reais}

   

273 FAMILY SECRETS.

several minutes I fancied I was dying ; and then I promised
myself, that if I recovered I would never again allow my-
self to feel with an intensity that, besides doing no good
threatened to defeat all my purposes.

“Be something decided,” I said, mentally, apostrophising
myself; either lie down and break your heart in earnest, or

bear up with the true courage without which nothing can
be done !”

Against my wish, Lucy rose early to make me some
breakfast, and I took leave of her asif only for a short
time. She wished to carry my carpet-bag, but I would not
let her, and walked out by myself in the gray dawn. I
found the coach ready to start, and it was not until I had
left London behind me that I breathed freely. When, at
half-past two in the afternoon, [ found myself on board the
steamer that conveyed me away from England altogether,
my spirit bounded with exultation in the midst of my re-
grets.

*\ T remained upon deck all the way. The sea was rough,
and there was a high wind. This tumult of the elements
was congenial to the mood of my mind. I was not at all
sick, and my enjoyment of a scene so novel to me was un-
interrupted. In one respect I had won the wild liberty for
whicn I had panted in suffocating rooms, peopled by the
pariahs of society—the poor and hard-tasked, the neglected,
and despised, and afflicted ; abodes approached only by con-
tempt or pauper help; whose monotony was only broken by
fresh calamity or death. I was poor as ever, but poverty
had ceased to appal me; life was bounding in my heart,
and I had high hopes that I should never again be beaten
down as I had been; that, however hardly I might be com-
ee to labor, I should enjoy some of the privileges of a
uman being in the land of my adoption.

There were several passengers, and one aristocratic family
had acarriage on board. This family, which consisted of an
English earl, his two sons, and a daughter, accompanied by
several livery, servants, valets, and a lady’s maid, seemed to
attract considerable notice. They remained chiefly upon
deck, pacing up and down. As I sat, I could not help no-
ticing the oo~trast betwixt the eager looks of the plebeiansFAMILY

  

2

—showing, I thought, in some, a servile adoration that
would have well liked to fall down and worship them}; in

others, a puerile admiration, mixed with much humility; in

others, mere passing curiosity—and the evident obliviousness
[

 

‘o everything around them in these great ones of the earth.
Occupying one seat all the way, I saw enough to make me
marvel at the great dreath of self-respect which there is in
the world, notwithstanding that every one possessing the

1°

power is well enough inclined to make his own importance
felt wherever it is contenient to do so. I manage “€
serve my equanimity, for great misery is

 

) y

sence, anda strong resolution will chain t lL ¢
ling it to the contemplation of the purpose that lies before
it. But I could not help thinking how all present would
shrink away from me if they knew who and what I really
was—the daughter of one who would not or could not own
me; the grand-daughter of a convicted murderer; the
niece of a pauper dying in a work-house. I was all this,
yet I said, “ Thank God that I am nothing worse !|—that I
do not feel the less fitted for playing an honorable part in
the world!” :

We arrived in the harbor of Calais. I kept my seat until
the bustle occasioned by the departure of the greater people
had subsided. When I walked out upon the pier 1 was as-
sailed by several porters, who wanted to carry my luggage ;
but I had no particular place to carry it to, and said I did
not need their services. A custom-house officer stopped me,
took my carpet-bag, and poised it on his finger.

« Parbleu !” he said; “is that all?”

ATL? .

‘- Mademoiselle is alone ?” 3 :

“ Yes, alone.”

He led me into the Custom-house, and while a woman
was searching my carpet-bag I missed my purse, which {
had kept in my dress pocket. It contained all I had, ex:
cept a few shillings lying loosely in tne same pocket, and

was the remainder of the ten pounds given me Dy Colonel
| squander it heed-

. com pel-

 

t
$
f
L

  

 

 

 

Leigh. O ye who a bound in money, and | d-
jessly, how can you enter Into the feelings that overpowered
What was i to d@

me when I discovered this great loss!
17

 

 

 

epeine.s2/14 CAWLEY OSE OR EES.

€

friendless, and in a strange land, for I knew that money
was needed everywhere !

The woman perceived my disorder, and I acquainted her
with my misfortune. She advised me to return to the ship,
where | might have dropped it, or to give information to
the police. Iran back to the ship, and there was a search
that produced nothing; than a crowd gathered round me;
then I was questioned by the police. The result of it all
was that I was left to shift for myself as I could.

For though the police promised to make strict search for
my missing property, I had small hope of recovering it, and
in the meantime I knew not what todo. An old fishwo-
man, who had stood listening with a basket of herrings on
her head, accosted me as I was walking away.

“Mon Dieu!” she exclaimed, “what will you do, poor
child? Where are you going ?”

I turned to this voice of sympathy.

“T don’t know what to do, or where to go,” I said, re-
plying in her own language. “ This is a sad misfortune for
me.”

“Qacristie! come with me, then,” said the woman,—
“Everybody knows me, Meré Meulen! Holy Virgin! we
are all Christians, and you're not to be left to want. Come
on.” :
I followed her very willingly, and we entered the town.
After passing through a fair, wide street, she dived into a
narrower one, and set her basket down at a door, ‘beside
which stood a young man, very jauntily dressed, though evi-
dently of her own class.

“ Jaques,” she said addressing him, “ carry mademoiselle’s
luggage up to my room, and see there’s a good fire.—
Where’s Petit ?”

Jaques put his head down a cellar outside and whistled,
and a ragged urchin about twelve years old made his ap-
pearance. :

“ Here, Petit,” said mother Meulen, “take this basket to
Madeleine, and tell her Isha’n’t be out again to-day. Now
be quick back, for I want you: do you hear?”
ce You speak so loud, mother Meulen, one can’t help hear
ing you,” said the boy. “You see if I don’t fly.”

~ 9)FAMILY SECRETS. 378

Mother Meulen laughed. She had taken some of the
finest fish out of the basket. She desired me to follow her
up stairs. Jaques had preceded us with the carpet-bag,
and we found him in a room at the top of the house, where
1e was busily heaping wood on the fire. Mother Meulen,
with great volubility, gave him an account of my misfor-
tune.

“Fi, donc! what a jade Ill-luck is!” he said, turning his
handsome face to me. ‘ Never mind, there’s worse crosses
atsea than that. Perhaps mademoiselle was going further?”

“T intended to have proceeded to Paris,” I said.

“You see, Jaques,” said my protectress, “we must help
mademoiselle.”

“True, true,” said Jaques; “ we must and we will. Sit
here, mademoiselle, while I make the coffee. Marie will
broil those fish for you, mother Meulen.”

“ So she will,” said mother Meulen, and approaching the
inner wall she knocked at it. Presently a brisk, bright-eyed
grisette, entered the room.

“Do you want me, mother Meulen %”

“You must broil these fish for us, Marie; you see we
have company.”

Marie took them and tripped out again, and by the time
that mother. Meulen had spread a clean cloth upon the
table, and furnished it with bread and other requisites, and
Jaques had prepared the coffee, she returned with them
cooked very delicately ; and looking to me (for I was very
hungry, notwithstanding my disaster) quite a treat.

The greatest treat of all, greater even than Jaques’s cof-
fee. which mother Meulen assured me was superb, was the
cheerful faces and lively manners of these three. Poor
they were, no doubt, but poverty had not crushed out the
gaiety of their hearts; and they possessed true independenca,
for there had been no hesitation in any of them about giv-
ing up time, or affording other help to myself. Ah,-my
God! what an important matter half-an-hour of time was
to me when I worked for less than sixpence a-day ! I won-
dered what that bright-eyed Marie was, in whose face there
seemed to be so much irrepressible glee, and who skipped
about as if she were sat on wires. She did not look like aAbd PSGcaRTEAAL! Wiss FLA GHAR

TAR TB Sere tt

i

it
f
e
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:
E
:
f

f

oSRARMTMA Mc ic sabes ager AN UI

 

 

FAMILY SECRETS.

vender of fish, no di isparagement to mother Meulen —God

er of fish,
bless her, wherever she is !), and I ventured to make the in-
quiry during oo.

“ Marie |” ielinas ed Jaques, perhaps not understanding
my inquiry; “ Mar je is the best dancer in Calais. She
sings, too divinely Tou should hear her.”

. Marie,” said Doi Meulen, “is a very good girl. She
helps to keep ae be er, who is an invalid. She is a dress-
ms: ker, and hex brother is a fisherman, like Jaques there.—
He’s a wild young ae w, and helps ie to spoil her. But
what’s the use sees tal king when one grows old? When I

yas young I was as gay as Marie myself. Some of these.
days she'll marry, and if [ had a son 1 would not wish him
- oS

i ae been thinking that Jaques was her son, but in the

& Sos she mareeaeed me. J aques was the

béteotlind of ee eee who lived in service sixteen

miles off. They w io be married in a week, and in two

days he was tc set out to fetch her. In the meantime he
seemed inclined to make a holiday of it.

It was very wall £ ib m Hake myself comfortable with these
hospitable people for a day or night, but I could not remain
here; and what was I to do next? Mother Meulen and
Jaques wished me to remain till something was heard of my
purse; but, though I was sure I had it on board with me,

4
Ub
7
ake

mes

C2 O}

¥
SA

a

I did not feel any hope of getting it back again. I thought

: could not do better than esd how I was circumstanced
to these people, and ask their advice. I told them that I
was an orphan and alone in the world, and that I had come

to France in the hop eof obtaining an engagement, as teach-

er of English, in some school or f family.

“There is a convent that is also a school, only three miles
from the chateau where Lisette lives,” said Jaques. ‘“ Ma-

demoiselle might eed there,”

“ Ah, yes?” said mother Meulen, clapping rer hands;
“and if she didn’t succeed you could bring her back with
yeu: e

Jaques was to 0 pr oceed to Clerons, the name of the village
and chateau, in a light cart, and as Clerons was on the road

‘o Lille, and Lille was on the road to Paria, I thought IPAMILY SECRETS. 977

 

no fear of being left quite destitute in the vicinity of a
convent. | :

Thus, then, it was arranged. I slept tw
er Meulen’s room, and in the meantin ne de iques could gain
no tidings of my purse. As I had noi ni
to Calias, I diss sused mother Meulen OF. the idea that I

might return wi ith Jaques

“ Then, ma foi! you will take money with you,” said
mother Meulen 1, taking a leather purse out of her pocket.
“ Come, don’t be Doe. - I haven’t been slaving all my

 

 

on of returning

life for nothing ; ; ue can help my neighbors sometimes: can’t

I, Marie 2?”

This was said on

off, and Marie was

« You can, cui er
good soul,” said Mar
us.”

“ Just hear her ! said mother Mente “that’s
she comes over all of us: flattering one, wheedling or tor-
menting another, till she has it all her own eee

Marie shock her curls, and laughed merrily.

“ But mademoiselle must ee sa aid | mother M Meulen.
“It won’t do to travel without money. rom Clerens to
Paris is a long way.”

“ But from “Clerons to Lille 2?” I said.
ployment at Lille.”

aques and I set

You are a
example to

 

faded

é Lille is a fine city, and you might,” said
len; “but you will want money to te
when there you will have to look al

sense this is! you are only borrowing,

again. Haven't La daughte or of my own, and

for you ?” a
“ Mademoiselle,” said Marie, “ ii if you don’t o

Meulen, she’ll be quite yieorable so shal

led to think of y you far off, and with:

how the case stands 2”

 

So to oblige them, and myself at the same time, I took
sixty francs from mother Meulen,—all I wo auld take, though

Ht I
Ge pressed more ujdn me. Then I took an affectionate

 

 

 

 

 

SBR) CB eras iil pe eae es Oe

Se Ee
ap at ToePri cea g RAEN

TRIBE Niiseninintts i

Pe ic) Unt aasah iets

diaiariite erent

Pe gE ETE RE TIT

278 FAMILY SEORETS.

leave of them, promising to write, and mounted Jaque’a
light cart~-rather a heavy one—and shortly left Calais be-
hind me, and entered the open country of France.

I missed the luxurianee that speaks to the eye in Eng-
laud—the trim meadows and cosey-looking homesteads, the
hedge-rows, and groves, and woods that there meet one
everywhere. To make up for this—which, however, I did
not care about—Jaques was a most entertaining companion,
giving me his whole history, which, though very eventless,
had much human interest in it, and pointing out to me eve-
ry object of attraction on theroad. We__ passed several
clusters of houses, and Jaques exchanged hearty greetings
with individuals of both sexes, seeming to be well known all
along our route. When we arrived at Clerons he put up at
a small inn, the landlord of which came out to us. He was
a thin, wiry, little man, upwards of sixty, but he addressed

_ himself to me first, with all the politeness of his nation.

“ Will mademoiselle allow me to help her? Is this all
mademoiselle’s luggage? Walk forward! Madame Beton
will be quite delighted, I’m sure. Ah, Jaques! what sad
havoc thou art about to make at the chateau yonder!
Antoine has had one trial with charcoal—that wouldn't
finish him; and now he threatens to shoot himself.”

“ Nonsense !” said Jaques, laughing. “ Mother Meulen’s
daughter is no coquette, and I understand your jokes.
‘ af never mind me; I want you to attend to this young
ady.

Madame Beton—at least three times as large as her hus-
band—received us at the door; me poiitely, and Jaques
very heartily. I was ushered into a room with a stone floor ;
and a repast, consisting of fritters, sweet pancakes, very
hard cheese, and a light wine was speedily placed before
me.

Jaques remained in an outer room, in which I heard him
conversing with the host and hostess. Presently he came
to me.

“Tm at mademoiselle’s service,” he said; “I promised
mother Meulen that I would drive you over to the convent
as soon as you liked to go. There’s plenty of time to look
after Lisette.”<y

Toa MOU er SE CO: Ee 279

Plenty of time to look after Lisette | Had he no fear of
Antoine before his eyes ?

“ Ah, Jaques,” I said, “ you must not neglect your bride ;
and mother Meulen did not understand that, in the first in-
atance, I wished to write to the superior of the convent. I
shall do this to-day, and call to-morrow ; 80, you see, {T need
not trouble you,—which, indeed, I should be ashamed to do
on such an occasion. Will you return here, and shall I see
Lisette 2”

“ Yes mademoiselle,” said Jaques, “the chataeu is just be-
hind yon hill,” and he pointed from the window ; “we must
pass this road, and Lisette will call to take leave of her old

friends. But is mademoiselle sure that I cannot do hex this
service to-day ?”

“Quite sure, Jaques. You shall take my love back to
mother Meulen and Marie, and tell them that I now have no
fear of getting on. I shall think that you are not very
desperately in love, Jaques, if you loiter with me any lov

er.”
Jaques bowed, smiled, colored a little, and left the roca.
Presently I saw him walking at a quick pace towards the
hill, His errand might almost have been guessed from the
buoyancy of his step. Ah! it is a blessed thing to feel that
human hearts may sometimes be light and happy. I stood
looking from the window, forgetting my own troubles, and
picturing to myself the meeting of the betrothed lovers.

Madame Beton came in with some fruit, and I took the
opportunity of making some inquiries respecting the con-

vent.
“The nuns are of a strict order,” said Madame Beton,

“and they are very poor. They devote themselves to the
‘nstruction of young girls, whose poverty prevents them
paying for education. It is not the sort of school that would
require teachers that have to be paid ior. Mademoiselle

would succeed better at Lille.”
I inquired how it would be poasible for me to proceed te

Lille.” |
“This is an out-of-the-way place for

Madame Beton. “Robert Durand will

conveyances.” said
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FAMILY SECRETS:

his wagon, but he only goes as far as Mouscron; but from
Mouscron you could easily get on to Lille.”

I made up my mind to proceed by this conveyance.
Presently Jaques returned, with Lisette. He presented her
to me, I thought, with an air of pride, that increased my
surprise at finding her plain, though the expression of her
countenance and her manners were very pleasing. He was
much handsomer, as a man, than she was as a woman; but
the devotion seemed to be chiefly on his side. Hearts are
sometimes to be won by qualities that rank far above
the ephemeral advantages of mere outside prettiness, and
Jaques Rebaud had, doubtless, secured for himself a good
wife.

Jaques had evidently been talking about me, for Lisette
in her quiet, respectful way, manifested a strong interest in
me and my fortunes.

“But you, Jaques, and mother, to think of our convent
for mademoiselle !” she said. ‘“ Why, the lady superior her-
self lives upon black bread, vegetables, and water, all the
vear round, except on festivals, when they have a little fish.
If mademoiselle could only get to Paris !”

I told them that I designed going first to Lille, and then
mentioned my intention of proceeding to Mouseron in Rob-
ert Durand’s wagon.

“How uncomfortable for you!” said Lisette: “ he travela
in the night, and isso slow. Ah! I remember something
—how lucky !”

She went into the outer room, in which stood several
boxes. They were her own, and had been sent on before
her. She unlocked one, and brought from it a pillow cov-
ered with black leather.

“Monsieur le Baron gave me this,” she said; “ but I have

no use tor it. You will find plenty of straw in the wagon,

and with the help of this, you may be able to sleep.”

It was in vain that I resisted taking it; and in the midst
of our contention Madame Beton carried it off, saying she
would see to its being placed in the wagon herself,

This excess of kindness, to which I had not been accuse
tomed from strangers, touched me even to pain. My pov-
erty and destitution seemed only to increase the respeotwhich they considered due to me. When or where in Eng-
Jand had I met with anything like this ?

A man and woman, two of Lisette’s fellow-servants, had
arrived with her and Jaques; and during the short time
that-she remained at the inn, she and Jaques had to divide
their attention betwixt these persons, who remained in an
outer room, and me. During a moment when we were left
alone, Lisette drew out her purse.

“ Will mademoiselle oblige me by borrowing a little more
she said, timidly. “You would make Jaques and me so
happy. Mademoiselle does not know how expensive travel-
ing is.”

I was resolute about refusing this further help, but I had
a difficulty in restraining my tears. This young girl, her
mother, and Jaques, were not at all extraordinary charac-

999

ters: the distribution of the Montyor prizes has made us

acquainted with many such.

When the hour of parting came, I again commended my-
self to mother Meulen, and promised to write. Lisette held
out her hand, and looked as if she would have liked to kiss
me. I threw my arms around her neck, and we both burst
into tears. ‘Tears were still blinding my eyes when, after
shaking hands with Jaques, | watched them both depart
from the window. They frequently looked back and kissed
their hands, and I stood till they drove out of sight.

It was early in the month of October, and the weather
being very fine, I took a stroll in the neighborhood while it
yet remained daylight. ‘There was not much to admire in
the scenery if my reflections had not shut it out. Try as I
would to fix my attention upon the future, thought, like
loose quicksilver, shot in all sorts of directions, and mocked
my control. Now I was with the dear, mcg oe man
upon the sea. Would he live to reach the place of his des-
tination ? would he there be tasked too hardly @ would he
be allowed to die in that far land, alone and desolate, save
for his strong trust in God? Ah! there must be something
in the trust that remained unshaken amid trial like this!
Now I was with Aunt Betsy, wondering if she was dead or
alive: now with Uncle Stephen and George. I had given

them no clue by which they might guess whither [had gene.

PAMILY SECRETS. 28)

     
  
 
  
  
   
 
 
  

 

;GAN neds Ne AW aa

283 FAMILY SECRETS.

[ had promised to write when I had achieved independence.
How long should [ have to wait before I could do this!

It was eight o’clock in the evening when the wagon drove
wp to the door. I heard Madame Beton bargaining about
my fare to Mouscron, which proved very moderate. Then
she came to tell me that [ should have some fellow-travel-
ers, who seemed to be very merry. Indeed, I had already
heard the strains of a fiddle proceeding from the wagon,
and I was somewhat alarmed about the company I should
fall into.

“Tt’s only José, the Savoyard,” said Madame Beton.—
“ He’s a gipsy, to be sure, but he’s a harmless, good-natured
fellow ; and there’s two women with him, gipsies too : you'll
find them quite respectful, mademoiselle.”

I did not hesitate any longer. Madame Beton said I had
nothing to pay; and she placed in my hand a small cover-
ed basket, which she said Lisette had brought for me from
the chateau, There was nothing for it but to receive these
added obligations complacently , and taking a kind leave of
my host and hostess, I mounted the wagon.

There was plenty of straw in it, as Lisette had said. My
pillow was placed against a pile of .packing-cases, and I was
removed a few paces from my three companions, who were
revealed to me by the light of a horn lantern swung from
the wagon roof. José was seated with his fiddle in his
hand. He was quite young, and his countenance had a wild
gaiety about it that corroborated the character given me of
him by Madame Beton. His two companions were young
also, and ail three possessed the large dark eyes, and glossy
black hair, and swarthy complexion of their race. Pres-
eetly we heard the voice of the driver, Robert Durand, urg-
ing the horses forward, and the bells hung at their heads
kept monotonous time to their slow onward march.

The gipsies spoke together for some time in a language Y
did not understand. At length José said :-—

“ Has mademoiselle any objections to music?”

“Not at all,” I said. “Pray, don’t let me be an inter-
ruption to you.”

For several miles José went on scraping his fiddle, to the
music of which the girls occasionally sang. Their clear voi-FAMILY SECRETS. 285

ces and wild melodies had a pleasing effect in the still
night, and reflection was lulled as I sat listening. At length
they began to converse together again ; and then one of the
girls raised herself up and turned to me.

“ Will mademoiselle let me tell her fortune?” she said.—
“T can see by her face that she is to be fortunate, but !
must look at her hand.”

“T have no faith in palmistry,” I said; “and if I had, I
am too poor to pay for a peep into the future.”

“Then Dll tell your fortune for nothing,” she continued.
“Don’t you think that we who can look back as well as for-
ward may sometimes find a pleasure in searching into the
destinies of those we meet? Come, you have interested
me; let me see your hand.”

“T have no faith, remember,” I said, as I gave my hand.

José unhooked the lantern and held it down as the girl
commenced her inspection.

«Tt is a soft hand to tell of such a hard life,” she said.—
“But the trial is nigh past, and what a future here is!
You will rule over many, and will fix an empire in a strange
land.”

“Then I shall, perhaps, go to Australia, and become
queen of the tarritory,” I said to myself. “ What nonsense !”
I laughed.

“Ah! you don’t believe !” said the girl, “TI see that
your future husband is waiting for you—wearying for your
coming.”

“There you prove yourself at fault,” I said, snatching my
hand away. “There are reasons why I cannot marry if I
would.” eS

“ Why, mademoiselle cannot be thinking of turning nun!
The fates are against such a sacrifice.”

“That is true enough,” I said. “T have much to do be-
fore I shall think of burying myself in a nunnery.”

“ Good,” said the girl. ‘“ You are going on and you can-
not help it. Remember what I have told you in years to
come.” :

I reclined back upon my pillow. The two girls seemed
to compose themselves to sleep, and José nodded as he sat
with his arms folded. I lay wondering what I should de

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984 PAMILY SECRETS.

when [ arrived at Mouscron. It would be so eatly in the
morning that scarcely any one would be up. Seeing at
length that the bright eyes of the gipsy girl were fixed up-
on me, I asked her at what hour she thought I could pros

cure a conveyance to Lille.

“To Lille!” repeated the girl; “are you going to Lille?”

“ Who's talking about Lille ?” said José, starting up.

«“ Mademoiselle is going there,” said the girl,

Tf you don’t mind gomg in our company, we'll convey
you there free from cost,” said José. “ You might fare
worse, even in a diligence.”

This was an offer not to be neglected in the state of my
fnances. 1 accepted it with thanks, and when the wagon
stopped, got out with my companions. Day-had just be-
gun to dawn, and we seemed to be standing in an open road
surrounded by waste land. In the distance I thought I saw
a, clump of trees.

“We don’t go on to Mouseron,” said Jose, * for our peo-
ple lie near here. Now, Morgotte, be nimble-fingered ; and,
Luce, ruit and see to lighting the fire =

Morgotte, the girl who had told my fortune, handed our
luggage from the wagon, while Luce disappeared. José
having little luggage of his own, carried mine, and in this
fashion we set off in the direction taken by Luce.

This was not a very auspicious commencement of a cae
reer so brilliant as that which had been predicted for me.
That I had associated myself with a thorough band of vag-
abonds became plain to me, now that I had a full-length
view of my companions by daylight. Their ragged but pic-
turesque attire, the wild freedom of their manner and looks,
the savageism about them altogether, made me already re-
and filled me with apprehen-
SIONS. ‘They might be decoying on purpose to rob, perhaps
Ler | what Madame Beton had

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aid respe José, and that there was certainly nothing
hike ferocity about him. Finally, a growing inclination for
adventure, and the knowledge that 1 had compromised mys
self for the vresent, teuded to reconcile me te the course 5

had taken.

aedee
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FAMILY SECRETS. 285 i
s
Bait
two wagons, besides several .
large tent from which a num ber
peeped out. Beside one of the i,
crone sat smoking a short pipe ; ft

her, and introduced me in he

moiselle will travel with us to a
The old woman lifted her bleared ‘
me, and then grunted out somethi rs

5 4 Ne

very like a welcome. I had never see!

in human shape before; besides that, 0)
really diabolical in her counten¢
of the women were not all an
his companions, and I began ag
givings. I was presently called t
of two huge iron pots that had
fires. JI was accommodated with a
rest eating out of the pots as they
repast was a species of soup, composed
bles; but there was a mixture of some
and it was not at all unpalatable.
was a consultation among the me’

dling of mules; and then, to my disap}
rode off, leaving us behind them. Morgott
her companions also left us—the former
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STITT

FAMILY SECRETS

remove to Lille till the evening. All the day I amused my-
self as well as | could with the children and with watching
the ways of these wild people. The women who remained
employed themselves in washing and hanging out clothes, or.
in sitting down and mending them. I did not observe any
one amongst them to whom the rest paid respect except that
hideous old woman, who always seemed to have a pipe in
her mouth, and who watched me wherever I moved to. At
dinner-time I opened my basket, and found in it a cold
roasted fowl, a loaf of white bread, and a bottle of wine. I
asked the others to partake with me, and the old woman,
who had her full share of the wine, pronounced it to be
very good.

It was growing dusk when we at length mustered to-
gether, and set out for Lille. The women and children were
mostly packed in the wagons, and José asked me if I could
proceed on one of the mules. I had never tried that mode
of travelling, but I was willing to venture a good deal to
avoid being half suffocated in the wagons. With José at
my side, and with Morgotte and others to set me an example,
I got on very well; and I was not at all sorry that our
march was to take place in the dark. It was cheerless
enough when we at length again encamped near Lille; but
bright fires were soon blazing round us; the tent was again
erected, and a supper similar to the breakfast prepared. Mor-
gotte spread a blanket for her and myself to sit upon; the
old crone crouched near us with the pipe in her mouth, and
holding her withered hands to the blazing fire. The chil-
dren had been put to bed, and round the two fires the whole
company of men and woman had gathered. Both Morgotte
and José had informed me that we were close upon Lille,
and that I couid easily walk there in the morning. Being
now free from my apprehensions, and as nothing could be
done that night, I was glad to remain where I was, with the
knowledge that I should have the day before me.

These wild people, to whom I now owed a debt of grati-
tude, inspired me with much interest. Wanderers as they
were, living and lodging hardly, they seemed to be a aturdy
race, and, except in the use of tobacco, there seemed to be
no intemperance amongst them, the men chiefly drinking} FAMILY SECRETS. 287

water. To\judge from their eager emphasis and wild ges
ticulations as they spoke, they seemed to have enough of
native spirit ‘to sustain them. I wished that they had con-
versed in a language that I understood. I should have
liked to know what were the plans they seemed to be dis-
cussing so eagerly ; what objects of interest attracted them
in this gregarious life; whether they had any wish 0. hope
beyond it. I had, besides, a lurking sympathy with hese
self-made freemen, who would not be shackled with the con-
ventionalisms of the world.

By the flickering light of the wood fire, these wild faces
and extended figures became again invested with the ro-
mantic picturesqueness that daylight more than half robbed
them of. I was thinking that as we sat we might supply
material for a grand picture, when José whom I had missed
for some time, approached, tuning his tiddle.

“ Room there for M. de Beausset!” he cried; “room for
the gipisies’ friend !”

There was an instantaneous starting up of men and wo-
men.

“Keep your seats, and be hanged to you ” cried M. de
Beausset ; “why do you startle us in that way, like a flock
of frightened geese? Ah, Morgotte! [ll come and sit
by you, and you shall tell me my fortune again for ’'m
quite losing heart. The world uses me very scurvily, Mor
gotte.” :

“That must be your own fault, monsieur,” said the girl,
oy whose side he had thrown himself. ‘ You have youth,
health, wealth, and—and you are talented and handsome.
It is not such as you that the world is inclined to use so.”

“ Now what’s the use of flattering a fellow, and making
him look like a puppy 2” said M. de Beausset. “ What ad-
vantages are there in circumstances that place out of one’s
reach the true elixir of life? I tell you I'm ennuted to
death, Morgotte. Am I not compelled to come to you Im
order to be able to live at all 2”

A deep sigh from Morgotte caused me to turn and look
at her. She was sitting with, her head: bent down, beating

ner fingers together. | caught a glimpse of the very hand-
some face and elegant figure of M, de Beausset. JoséLN Pe OR IR I eee

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288 FAMILY SEORETS.

struck up a merry tune, to which the younger gipsies, male
and female, commenced a wild but not ungraceful dance.—
When it was finished, Luce and two or three others danced
singly. Morgotte still remained seated beside me.

“ How is this, Morgotte?” said the new-comer: “it is
unusual to see you seated, and so silent, while the dance is
gomg on. Have you had a quarrel with Jose %”

The girl started up with a bound, Disappéaring for an
instant, she returned with a pair of castanets, and keeping
time to her own movements, she performed a variety of fig-
ures with a rapidity and a wild grace that compelled both
attention and admiration. The dancing went on, intermix-
ed with singing; and in the meantime M. de Beausset, in
the absence of Morgotte, seemed inclined to address hime
self to me.

~ This is a wild, free life,” he said; “does it possess any
charms for you 9”

“ None that are dangerous,” I replied. “ This is not the
sort of freedom I covet.”

“ You have some sense, I see; though, perhaps, you have
not always made good use of it,” said M. de Beauset.
“ Let us converse in your own language; Jose has told me
how you met. You must not be offended at my telling
fo that the sooner you break off this connection the

etter.”

“ I shall leave these people to-morrow,” I said, “I am gong
to Lille.”

~ And altogether, how long have you been in France?”

{ would much rather not have been questioned by this
M. de Beausset, whose curiosity seemed to me impertinent.
I was equivocally placed, however, and I considered it due
to myself to give some explanation; but I spoke proudly
and distantly.

“I arrived at Calais four days ago.” I said. “If I had
not had the misfortune to lose my purse, [ should now be in
Paris. Whatever these people may appear In your eyes, I
may not forget that I owe them a debt of gratitude.”

“ Well, that’s quite right. But you must by this time be
aware, that when young ladies go rambling by themselves,
they are liable to get into scrapes. Now I suppose the facs

v

adFAMILY SECRETS. 289

is, there’s a Hue and cry after yousomewhere? If you have
any inclination to return to your duty, and so forth, I will
oladly advance the funds to take you back to England.”

“To England? never!” I said, “T abhor, I detest it !”
_ “ Heyday ! you have wrongs to complain of, I see:
mighty matters, I should think, for a young girl that has
scarcely entered her teens. Did your governess whip you
too severely, or did papa and mamma find your love-letters
and lock you up? Come; was it anything worse than
this 2”

I was annoyed by his perseverance, and by the light, ban-
tering tone, in which he spoke. ‘There was no further ex-
nlanation that I could give, and I turned from him without

‘

answering.

“J didn’t mean to offend you or hurt your feelings,” he
said, after a minute’s pause. “J thought you would not
mind taking a little advice from a person so old and experi-
enced as myself,” (he was not thirty), “and I might be able
to offer you substantial help, if | knew what your intentions
were. 1 have connexions in both Lille and Paris.”

M. de Beausset, gay and handsome, and looking much
younger than he was, did not strike me as being a very
sage or proper counsellor for myself. However, I thought
he might be able to give me some information that would
be useful to me, and I therefore told him with what purpose
I had come to France.

“J have an aunt in Lille, the superior of a convent where
boarders are received,” said M. de Beausset. “ Will you al-
iow me to recommend you to her y”

I was about to thank him very eagerly, when it suddenly
securred to me that the circumstances under which he and
I met would tell sadly to my disadvantage. These ever-0c-
curring obstacles that roused suspicion 12 others. aud in mé
an impatient disdain, compelled me to act warily

“] thank you,” I said, “ but perhaps it would be better

if | made personal application.”
“And you are fully prepared with credentiala. and 80

forth ?”
Ah, my God! the character! It would be needed kere

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FAMILY SECRET

rall as elsewhere. I fixed a look of blank dismay upon

By
M fe Beausset.

~ Don’t be frightened,” he said; “you will think bette
of che past and communicate with your friends. My aunt.
though a nun, is quite a motherly sort of person, and it
would delight her to be allowed to assure your parents of
your safety. Cannot you belidve that I am advising you
for the best ?”

“You are like many other advisers,” Isaid: “ you do not
understand the subject upon which you are entering 80 con-
fidently. I have no parents. I have not a single relative
in England. I had one friend, upon whose bounty I was a
burden. That, and the impossibility of attaining a liveli-
hood in yonder land, determined me to come here,”

“ Ah! what is it you tell me? he exclaimed, turning fair-
ly round and looking in my face. “Large tears are tremb-
ling in your eyes, tears that are too proud to fall { So young
and so desolate! Forgive me, for how could I have suppos-
ed this ?”

Isat gazing in the fire: I saw the necessity for curbing
my own emotions, and I did not trust my voice to reply.

“ You have trusted me,” he said, ‘and you shall find that
I will not abuse your confidence. More than ever you will
be welcome to my aunt, whose life is vowed to the succor.
of the friendless and distressed. Promise me that in the
morning you will proceed to her at once. I will prepare
her to receive you.”

I began to think that I could not do better. I promised
I would go, and he gave me the address.

“You are a rank heretic, I suppose?” he said after a

ause.

“Tam not a Roman Catholic,” I replied; “but I have
come amongst them in search of something like Christi-
anity.””

“What! did you find a dearth of that commodity in
most Christian England, with its hundred sects ?”

“JT met with few Christians there.”

“That's capital! you'll suit sister Magdalene, if only as
a convert. It seems hard and unnatural that you should so
early have had this bitter experience of life. Dm afraidFAMILY SECRETS. 201

yowll not meet with many good Christians anywhere. I can
confidently recommend you to my aunt, however, and hers
a the kind of protection of which you stand in need. I
will speak to her the first thing in the morning, and I pray
that you will not neglect to go; Morgette will show you
the way.”

I again promised and thanked him; and hastily bidding
me good-night, and telling Jose to follow him, M. de Beaus-
set disappeared.

I slept that night in the tent, near Morgotte, but sur-
rounded by several others, women and children. Early in the
morning Morgotte roused me, for towards morning I slept
heavily.

“T am to go with you to the convent,” she said. © M. de
Beausset fears to lose sight of you. He told me this, and
gave me the order as if I had been a dog !”

There was a singular fierceness in her speech and looks,
and her eyes flashed with an expression that made me
shrink from her.

“Yet he seems gentle and kind,” Isaid. “But it is me
that you will oblige most. I already owe you my thanks,
and will reward you for this service.”

“ You would give me money after tearing my heart
she exclaimed, savagely. ‘Yes, you will reward me,—you
have rewarded me already !” and she turned from me with
a wild laugh. 7

I had lost one friend already. Was it possible that this
girl loved M. de Beausset, and that she was jealous of me ?
[ could only surmise this. Perhaps M. de Beausset had
wronged her; he was rich and powerful, and by such the
agonies of the poor are accounted small matters. Well, I had
learned this truth, and Morgotte had, at least, nothing to
fear from me.

I sought Jose and offered to pay him for the services |
had received from him and his people, but he refused to take
anything. ee :

«We shall loose nothing by entertaining you,” he said ;
“ besides, that was not our bargain.”

After breakfast Morgotte suddenly appeared before me,

carrying my carpet-bag.

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292 TALEiGS SECRETE.

“ Are you ready ?” she asked, sullenly.

I was ready in a few minutes, and I offered to carry my
luggage myself.

«Yes! ‘she said, “and if we meet M. de Beausset he will
say, ‘Why does not that Egyptian vagabond wait upor
mademoiselle, as she ought to do?”

“ Can M. de Beausset speak in that way 2”

“He can look it,” said the girl, fiercely.

We walked on a few paces, and we were closs upon the
city.
° Morgotte,” I said, “ you are a woman, and may be true
to yourself. Stand up for the honor of your sex, and shun
men like this M. de Beausset. Why should you thus care
about him ?”

“ Have I not eyes and ears? Can I not see, and feel, and
think like you?” said Morgotte. “Why should you care
about him ?”

“T do not, except as a stranger who seems inclined to
help me.”

“Tt is false !”

“ What am I to say to you, Morgotte? Do you think I
am silly, or mad enough to have fallen in love with this
man?”

“Tt would not be of much use for you,” said Morgotte,
“for M. de Beausset is engaged to marry. I know that he
does not love her he is about to wed. I would not have
him love any one.” |

“Not yourself, surely, Morgotte ?”

“ And why not? Why not me as well as you, or any one
else 2”

“T fear M. de Beausset is a villain.”

“ How dare you say that, or think it—you that know
iothing of him? WHe is the very soul of honor. «If he
said to me this moment, ‘ Morgotte, I love you!’ I would
follow him to the end of the earth; but he never did say
it—he never will. He laughs with me, and at me—-he des-
pises me too much !” .

I knew not what to say to this girl, so abandoned to a
hopeless attachment. We had entered the city, and were
taversing the streets, % one of them, Morgotte stoppedFAMILY SECRETS. 298

before a door set in a dead wall. She rang a bell, and pres-
ently the wicket was opened by the portress in a nun’s habit.
When I told her my name and errand,—(I had given the
name of Margaret Payne to M. de Beausset),—she gave me
admitance. Morgotte had vanished before I could again
speak to her.

I was led through a small court-yard into the house, ane
then through a long corridor, till I was finally ushered inte
a room, scantly furnished with a table and a few chairs.—
Upon a small stand stood an ivory crucifix, and over the
mantlepiece was a painting repsesenting some saint. This
was all the room contained, except a green curtain or screen
that covered one entire end of it. It was from behind this
that the superior, mother Magdalene, at length made her ap-
pearance.

Her figure was tall and stately, and she did not seem lo
be above forty-five vears of age. I was first struck by the
extreme placidity of her countenance. No emotion seemed
ever to have ruffled its calm surface, and her clear, pale
complexion, and large blue eyes, were set off becomingly by
the flowing dress of black serge, with its ample sleeves, and
by the long white veil and scapulary.

“You are welcome, my daughter,” she said, kindly taking
my hand. ‘Sit down beside me. M. de Beausset has beer
telling me about you, and I have promised him that I wil!
do what 1 can to help you... You are young to have met
with so inuch trouble in the world: but, alas! the world

abounds with trouhle. Here, at least, you will find peace
for a season.”

Her kind manner and gentle VOICE,
pity of those passionless eyes,—seeme
depths all the old griefs of my life. I took
kissed them, and wept passionately.

«“ What is to be done with this child ?” she said. “ Alas
you have wanted discipline, and have yet to learn that these
strong emotions are sinful. Compose yourself, and cast these

troubles upon Christ, who ic ble and willing to bear then.

for you.” :
“Alas! alas!” L exclaimed, © I have been amongst them

bat have taken all trust in Christ from me y

above all, the quiet
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eat rh ET eat

294 FAMILY SECRETS.

“Ah! sad work!” said mother Magdalene. “Do yor
not know that Christ is not of the world? If you would
seek him, you must come out of it. But have courage,
calm yourself, and we'll see what can be done. Do not give
way to these passionate feelings. You are not in the world
now, but amongst those who are vowed to God, and who
keep down the evil of their natures by mortification. I

trust that these examples will be for your good.”

I subdued my emotion by a strong effort. I could not
help thinking, as mother Magdalene rose and rang a bell,
that if mortification was a good specific for keeping down
the evil that is within us, | had been pretty well tried al-
ready. A very pleasant-faced nun, about thirty years of
age, entered.

“Dame Marie Morine,” said mother Magdalene, “ for the
present you shall take charge of this child. You will in-
troduce her to the others, and let her understand the regula-
tions of the house. In the evening I must have a longer
onference with her.” ;

I accompanied dame Marie Morine, who took me up into
he dormitory. She showed me into a cell-like sleeping-room,
in which my carpet-bag was already placed, and told me I
might consider it as my own. She was very lively, good-na-
tured, and chatty, and learning that I had never been in a
convent before, seemed to take a pleasure in leading me
over the place and describing what must be so new to ime.
These nuns did not belong to a strict order, and the mortifi-
cation (after that of giving up the world) was chiefly volunta-
ry. Inthe large, cheerful school-room, to which I was shortly
ushered, I found assembled about twenty pupils, with about
as many nuns and a very jovial-looking old priest. Dame
Marie Morine introduced me generally to the whole.

“ You are welcome, my daughter,” said the priest, advance-
ing and extending his hand. “ Here is a stubborn little rebel,
who says she shall never be able to learn your hard English,
ae turn her over to you,—see what you can make of
er.”

He went out, after pushing towards me a fair-haired little
irl, who laughed very merrily, and told me in French that
| should not be able to make anything of her,FAMILY SECRETS.

4 Our English teacher left us some time ago,” said dame
Marie Morine. “ We are negociating for another, and in the
meantime, ladies, mother Magdalene desires that none of
you will address Mademoiselle Margaret except in English.”
There was much elevating of eye-brows and shrugging of
shoulders at this intimation. Seeing how I might best make
myself useful, I took up one of the English books and be-
gan catechizing the scholar more particularly recommended
to my charge. Dame Marie Morine formed a regular class
for me, and I continued thus employed during some time.

In the evening, when I again saw mother Magdalene, she
did not press me on the subject of my personal history, when
I told her that the past was as yet too painful for me to speak
about. She made herself acquainted with my acquirementr,
and, above all, with my disquiet of mind; with the doubts,
and distresses, and perplexities that were leading me away
from God, instead of drawing me nigh to His presence.

And mother Magdalene undertook the task of leading me
back of God. She had already made her own way to my
heart, and I yielded myself implicitly into her hands. I
cared nothing for mere differences of creed: where I met
with the kindness enjoined by Christ, and I had met it here.
T could well believe that Christianity most abounded ; and
it was easy work to make anything of me when the old
stumbling-blocks of indifference, and cruelty, and injustice
were moved out of my path. Ah! Protestanism was venal
and cold,—a religion without a soul, as mother Magdalene
said. What interest could these people have, except a com-
mendable one, in seeking to draw me to their way of think-
ing? Why were they not indifferent, like my own country-
people? Why did they not leave me to perish, soul and
body, in the streets !

I had no strong prejudices to combat. My grand-father
had called the Reformation glorious, by which the Church
of Rome had been overthrown in England ; but he had
never before me entered upon the theme of its errors. I
was guided by my individual experience of the working of
the two systems; and I gave up my whole soul to the
Church of Rome, and once more believed that there was 8

Saviour and a God.

stitteeamneteai>
eetormmeniaers:

ibe isl ie beh Ub

Hist eaeoetenie a tu eed

° LPREES

na ea
Ses ensii e reatbed ei obad tel Ja SATE

edad UMA EAIH yh

pata pean een aL ene tence et Tey eer
iilibede bation tithe Hist BT

Its institutions, so far as conventual life went, seemed to
me replete with the spirit of Christianity. I had seep
enouch of the world to know that such a refuge as menas
tie life only affords, must often be a priceless boon to many
who, like myself, either inherit the world’s contempt, 01
snrink from its hard usage, or weary of its heartlessness
and I felt that I might eventually be glad to turn to such a
refuge. Battle with the world I first would, bravely ; but :
should soon have none to struggle for, and I had a leng, sol
itary life before me, and it seemed a consolation to me te
know that I might return there to die peacefully.

Ah, Mary! “ blessed amongst women,” as the angel called
thee, how my whole heart turned to thee when, in the first
enthusiasm of my new faith, I was taught to supplicate thee
as a mother! To me, who had never known a human
mother, this idea of a divine one had a peculiar charm. I
had many sorrows that I could not reveal to the world, and
here was an outlet for all the pent-up grief of my soul.—
The encouragement of enthusiasm is peculiar to the Church
of Rome, and in this one respect I had plenty to work upon :
[ began to wonder at the dearth of my past spiritual life.

I had been here nearly two months, and had written to
mother Meulen, whom I could not yet repay, and had heard
in reply that Lisette and Jaques were married and very hap-
py. No news of my grand-father, none of Aunt Betsy, and
none of Uncle Stephen or George—no hope of any. What
a void inmy life! One of the nuns seemed to have penchant
for punishing herself. She showed me the horsehair she
wore next her skin; the cord that had nearly eaten in-
to her flesh; and I knew that she was in the habit of fre-
quently scourging herself. This mode of subduing the spirit
puzzled ine exceedingly ; all the more because I felt so sure
it would do meno good. Sister Clare recommended it to
me as a cure for my earthly regrets, and I made her a reply
that subjected me to a severe lecture from mother Magda-
lene, and to a penance from the priest.

It was by very slow degrees that the attempt was made
to bring me to spintual obedience. I acknowledged my
stubbornness of heart, at the same time that I willingly un-
‘ertook any task that was enjoined; and I was assured thatPAMILY SECRETS. 299

f& a short time I should become sensible of an inward
change, that would be gratifying to myself as well as othe
ers. All this time I was longing for some outward change,
My great object being to earn money sufficient to carry me
to Australia, I began anxiously to consider the probability
of receiving any remuneration for my services in this place,
-—a question I could scarcely ask. I had a horror of any
appearance of any ingratitude; but at the same time I felt
sure, that if there was any design to keep me altogether in
that vlace ina state of bodily and spiritual dependence, I
should rebel. |

I was saved from anything so repugnant to my own foeel-
ings by a missive that arrived from Paris. I was called into
motlser Magdalene’s room one morning, and informed that
Mademoiselle de Lammenais, the betrothed bride of M. de
Beausset, wished to engage me in the capacity of com-
panion.

“ Her grand-mother,” said the superior, “is a most pious
woman ; and you will not be without good example, though
surrounded by many temptations, which you can only escape
by frequent communications with your spiritual adviser.
The Comtesse de Lammenais has thoughtfully requested
that, as you are so young, you might not be sent to Paris
alone. Father Dessalle is to proceed there at the end of the
week, and you can go under his protection. In the mean-
time we shall scarcely be able to prepare you. Send dame
Marie Morine to me.”

I had hitherto worn the single dress in which [ had ar-
rived, and now I was assisted by the nuns in making up
several new ones, There was always a supply of ready-

made linen in the convent, as it formed a part of the work,

for which the nuns periodically obtained a ready sale. I
was bountifully supplied from this store; and being remus
nerated so liberally, so far beyond what I had any right to
expect, I felt pained, and ashamed at having thought un-
worthily of those who labored so earnestly for my temporal
as well as spiritual advantage.

It was during the Christmas vacation that these preparae
ions were made for sending me to Paris. I have before
enid that these nuns were not of a strict order; and the

  

 

 

 

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FAMILY SECRETS.

cirtumstance of the convent being a school, also allowed
them a large intercourse with the world. I had never ob-
served anything like discontent amongst the professed nuns,
but there was one young novitiate who had attracted my
observation by her melancholy air and frequent deep sighs ;
and I wondered if, like me, she had. suffered in the world,
without, like me, feeling the power and resolution to ven-
ture again into the midst of its turmoil.

The day before my departure I was passing through the
corridor, when this young girl stopped me in an agitated
manner. She asked me to accompany her into the garden
for a moment; and I went.

“O my God !” she said, looking anxiously round, “you
are going to Paris, and you are leaving me here to die!
My heart is breaking, Mademoiselle Marguerite |”

“What trouble have you that you cannot confide to
mother Magdalene, who is so gentle and compassionate ?” I
Bald. ;

“ She compassionate ! she is like them all—cruel and in--

exorable! They are driving me mad! I have wept and

entreated—I have knelt and prayed; they know that I have
no vocation, yet they insist upon making me a nun. I will
die first! There is no help for me in this place, unless you
will help me. O Marguerite! you have been a Protestant,
if you are not one now: cannot you show me a little
mercy $”

Protestants turning to Catholics for mercy, and Catholics
to Protestants—this was strange work!

“But they will not, surely, force you to be a nun l—they
cannot.”

“Hush! we shall be overheard and ruined. O my God |!

. do you pity me ?”

“I do from my soul, Clémence: show me how I ean help
you.”

“And you would dare to help me ?”

“Yes; I would dare anything, if I thought you were be-
ing wronged.”

“Is it not cruel wrong to shut me up here for life against
my will?” 5 aa
“That must be your parents’ fault.”FAMILY SECRETS

No. 1 have no parents—nono that I ever knew. Ihave
been told that i am illegitimate: they give me this intelli-
gence, thinking that it will reconcile me to this doom to
which they would condemn me. I understand that my
parents are living and in the world, and that I must not dis-
grace them. If they can walk abroad with ‘this sin upon
them, why am I to be punished so severely? If they have
any hearts, I will yet wring them. I can die by some
means: you see, if I chose I could dash my brains out this
minute against yonder stone wall. It’s all nonsense being
compelled to bear a long life of agony: no one need do
that.”

“Dear Clémence, don’t talk so; this is terrible! You
asked if I would help you.”

“Yes, you might carry mea letter to Paris.”

“T will.”

“Ah, you are my good angel! But oh! you must be
wary! If we are discovered! Ihave the letter written:
I will place it under your pillow the last thing to-night.—
Do you understand 2”

“ Perfectly.”

“It is ready, addressed to M. Picarde, banker Chaussée
d’Antin, Paris. This gentleman has always paid my board
here, and sometimes he has come down to see me. I want
to let him understand the consequences of compelling me to
profess.”

“ And you are not allowed to write to him?”

“Oh no! and I am not to see him again. They tel! me
that he has now done with me, and that I must wean my
thoughts from the world—the world that I have never seen,
that I long to enter!” _ :

“ And have you lived here all your life, Clémence ?

“ Ever since I can remember,” she said, sadly.

This was worse than the perfect indifference of Colonel
Leigh. How could they be called Christians who brought
children into the world to neglect or oppress them thus ?

“ And this letter, what am I to do with it!”

“Put it in the Paris post whenever you have an oppor
tunity of doing so free of observation. You must not be
found out as having helped -me, for the world. Do you

bn areca at

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FAMILY SEORETS.

know what vengeance these people can take if they are
thwarted? Do not take it to the post for a whole month at
least. Then you will not be suspected.”

“ And when are you to be professed ?”

“Never! They say I shall profess at Midsummer. They
shall see!”

There was a bold resoluteness about this young creature,
whose violent grief was literally wearing her to a shadow.
I was instantly revolted by this injustice, this cruelty, prag-
ticed by those to whom I had given eredit for so much ha-
manity. © Saviour! that requirest an undivided place 1a
the hearts of thy ‘people, how was I tormented by doubt,
and perplexities, while as yet I only sought to understand
Christianity in the actions of men !

I sewed Clémence’s letter into my stays, and my heart
was indignantly throbbmg against it when mether Magda-
lene gave me her parting advice, on the night befor I set
out for Paris. How kind she was! How affectionately
she admonished me, as a mother might do! After all, I
had to take into consideration the prejudices of her educa-
tion. She, also, had never been in the world; and she,
doubtless, felt justified in even enforcing a way of life that
had brought peace to herself.

I took a friendly leave of all the nuns and departed
with father Dessalle in the diligence. We traveled all day
and night, and arrived in Paris inthe morning. The priest
hired a vehicle that drove us to the hétel de Lammenais, in
the suburb St. Germain.

We were ushered into a splendid apartment on the first
floor, and a very lean and withered, but very dressy woman
whom I instantly suspected to be highly rouged, even at
that early hour, came to us.

“Ah, Madame Maraude! looking well as ever, I see,”
said the priest. (Why did he not rather reprove her for
this unseemly folly at her time of life?) “ How is the com-
tesse, and the little Emillie ?”

“ Kmillie is charmingly well, but not up yet. Ah, father
Dessalle, it’s well for the rich and gay, that can keep late
hours for their own pleasure: as for me, what with sitting
"p half the night with Madame la Comtesse, who you know
18FAMILY SECRETS. 30]

is near dying at least once in twenty-four hours, and attend-
ing to other matters in the day, I’m nearly worn out. [Pm
sure I don’t know what is to become of me when I am
grown old.”

If that time should ever arrive,” said the priest, bowing
politely. “I suppose you are prepared to receive this
young lady, who was consigned to my charge by mothe
Magdalene. You will see to her proper accommodation
and mention her arrival to Mademoiselle Emillie.”

“OQ yes, I expected her,” said the waiting-woman. “Sho
is English, I see: I can speak a little English, and I intend
to improve myself. But you—you speak French well ?”
“Like a French-woman,” said the priest, answering for
me, :

“ Ma foi! we shall get on rarely. Will you take coffee,
father Dessalle %”

“ Mademoiselle Marguerite and I will breakfast together,
if you please. Afterwards I have business with the
comtesse.”

Father Dessalle, who had been very taciturn during the
journey, was now cheerful and talkative. He drew my atten-
tion to one of the large windows, commanding a view of the
beautiful locality in which the hdétel was situated. Then he
pointed out several fine paintings on the walls of the room;
then we sat down to coffee, served in Sévres china with an
accompaniment of silver plate. |

Father Dessalle gave a friendly greeting to the little pow-
dered-headed footman who waited.

“You are still troubled with your old complaint, I see,
Baptiste,” (the latter limped a little): “how do you manage
it?”

“ Sacristie ! it’s all the fault of M. Abbé Roullett,” said Dap»
tiste. ‘‘ He took for me to Romea nostrum to be blessed
by his Holiness ; and I once knew the same reinedy to per-
form a perfect cure in a few minutes. But M. l’Abbé for-
gets me.”

“We must stir up his memory,” said father Dessalle.
“Let me see; I shall be writing to him soon, and [ll mea
tion it.”

Baptiste waa profuse in his thanks.

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802 FAMILY SBEORETS,

What folly was this? It puzzled me.

Father Dessalle left the room, saying he should have the
pleasure of seeing me frequently. Indeed I afterwards learn-
ed that he was the Comtesse de Lammenais’ confessor. I
don’t know what it was that made me feel more reatless,
and unsettled, and unhappy, in that splendid mansion than
| had been in the plain, quiet convent. Perhaps it was the
thought—and it would come—of how differently my paupex
auntwand my convict grand-father were lodged and attend-
ed. I could not help feeling in my heart that I should
have been much happier if I had been allowed an opportu-
nity of earning what I wanted in a humbler sphere, away
from this grandeur and gaiety, which only threatened te
oppress me. The splendid carpets and gilded ceilings, the
pictures and mirrors, and statuary, and articles of virtu,
made my eyes and heart ache. It was necessary to be born
to this magnificence and glitter, in order to sit down to its
enjoyment and close one’s senses to the squalor and wretch-
edness lying outside, covered by the same sky, but in no
other respect seeming to be a production of the same earth,
To be here, too, perhaps, subject to the whims and humors
of a capricious mistress, was not to be independent as I wish-
ed to be. What a hard matter it was to put to proper use the
willing labor of either head or hand !

I stood in the midst of this splendor, gazing in the fire
and forgetting it. I thought of my grand-father, yet upon
the sea—alone there with his God! I thought of many
things that tended to dissatisfy me with the present. Then
I thought of poor Clémence, and I exclaimed alond and in-
voluntarily,—* Thank God that I am at least free ]”

“Free |!” said a voice beside me. “I did not come here
to play the eavesdropper, and I give you welcome to Paris,
Mademoiselle Payne,” said M. de Beausset: “but what a
wild dream this of yours is! What right have you to feel
yourself free where all else are slaves—slaves to fashions and
customs, to prejudices and superstitions; slaves to their own
follies and passions? What do you call freedom ?”

“The right of being such a voluntary slave as yan hsye
desoribed. The right of forging my own fetters.” —

“ And you think you possess this freedom {”FAMILY SECRETS. B08

* By fits and starts I do; though I have more reason to
feel myself a slave, indeed, when I. look round me here and
remember what I am. wv

* Vou »ain me,” said M. de Beausset, “I have had my
own share, it is true, in bringing you here, but it was invol
untary. [ spoke against it: ay wont gla ily ; have kept you
in the asyluin where [ first placed you.’

I thought this was not a very ¢ complimentary speech, but
I could afford io let it pass. :

“T have no right to quarrel with fate as one who is free
to choose,” I said, “and doubtless my thanks are due to
some one for the motive that brought me here. My thanky
are still due to you lor introducing me to the kind friends I
have left behind me.’

“Don’t thank me , pray. Burden me with 1. anything but
the gratitude that al ways comes to nothing !”

I thought the sre Was an implied r eproach i in these words.

“If I am dissatisfied, it is the ‘Gault of circumstances
rather than of my nature i said. “JT think I am capable
of feeling truly grateful for the help that has been afforded
me,— for the protec tion I have received.

“T don’t doubt that,” said M. de Beausset, moving un-
easily from the chair against which he had been leaning.
5 Hang it! how hard it is to make one’s self understood !
Don’t thank me, even in your heart, till you see the issue
of all this—that’s all. Some day you may see reason to
eurse me for my interference.”

“Sir 3”

He stood for a moment with his hand pressed to his fore-
nead, as if too abstracted to hear me. I had a full view of
his tall, manly figure; of his noble head, with its clus-
tering curls of dark hair; of his side-face, sharply and
delicately cut, as if by the hand of a sculptor. It pained
me to see how the broad forehead was contracted, and the
firm mouth compressed. What could it mean? Was my
presence there, which he had said he could have dispensed
with, a pain to him? This was not mending matters for
me.

“Tf . have been disagreeably forced upon you personally
M. de Beauaset,” I said, “there is still an easy remedy. i

  

      
  
   
 
   
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
   
  
 
   
 
  
  
  
    
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

ed ee ace.

 

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i. : e iJ *
ta goa tor hepa ee 2 I GT ROS OPEL T NS
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UP eRL eS SGeeRrb aL he cg FARLISE ALdbbAraLE beaae MBLUCALAHL SLs

ba Mabe sie ten Meats aes TTT

————— me

804 FAMILY SECRETS.

have gained my first wish in having been enabled to reach
Paris. I have no fear of not being able to earn a living In
some way.”

“My God! I must be misunderstood !” said M. de
Beausset, in agitation. “No, by Heaven! you shall not do
this—you mistake me altogother. None would have more
rejoiced to receive you, if I could have believed that your
coming here was for your own good or The fact is,
Mademoiselle Payne, you must set me down as an extraor-
dinary fellow, whose vagaries are not worth noticing. By
and bye, you will discover that the smoothest of all destinies
has fairly ennuied me to death. I envy you the necessity
that makes life a struggle to you; the absence of outward
that leaves you in possession of inward power.”

“And it is thus that Providence equalizes the destinies
of earth ?”

“Yes. In some way or other we are made to feel our
mortality, our impotence, exalt ourselves as we will. If we
are not humbled by others, we are humbled by our own
failures and infirmities, and the oppressor is often more of a
slave than the oppressed. This knowledge should reconcile
us to much.”

“Tf one was a pilosopher: but this knowledge is not uni-
versal. For my part, it would not reconcile me to injustice
to knew that my oppressor possessed less spiritual freedom
than myself. I should then despise myself.”

“We must positively discard philosophy, then; and Iam
afraid you have too much of that same spiritual freedom te
make an orthodox Catholic. What! have you not resigned
yourself implicitly into the hands of your new teachers ?
ave you any mental reservations ?”

I wan annoyed by the light, mocking tone in which he
poke, and he smiled sarcastically, I thought maliciously.

“M_ de Beausset,” I said, “I have been in the habit of
thinking for myself, and I am not likely to believe more
than seems good to me.”

“You have much of the stubbornness of heresy about
you wet, 1 see,” said M. de Beausset. “In fact it surprised
me waen | heard that you had become a convert to the tru
faith, Beware, however, how you bring scandal upon us ofFAMILY SkCcRETS. 805

the hétel de Lammenais, who are famous for our obedience
to the Church. You will find nothing to equal us in this
respect in Paris.”

: It was impossible to believe him serious in what he said,
7a) spite of his gravity. I turned and looked in the fire
again.

“Our common mistress is very tyrannical, mademoiselle.”
continued M. de Beausset. “She knows we are both wait-
ing, and you see how she trifles with our impatience. It is
twelve o'clock by Nétre Dame. Ah, Annette, what news ?”

“My young lady wishes to see you both: you, monsieur,
and mademoiselle,” said the pretty young grisette who had
entered. “ Please to walk this way.”

We followed her to a richly-furnished dressing-room, in
which we found Mademoiselle Emillie de Lammenais seated
before a large cheval glass, her long fair hair floating over
her neck and shoulders. She was petit and pretty, with
small features, blue eyes, and a brilliant complexion.

“Come here and let me look at you,” she said, without
turning her head. “Both together, you know—you two
who met so- romantically! Ah, she is handsome; is she
not, Victor? I like the name, too—Marguerite. Now I
think I shall take you into great favor—both of you, though
you scarcely deserve it, Victor.”

“You were always capricious and cruel to myself,” said
M. de Beausset. “You have received my bouquet? I hope
it has pleased you.”

“ Ah, it is superb !” said Mademoiselle Lammenais, glanc-
ing carelessly at a group of exotic flowers lying on the
dressing-table. ‘“ How long is it your pleasure to weary me
with compliments this morning ?” :

“ Not ionger than you wish, cértainly,” said M. de Beaus-
set. “ Perhaps I had better give you a respite, Emillie,”

“Ah, charmente! but will you? _ Marguerite, I have a
caprice that you should braid my hair this morning. See,
here is a model for you. [am told that you can do almost
anything.” ,

“T fear that reputation will cause you disappointment,” I
said, “but I will try my best.” I glanced at the print repre-
senting a head of haw elaborately plaited behind, and is

19

Nha Avanrmrnecee WEL Sad aks
erect ?

      
    
 
 
 
   
  
  
  
   
 
 
 
  
 
   
   
  
 
 
 
  
   
   
  

SL ab ghia

  
  

sh Stes has FelaurerioteesuvemenrsaniemamT

outa reser apeeper ny perters at

ae aa smILiRANT ania

CLT ent erties
eeveslLaenaigad fist crtii
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eee ea er tte ry
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care Ara Neeren ty

 

Tae.

  

$06 FAMILY SECRETS.

front laid in smooth bands. I commenced operations, and
M. de Beausset stood with folded arms gazing at us both.

“Ah, what fairy fingers!” exclaimed mademoiselle Lam-
menais, surveying me in the glass. “ Allow me to look at
your hands, Marguerite.”

I held them out in some confusion.

“Beautiful! are they not, Victor! So white and taper
ing, so delicately rosy and soft !”

“They are marvellously like your own, Emillie.”

“T can set that compliment down for nothing, else I
should quarrel with you. What does your English play say,
Marguerite? ‘Behold the foil that sets this brightness off!’
Monsieur’s speech reminded me of that.”

I had read the play of “The Inconstant,” and this quota-
tion made me blush.

“Tam unfortunate to-day,” said M.de Beausset. “I must
positively go and ride off my chagrin. Where shall I find
you to-night, Emillie ?”

“At madame la Marquise de Pauvenay’s, if you like to
come. Ah, Marguerite! you are progressing divinely! M.
de Beausset, I must thank you for giving me such a trea-
sure.” She held to him her small hand as she spoke.

“{ am averse to receiving thanks till I feel assured that I
have conferred a benefit,” said M. de Beausset, moving off.

“ Ah, see! Now the monster is turning upon you, Mar-
guerite! Never mind, I shall like you all the better. Bon
jour, monsieur.”

He returned the salute and left us.

“ What horrid creaitres the men are!” said mademoiselle
de Lammenais; ‘“ how I hate their compliments, that rarely
mean anything but impertinence! Don’t you, Marguerite

I confessed that I had had no experience this ‘way.

“No, really? and you so handsome! What misfortune!
You have, then, all this dreadfulness to come! Do you
know I am in hopes that M. de Beausset admires you. It
would be so tiresome to have a husband entirely devoted to
one’s self,

“ You cannot mean this?” I said, in the simplicity of my
surprise,

“Ab, mon Dieu! yes, But you are English, and theSECRETS, 807

bee sh rejoice in'being ennuied. What a cold country, not
ai ford you a loy rer before yy tir me ! How old are you 9”?
aT

i was seventeen last mont
“ And I am eigh teen. oe Mother !

Y

tered to death with adorers for
Degin to feel ee e submit
vonvenance with M. de Beausset.
ai2 well matched.”

  

In what respect? I thought. In mutual indifference? f
should have considered M. de Beausset capable of nae n-

der feeling. Was he mercenary? Had ennui driven hin.
to this - union witho but lo ove | that promised no happiness ?

: Ane I hike myself to-day !” exclaimed mad lemoisalle de
Lammenais, surveying herself in the glass. ‘ You shall al-

ways dress my hair—will you? You are very good. You
shall accompany me to-night to madame la Marquise de
Pauvenay’s. Just now religion is the fashion, and | there is a
furor for making converts. You are my convert, remember.
Ah I shall enjoy your confusion at the compliments you
will receive, for you are really very beautiful. Don’t you

know that? Wh 1y, you are positively blushing! Heigho |

I must be very reli igious to-day, or I shall begin to envy

you.”
I was ooo oned from Mademoiselle de Lammenai’s dress-
ing-room to attend her grand-mother, the comtesse. Mad-
li boudoir on the same

ame Maraude a the way to a small bow

floor, in whica I found the old lady in company with father
Dessalle. She was dressed in a bygone fashion, appeared to
be very old and wrinkled, very nervous, and Bdgetty | too.—

 

O
She was reclined upon a co uch, pro

and was surrounded with er ucifixes, r er ot

devotion. In her hands she held a piece of oinbiodenee
; ] ie pap Fe “l] ;
For some minutes | wondered who she reminded me of, tilla

length I felt si ure - iat she resembled lady Leigh.
\ a ae * a pe
‘“hera beside me. My eyes

are growing ae but I must yet see to do good. Ah,
} 1

auvre innocent! so they used you : n yourown country }
: sy Pa Ky
How could you expec 4 different from heretics! What a

bleasing to be received into the fold of the true ehurch

5 7
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Leica SUET iLL tp phaeeaneR aaron aren
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Ess “if Pt! be! Ld: if i ‘ i

ive SRLGAEN TH AMC AMMRAAM cataract nana
aoe e

    

808 FAMILY SECRETS.

 

Mother Madeleine consigns you especially to my charge ;
and I shall desire to see you frequently, though you will
attend upon my grand-daughter. You, so young im the
faith, will need constant instruction and admonition. Fath-
er Dessalle, too, will pay you constant attention. God has
given you to us, and we shall take care of you. Come clo-
ser to me, | want to see you.”

My heart warmed towards this old lady, who addressed
me as a daughter, who did not shrink from me as lady
Leigh had done. I moved nearer to her, and she took my
hand.

« Ah, pretty !” she said; “very pretty. Don’t you think
me very old and ugly? Yet I, too, was considered very
handsome once. How necessary it is that we should fix our
thoughts upon eternal things |”

“None can teach her that truth better than yourself,
comtesse,” said father Dessalle ; “ and for the present I shall

‘eave her with you. Have you any commands for“me 9”

“T wish you would call again to-night, just to see how I am,”
said the comtesse. “And you really think I am not looking
worse ?”

“Decidedly,” said father Dessalle. “You area little ner-
vous, that is all. I shall call in the evening, and hope to
find you better.”

“ Ah, what a dear man he is!” said the comtesse, after
he was gone. “The priests are the only truly polite men,
after all. Father Dessalle never loses the recollection of
what I was. My dear, I am English like you; I was a
belle at the court of George the Third. When I married
the Comte de Lammenais, and came to Paris in 1815, I was
considered the finest woman at the court of Louis, though
I had then passed my bloom. Isn’t that true, Maraude 2”

“Quite true madame,” said Maraude. ‘“ Ah, those were
days! There were the Duc de Lancy and Comte Lammenais
dying for you; and poor Monsieur de St. Moray ! Ah, mad-
ame! you were very cruel! I would not have your sins
that way to answer for.”

The comtesse simpered; her sins of that descrivtion did
not seem to lie heavily upon her conscienca

“ Ab, we lost everything when the Bourbons began teFAMILY SECRETS. 809

decline!” said the comtesse, as if she mentally charged the
new dynasty with robbing her of her youth. “The bour-
geois king has no attraction at his court for the old nobility
of France. They would rob us of our religion, too, in these
days. Holy Mother! they are growing more philosophical
and sceptical than in the times of Voltaire ! My poor child,
I must take great care of you, for you don’t understand by
what dangers you are beset. I think you have a very pret-
ty hand; let me see. I am a connoisseur in hands. My
family are remarkable for beautiful hands; and at the court
of George the Third, myself and my sister, lady Leigh, were
pronounced to have the most perfect hands in England.—
Do look, Maraude! I declare I could fancy these had once
been my own !”

I turned pale and cold whilst they were examining my
hands. Miserable inheritance! Perhaps this was the reason
why these hands had never done me any good service! If
I had had any right to claim such a relationship, Emillie de
Lammenais would then have been my cousin!

“ Well, I declare,” said Maraude, “they are exactly like
what yours were! exactly like Mademoiselle Emillie’s. How
singular |”

“Be_proud of your hands,” said the comtesse; “ they
are a mark of gentle birth. But, alas! I am wandering in-
to vanities! What matters hands, or anything else that
belongs to mortality? Look at mine: you may still see
what they have been. The hands are, unfortunately, the
first to fade. Maraude, give me that rosary.”

Maraude handed her a long string of beads, with a crose
attached. The lips and fingers of “the comtesse moved rap-
idly in concert, as for the space of several minutes she occu-
pied herself with this bauble. Maraude bowed her head
very reverently during the silence ; and I sat looking, I fear,
very foolish.

“You see,” said the comtesse, at length, handing the ro-
sary to Maraude, “ how hard it is to be a Christian. I have
suffered my thoughts to wander away to vanities, and I am
compelled to perform penance. Six Paternosters and six

_Ave Maries. It is heavy work, but we must keep night be-
fore God, Ah! I feel another twinge, Maraude. I have=

PAELLA EHD

Ast) pki ad gaol MRA MN nein? ded cea SLaRRTEN AN

shi whined Mambmalitect tid can aatet ent eee)

 

   

been neglecting this work for our blessed Lady of Cleury .
but, Holy Virgin! I mean to finish it directly. Mademoi-
selle Payne e, you shall read to me from the lives of the
saints; no better reading to divert our thoughts from the
world. What examples to us |”

Brom the glim pse § 1e had given me of her past life, |
thought the comtesse was beginning late with good exam-

nles. I read to her from the lives of the saints, and listen-
ed to her commentaries during an hour and a half. Then
she told me to look at her work.

yroider in this way %” she said. “No?
Then I must teach you. It is a meritorious work. Ah!

8 is to be allowed so to cover our sins!
This is a robe for our Lady of Cleury. I intend to enrich
it with several of t the gems I used to wear. Alas! I have
no further use for them myself. Is your arm as beautiful as
your hand? I had spl lendid arms, and the Due de Lancy
used to say he envied the di amonds that sparkled on them.
Ah! you should have seen what a fine gentleman he was |
But I am wandering again : | give me the rosary.’

al
=,
=
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bod ©
ct
fort
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ing this service for ie ‘Her - penance this time was very
brief, and she desired me to ring the bell. Maraude appear-

Tell my grand-daughter it is time I saw her,” said the
comtesse. “{ would have her set a good example to our
99

ul 1g Ls
Mademoiselle
very demu rely.

“ Come ae her, child,” said the comtesse. “I don’t know
what heavier penance I need than having this charge upon
me of Hee young and thoughtless. Have you attended te
the duties enjoined b ov your - confessor, Emillie ?”

“] have repeated a en Aves Maries since breakfast,”
said Emillie, yawnin o
if ears Sri ght! ! Tk

yo

eS

ammenais presently entered, and curtsied

=~

ut I [ fear you don’t attend to the more
illie You don’t admonish M. de Beaus-

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a “Wh Ma am om in ae Gath him? He is the nephew of a
cardinal, and you surely don’t iE euspect him of heresy? Don’tFAMILY SEORETS. ot

weary me too much about him, grand-mamma, or I shall
never endure him for a husband. You
Duc de Lancy—not even a Cheyal

lier de Moray
“ Ah, you saucy child!” said the con - & Sit down,
and let me talk to you, for I see yo g all wrong.
No wonder that you should be led astray s

no aD oy POF) OF TS
ese degenerate
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at hin Disea
nd the Due

days! There is no mentioning M. de E a
de Lancy in the same breath, it is true. e latter was so
noble, so chivalrous, so religious! Holy Mother! when 1
first became a convert, how he labored to keep me right]
I shall never forget when I first put on the dress of a Sister
of Merey! He said he had never seen any one become it
so weil. It was through him I wore it so often, and you
may be sure I did a deal of good. Yes, he labored for my
spiritual benefit. You see, he felt or interest in me,”
‘Ah, grand-mamma, ever ybody knows that he loved you,
and that despair killed him !” ee
“Does the world say that ?” asked the comtesse. her dim

GQ
bog
(q9) -
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cw CZ

eyes kindling. “How could I help it? I was married, you
know. Ah, those were hard times to live consistently |
There was the Chevalier de St. Moray, who shot himself,
and they laid that to my charge: it is a censorious world!”

“Then there was the Comte de Ligny,” said Emillie.

“The finest man in France, I give you my word!” said
the comtesse. “Al! the court-ladies were in love with him,
married and single; but he would devote himself to me.
How could I help it? Ah, I have gone through a great
deal of trouble !”

“T shouldn’t make a trouble of it at all,” said Emillie.

“ Ah, child, you are talking sinfully!” said the comtesse,
relapsing into her devotional mood. “ Don’t say that !
have led you astray. Come, you need a little mortification :
you shall bestow some of your jewellery upon this robe for

our blessed Lady.” a |

Emillie glanced at it, I thought, with contempt. _ .

“ Anything for peace,” she said, unclasping a diamond
bracelet from her wrist. “This should absolve me from
many sins, grandma, for it was a favorite.” ee

‘* No doubt it will,” said the comtesse, receiving the brace
let. “Ah, there’s nothing like mortification of the fleshri 2 | ah) 2 . ” oe

3 aire er Leesa barat al asitauaTi itis fren Py enter Phd Virbatd LAOH MerLs GeLGp PRAT rLaPoatadeaeohdPhs eg AREF rcsbiata Ie}
a u ETP e sha ea ab cparbe g/d rp FAILS Has et

‘ ‘ ne ogee ee he ¢ ieee = oaneien-titte saints

Me resin wei CTLs Herd beet acta leaner parE

Serr tk aero ey iy i
4
oa y ene eet ere,
Ee tin J 4 aie te ete ei

   
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 

812 FAMILY SECRETS.

lll tell M. PAbbé Roullet that you must pe remembered in
the prayers of the community. Now I think you may go
forth safely ; but be upon your guard, the world is full of
snares.”

Emillie laughed hghtly.

“T leave you in good company,” she said, turning to me ;
“at dinner-time [ shall see you again, and then we can ar-
range about the evening. Addio/” And she went out
with a bound, as if rejoicing in the release.

I passed the remainder of the day until dinner-time with
the comtesse, whose alternate fits of vanity and devotion
would have amused me, if I had been less interested in the
faith she professed. I began to feel that my new creed was
a miserable failure. After all, what did it matter? I was
only left where I was, except that I had made an advance
that promised to benefit me temporarily. But how desolate
i felt in the world as I thought this!CHAPTER XV.

THE comtesse, mademoiselle de Lammenais, and myself
dined together. I did not inquire too minutely into the
cause of my being thus treated as one of the family ; I did
not shrink from the place accorded to me as one unworthy of
it. Absorbed by reflections, that made the present important
only in connexion with the past, I was meapable of being
impressed by much of what was around me. I accommo.
dated myself to circumstances with a sort of mechanical jn-
difference, caring little for the means by which the object
nearest my heart was to be brought about. And this was
the reason why, when in the evening I again attended made-
moiselle de Lammenais in her dressing-rdom, and she insist-
ed upon my accompanying her to the Marquise de Pauve-
nay’s, I attempted to resist, being sensitive on the subject
of my individual honor, at the same time that I cared less
than nothing for gaiety and show. I did not like the idea
of being exhibited as a convert ; feeling, as I did, that noth-
ing was more probable than my ultimately becoming dis-
gusted with the whole system of the Romish church. I was
indignant with the fate that seemed to deny me all freedom
of action; that forced upon me conduct unworthy of my-
self; that familiarized me with compromises, to which I
could only stoop with a proud heart and a stiff neck. I
went to madame la Marquise de Pauvenay’s, however; and

after successfully resisting mademoiselle de Lammenais’ at-
tempt to adorn me with some of her own ornamental co:
tume, I was pronounced to be perfect in my own simple
muslin dress. As we proceeded in the carriage, and made-
meoiselle de Lammenais svoke of the enthusiasm with which

FAMILY SHEORETS, 318

WR AEA Shik cose re tamer all

RE AORTB : %
a

a 12 a =
’ iat .— ; Cee eee
od a ge a ie en tn Sas ate. PoE ee

  
  
  
   
  
 
 
    
  
   
   
   
   
  
 
    
 
   
     
    
  
 
 
   
   
 
 
 
  
     
  

 

= By
ait B14 FAMILY SECRETS.
ee
: | she : anticipated I should be received, I could on 7 hope that
3 she was miscalculating: but I supposed it was ane es as I
a Dee had been informed, that religion was just than the fasten :
et | for I was carressed, and qt 1estioned, aa made so much of by
me ti the brilliant Cony: assembled at the hétel de Pauvenay,
3 that, with all my e nes and presence of mind, I did /
= 10t aaqnit nyse in a manner at all satisfactory to my own
eG. notions of what was right cin a scene so animated and so
ae new to me, however, I saw "much that irresistibly took me
a | out of myself. In this ; assemblage of the highly-educated,
‘7. Bi the u-ble, and the wealthy, I found many of the elements
week that made up the littleness of the inferior people whom I
fe had encountered at Mrs. Brown’s. Youth did not impress
= me with its freshness, nor age with its decorum. There
2 \ seemed to me to be an abundance of giddiness, and affecta-
S tion, and jaded sentiment, and hot-house enthusiasm, that
2 was scarcely fitted for every-day use. The two persons who
i. struck me as an exception were M. de Beausset, who stood
ate aloof ind's spoke little, and seldom approached mademoiselle
: Bee de Lammenais, and our hostess, the Marquise de Pauvenay.
Ben The latter a fine-looking woman of about forty, with noble
: of features, a profusion of dark hair, and large black eyes, that
me che seemed to hide a world of sorrow in their troubled depths,
Soh interested me so much, that I could not help follow-
re ing her movements with my eyes. Perfectly courte-
a ous and attentive to all her guests, there was a restlessness
oe about her, , perhaps apparent “only to myself; and I fancied
a I discovered the source of her uneasiness, The marquis
ee himself was a handsome, ma Bly ockas personage, of about
ea her own age; and wherever he was, there her eyes wander-

ad furtively, or ee for a moment with an agony of ex-
pression, that sent a sympathetic thrill through my whole
frame. The marquis, on his side, never noticed her, even
2 by a gl lance. I gue essed that t there was some estrangement
5) petween them; and that wealth, and rank, and splendor,
ae had failed to bring satisfaction to that yearning woman’s

ae
Th 1 chief purposes for which this brilliant company had

Q s tor
} eS
e assembled, appeared to be flirtation and the discussion of
the prevailing topics of the day. Conversations on litersPAM LEY Sh ORES oo)

ture, religion, even politics, were going on all round me:
and certainly the French are a people who excel in the
ephemeral brilliancy of spoken words. There was a vast
deal of wit, agreeably veiling some profundity; and the
vivacity and earnestness with wh ich even trifle es were dis-
cussed, imparted a certain import a to them. [ could nat
help being amused, though my thoughts would wander back
and onward, and though Al was so much absorbed in observ-

Oo

ing the Marquise de Pauvnay. I was myself particularly
seized upon by a devout old lady, the Comtesse de Reuilly,
whose style of dress shocked me, exhibiting her withered
person in a manner that took away all reverence for her
vears. As she admonished me, especially on the subject of

{

relics and pilgrimages, I could not help wondering that re
ligion had not. “taught | her more decorum. I had been chain-
ed to her side for an hour or two, when M. de Beausset con-
siderately hata. and asked if I oS walk for a , minute
into the fresh air. I gladly took his offer aa and he
led me cut upon the balcony filled with evergreens. It was
a-siill night and the moon was shining brilliantly.

“ What do you think of us by this time,” he said, “now
that you are become one of us!

‘| am not at all sure that I have become one of yoy in
the sense you mean. I think that |
hke to be flattered, and that, therefore, 1
at present the better. [ must search further.”

“Into what. we are all surface.”

“Into your religion, if you have any. What was a
mockery in England seems to be here. 1
{ am a born sceptic.”

“Did you say. this to the comtesse de Reuilly just
now 2”

“No; I heard all and ao little. What could I say to a
very foolish old woman, who eviden tl} 7 does not herself un-
derstand what she is tall ing about ?

oO
Ome

    

oO
=S
Was
i

 

yy L | a At hain th tan ; So
“So you reserve for me the honor of being the depository

of your worse than heretical notions
It was a fact, that I should not have spoken so decidedly
vo any one else. There was no frippery about M. de Beaus-

sat: it was impossible to meet his frank look and not trustANNA MATURE Lt PRES IR Hedse

Baro neiaprieneu nent ty:

aN NO oat TAS

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CTEPPE rae Rees eberte peR te tad ThE) Tr eters tH Lett be

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816 FAMILY SECRETS.

him implicitly. Besides, I felt pretty sure that he was
something more than heretical himself. His words, howev-
er, annoyed me a little, and I attempted to draw my arm
from his. He held my hand and detained it.

“ Marguerite,” he said—“ others name you so, and I have
the first right—I have heard you with mingled sensations
of pain and pleasure. The pain is uppermost, but I rejoice
in being able to honor you as I have wished to do since ou

first meeting. You will remember I told you, that good

Christians were rare articles to be met with anywhere. As
to Christianity itself, why .

He paused, perhaps wanting to hear my opinion of it.

“It seems,” I said, “to be a subtle spirit, that evaporates
in mortal hands.”

“It was not meant to be moulded by hands or directed
by heads, but to be firmly treasured up by the heart,” said
M. de Beausset. “ We should not so scramble after these
shadows of it, these mockeries and mummeries, if we had
not an inborn consciousness that there was a substance some-
where. Iam only a blind leader of the blind; I dono one
thing that I feel to be right; yet I cannot shut my eyes to
the fact, that noble men and women have adorned life and
glorified death through this same faith, and that without it
altogether we should be infinitely more degraded than we
are. AAs to the examples that meet our eyes in daily life, I,
for one, don’t feel myself qualified to cast the first stone at
them.”

“ You are wandering away from the question and dwind-
ling me down to a mere sectarian Pharisee, M. de Beaus-
set,” I said. “TI have received so much individual kindness
since I came to France, that I should be ungrateful, indeed,
if I did not feel and acknowledge it. But I shall begin to
be despicable to myself if I continue to receive this kind-
ness on the condition of acknowledging my belief in mons-
trosities, that only excite my astonishment and disgust, of
acquiescing in oppressions that rouse my indignation. [
would rather live a free and vagabond life with José and Mor-
gotte than keep my place here on such terms,”

“ Ah, I dreaded coming to this!” said M. de Beausset,
shrugging his shoulders, “Well! run away from us, asFAMILY SEORETS, 817
e \

you did from the English ; where will you gof where to
find the impossibility you seek, to be free from the trammels
of popular practice or belief? You must try to put up with
us as we are, Marguerite. Absurdities are only absurdities
after all—laugh at them. As to oppressions, never attempt
to set yourself up as a redresser of wrongs.”

“Well,” I said, after a pause, “it matters little; for my
sojourn here must, under any circumstances, be very brief.”

“Why, you don’t mean to say that you are going to run
away from us in reality ?”

“Most assuredly I shall, so soon as I can raise sufficient
means to carry me where I alone wish to be.”

“To England again ?”

“Oh, no, no! God forbid I should be forced to return
(bere! To another land, far away over the wide sea; the
land of which I dream day and night.”

“ You strange, wild girl!” said M. de Beausset, grasping
my hand till the pressure pained me, “ who gave you this
mighty power of attracting, and bewildering, and torturing
me, from which I cannot free myself? Would to God we
had never met |”

He dropped my arm as he spoke, and I hastily re-entered
the room alone. The Chevalier de Roubillac, to-whom I had
previously been introduced, conducted me to a seat, and
engaged me in a lengthened conversation. I suppose I an-
swered coherently, for I afterwards heard that he had ex-
pressed a high opinion of my understanding ; but my mind
was in a perfect tumult while I spoke. This M. de Beaus-
set, who had haunted me so long, as one to whom I owed a
large debt—to whom I could speak as I could speak to none
other—had certainly acquired a power of some kind over
myself, and of which his impassioned words first made me
conscious. They conveyed a meaning terrible to him and
me, but they sent a thrill of wild delight through my very
soul that I made no attempt to free myself from. This ex-
quisite pleasure, in the midst of so much pain, mastered
me; and I hoarded it as no miser ever hoarded his gold. —
With the knowledge that I could never be anything to him
more than I was, even if he had himself been free to choose,

I could aot help exulting in the thought that I had createdreer’,

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818 FAMILY SECRETS.

an interest in his heart for which I was indebted to no
power out of my own hands. The same sympathy of soul
that drew us together was henceforward to keep us apart ;
but there was to me almost too exquisite a pleasure in. the
very suffering of this situation. I no longer felt my utter
desolation, for even here there was one human being—and
he one of the noblest of his kind—who must think of me
perioree, and without indifference, The very impossibilities
xbout us seemed to sublimate his hopeless attachment. We
shou'd honor each other the more in the mutua! avoidance,
that would leave unsevered the strong cord that should have
bound us to each other. This, then was my destiny ; and I
thought it a glorious one. I had been loved for myself
alone, and could I bear the image of one, whose nature I be

heved to be noble, in m y heart to the grave ?

I was not deceived in my estimate of M. de Beausset, who
avoided me as much as possible. On my part, I was more
eager than ever to raise the means of going out to Austra-
lia; and mademoiselle de Lammenais, together with the

mtesse, with whom I was to remain after the marriage of
e former, if I chose, tendered me so liberal a salary, that
hoped to be able to accomplish my object in twelve
months: a long time to look forward to, and yet not long,
considering under what circumstances I had conceived this
plan of working my way to my grand-father.

I passed most of my time with the comtesse, who liked
he society of young people, and who could not often com-
mand that of her grand-daughter, who seemed to be mis-
tress of her own time and actions, What with the reminis-

ot

cences of her gallantries and other records of her early days,
and the odd devic

devices and encumbrances of her fits of devo.
mtesse kept me pretty well amused. I could
not help pitying her rery much. She seemed to live in a
constant terror of her own old age. It seemed to me more
of a bugbear to her than the hell or the purgatory, for ex-
emption from which she labored so continuously and hardly.

or
wt
-
YS
frog
bom
“eo
‘ ot
a —
a Ley
&
oo
i
©
and

Rie would not look at her own face in the glass, and fre-
guently asked Maraude and myself if we thought she looked

80 very old. Her hands were a constant source of lamenta.
tion to her. Witk all her cumbrous contrivances for salva\FAMILY SECRETS, 819

tion, her spiritual trust a opeared to be smal 8

great ee of dying: ee this aa. rea oe a ;
ying ; state of mind m: led her

small ailments, so that she fancied herself near death some-

times twice ina day. Then it was at once ludicrous and

distressing to hear hér alternately askine the intercession of

the saints, and calling upon us I

Ne J

oO assure her that she was
= 1 am 4 }
not so ill as she thought she was. To me she became very

much attached, because I was a patient listener, and did not
care to leave her. She rehearsed my good qualities to

every visitor, and blessed the saint

for having provided her with : companion so suited to her
every way. In my constant and close communication with
her [ learned a good deal of the Leigh family, of which ]
had been in ignorance. Herself and lady Leigh were the
daughters of the late, and sisters of the present earl of ——:

saints and mother Madeleine

9
and the comtesse had become estranged from her family

through her marriage and subsequent conversion to the
church of Rome. She spoke of the frigid, puritanical piety
of lady Leigh, with ridicule at one time, and at another with
horror; and mentioned some of the enormities of General
and Colonel Leigh (who, she said, were well matched,) that
made my blood run cold. These revelations, however, her
dislike to these people, and her kindness to myself, and the
consciousness that some of her blood flowed in my veins, by
whatever means, served to attach me to her, silly and un-
principled as she was. I quitted her with real reluctance,
when mademoiselle de Lammenais would have her own way
and drag me oat into society. In that society M. de
Beausset never approached to address me; and both in her
own home and elsewhere, wherever I encountered her, the
Marquise de Pauvenay absorbed my interest. She had evi-
dently been stricken by some mortal sorrow. She was wan-
dering about with the arrow of death in her heart. I one
day mentioned her to the conitesse.

“ Ah, yes !” she said, “ you are right ; the poor marquise
has something to put up with. She loves her husband, and
he hates her ; everybody knows that, and that de Pauvenay
is the greatest libertine in France. He is really bad, for he
hates his children, too; and there are three of them, poor
things! shut uv in an old chateau many leagues off. He

 
  
   
   
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
   
 
 

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830 FAMILY SBORETS.

urges his wife to stop with them, but she, unhappy woman
lingers here to learn the extent of her misery. There was
nothing so enormously wicked in my days.”

[ thought there had been something very like it in her
own days, as several of her admirers had been married men,
to say nothing of her having been married herself. It struck
meas very odd that she never mentioned the Comte do
Jiammenais, except on two or three occasions, when she
spake of funds appropriated to the payment of masses fai
the repose of his soul. Altogether it struck me that mo-
rality, amongst the higher classes, was not in a very flourishing
condition in France.

Aiter being in the hétel de Lammenais three months, I
was enabled to transmit to mother Meulen the money she
had lent me, together with a small present of a shawl; and
I heard from her, in reply, that they were all well and hap-
py, and glad to hear of my well-being. In the course of
that time I had contrived to put Clémence’s letter in the
post, but of the poor girl herself I could gain no tidings.
Her probation and M. de Beausset’s were to end at the same
time. He was to be married and she professed at Midsum-
mer; how would it be with both of them ?

I was allowed a large latitude for a convert, for my own
declaration that I did not yet feel prepared, excused me thus
far from attending the confessional. ‘Therefore I was not as
yet formally received into the church. Father Dessalle and
the comtesse admonished me frequently on this point show-
ing the comfort and advantage of unburdening the con-
science of its accumulations of sin, and plentifully supply-
ing me with books upon the subject. These books revolted
me; if I did not of myself know where to begin, they, at
least could not tell me where I might end. I had many
thoughts and failings that I wished to keep sacred betwixt
God and myself, but, none so gross as those that I under-
stood I might be questioned about, according to the formula
set before me. Between my strong disgust and my neces
sities I did not know how it would be with me; but I was
quite resolved that no mortal man should have the chance
of putting those questions to me.

There waa still the great blank in my life, the void thatFAMILY SECRETS,

might not be filled Up ;—no tidings of those I loved-—no
nope of them. reams brought the lost back ‘0 me, but
they were never happy ones, I stood with them amid bhat-
tles and shipwrecks, or we were Starving and shivering to-
gether in darkened rooms or on bleak heaths, or I was kneel-
ing and weeping by their dying beds. The thoughts of the
day were scarcely better than this, though the old convic-
tion that I must go on was still strong upon me. Wha!
was the something that I felt it imperative upon me to
reach 3

During these months I had frequently been told that I was
handsome. I had, to my great annoyance, a number of ad-
mirers, of whom the Chevalier de Roubillac was the most
persevering. He was a man of middle age, almost gigantic
in stature, and his bushy, black whiskers and mustachios,
gave a fierce expression to an otherwise rather unmeaning
face. This gentleman, who was distinguished by great flu-
eney of speech, but whose character did not seem to be re-
markable any way, had been in the army under Louis and
Charles, and he was in the army still. He was, moreover,
of a good family, and possessed an estate. He took it into
his head to propose formally for my hand.

I gave him the only answer that I had to give, for no pri-
vation and dependence on the one hand, or prospect of ad-
vantage on the other, could have induced me to bestow my
hand where my heart was indifferent, even if the many other
obstacles in the way had not existed. The chevalier, how
ever, was one of those monotonously wearying people, who
can neither be offended, nor alarmed, nor convinced; and
with a patience quite incompatible with ardor, he continued
to intercede and hope on. He had made his intentions
known to the comtesse, and had asked her to use her influ-
ence in his behalf; but the comtesse took my part, and ex-
pressed her pleasure at his dismissal. Mademoiselle de Lam-
menais, on the contrary, considered it an advantageous offer,
and marvelled at my rejection. She held out all kinds of
inducements to bring me, as she said, to reason.

“You say you are too young,—ma foi/ it isn’t with us
as it is with you English, who fall at once into slavery and
dowdyism on getting married. Here marriage confers a

20

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PE Cae

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PMN Mie eMedia tics ttc a tree: area ts
ETHNES PES pn et is thared fad ge) Oe, abet

a PRAAA PEs aa beb ht Linked odd ©

rN ania

  

899 FAMILY SECREFS.

iberty rarely to be enjoyed by the single. Few young Is-
dies are so independent as I am, for I am peculiarly placed.
When once you are married, the number of your admirers
will increase ten-fold. These are great advantages,—don’t
vou see ?”

“ Advantages of which I could make no use,” I said.—
“Such conduct seems to me immoral; it shocks me; my
education has been different, and I cannot alter these views.”

Mademoiselle de Lammenais laughed at me _ heartily.
“What a solemn face!” she said ; “ how really awful this
prudery is! There is less of actual sin amongst us with our
free manners than amongst you with all this pretence of
sanctity. Here comes M. de Beausset, who, of all men J
know, is most deserving of an English wife. He himself
has a few humdrum notions that almost frighten me.”

We were seated during this conyersasion in an arbor in
the garden. I had not seen M. de Beausset to speak
to him for nearly three months—not since the night when
we were on the balcony at the Marquise de Pauvenay’s.
As he now approached, I arose, and attempted to go away,
but mademoiselle de Lammenais stopped me.

“ Another of your English notions,” she said; “ you fancy
you may be an interruption to some necessary billing and
cooing, while, in fact, if you leave us together, we shall be
sure to quarrel. Is it not so, Victor ? Marguerite has been
making me laugh; she is horrified at the idea of having
admirers after she is married.”

“A singular young lady, indeed!” said M. de Beausset.

“ Does she fancy she can always be in love with her hus-
band ?”
_ “Not quite so mostrous as that,” said mademoiselle de
Lemmenais; “she only supposes she ought to be. If one
could cure her of these notions, there might be hope for
the poor chevalier.”

“ My notions of any kind would make no difference in
that respect,” I said, quietly continuing the work I was up-
on—- a new robe for our Lady Loretto.

“I never met with any one so obdurate, so unimpressible,”
said mademoiselle de Lammenais. “She will neither please
others nor be pleased herself Positively, a conquest. eeouneFAMILY SECRETS, 838

to afford her no pleasure. I have an idea that she aas teft
her heart behind her in England.”

I looked up in surprise. “ Indeed, you mistake,” I said
“in England I had something else to do and think of.” ,

“ Well, don’t look so horrified,” said Mademoiselle de Lam-
menais, laughing. “One might almost imagine that in
England you consider being in love a species of crime.”

“Circumstances may make it so.”

“ But—bless me! you’re not married already, are you,
Marguerite ?”

“No, certainly not,” I said, smiling at the oddness of the
idea. “Iam not, and I never shall be.”

“ What folly! What a singular freak in a girl young
and handsome! M, de Beausset, you have been very surly
of late; you never help me as you should. You neglect
your protégée too; why do you not advise her for her good
on this momentous occasion ?”

M. de Beausset, after saluting us politely, had seated him-
self, and was now leaning on the arbor table, apparently
watching my work. The question made him start, and he
threw himself back.

“‘T advise !” he exclaimed: “I have never been able to
advise myself for any good purpose. Mademoiselle Mar-
guerite is the best judge of what is for her own happiness.”

“ How cold and precise! Do you know, Victor, that you
are very English in your notions, and that. 2

“And that you are very French in yours. Yes, I have
had a glimmering of the fact. believe I spoke to you on
this very subject last night.” 8 :

“Oh, if you are going to lecture me again 1 must posi-
tively run for it. I have a hundred things to do this morp.
ing, ‘and you two will get on very well together.”

She tripped away, and I turned pale with fright as I has-
tily rose to follow her. M. de Beausset held my arm, and
detained me. oy

“ Don’t fear me, Marguerite,” he said ; “TY will say noth-
ing that you ought not listen to, but you must hear me.—
You do not yet understand your position here, which is be-
coming dangerous. I have brought you into this ‘trouble,
and I must help you out of it,”Te Sr aerate ae
Song Pore eT RT I
Sy Foca eae OR PONT

isi Ata OH HLTH La Wetecanio aa orm rete
pen OM ais Pongo 6s ele steer eatie ibe oni phe eet whe ie Sms

iM tisaeiid tatvdl wettest atte atc red at Oath sn tele ‘ .
HU desu duvic tiie mia itty DRS Tir RT agh ee Sta
eae A u ALT SUT Eos aed Meas) aa IEEE

ed

Hibae tn TAL IRE ea )idhiatl beans ned reste ka
eiRiHEP MERE TESLOM I LeT ote Ad PLP Hnag EET eTEE tes

324 FAMILY SECRETS,

I thought he alluded to the persecution of the Chevalier
Roubillac. “You magnify trouble and danger, sir,” I said.
“The comtesse quite approves of what I have done, and she
car protect me.”

i Yes, from a husband; neither she nor the priests wish
you to marry. They have at present another destiny for
you. Will you trust yourself with me a little further down
this walk ?”

I placed my work upon the table and rose up; he seemed
to have something serious to communicate to me, and | did
not hesitate about learning what it was. As he passed, he
gave the embroidery a contemptuous toss.

“For whom amongst the blessed do you design this fine-
ry ?” he asked.

“Tt is the comtesse’s gift to our Lady of Loretto,” I
ead.

“Well, kings ere now have employed themselves in mak-
ing petticoats for the same personage. But the comtesse—
I thought she devoted herself exclusively to our Lady of
Cleury. Perhaps she considered it necessary to propitiate
the other lady. You see there are above a score of them,
and to offend one is to offend all.”

“For shame, M. de Beausset !” I said; “ you profess this
faith, and you ridicule it |”

“Think as hardly of me as you like, only don’t take mo
for a fool,” he said. “I could not bear that from you.” He
led me into a retired and shady walk, and then drew forth
a long scroll of paper.

“Cast your eyes over this, and be quick,” he said. “ You
see your name written here—‘Margaret Payne: and what
follows.”

This was what followed the name: “Bold, ambitious,
strongly inclined to unbelief; enterprising, and particularly
sensitive to kindness. Must be trusted with some power as
a motive, and must discern good init. Unmanageable here,
and must be removed.”

Poor me! could it be a fact that the Chureb had thus
been occupied in analyzing my character all thfs time? I
lifted my eyes to M. de Beausset.

“How did you get possession of this {” I asked,

—PAMILY SECRETS, 825

“I am indebted for it to the ingenuity of José who has
peculiar opportunities for helping his friends who may be in
distress. You may rest assured that it was stolen, or it
would never have come into my possession.”

“ Ah! I shall bring you into trouble,” I said. % How un-
happy all this is! But there is a remedy: I must fly from
this place,”

“You must not !” said M. de Beausset. “Have a little
pity upon me, Marguerite—you will drive me mad! This
missive had to be conveyed, with others, to Rome, and the
messenger is yet detained on the road. You are perfectly
safe for some time to come. When there is danger to you,
Y shall know it, for I am on the watch. Will you trust to
me, and remain quiet for the present ?”

I was not so much alarmed on my own account by this
danger, which only threatened to make a tool of me. Now
that I was forewarned, what did it matter? I readily gave
my promise to M. de Beausset on one condition.

“T can remain without any fear, if you will leave me te
my own resources, If you interfere and involve yourself,
you will force me to fly.”

“ And you will not accept any service at my hands, Mar-
guerite? You despise me, as you do others.”

“You do me injustice,” I said.‘ You should see the pro-
priety of my request.”

“] am already a martyr to propriety,” said M. de Beaus-
set; “I hate the word! Promise, then, that you will not
shrink from asking my help, if you need it.”

But I knew that I showld shrink from asking it; and I
remained silent, and hurried on .to the arbor to fetch my
work.

“ This is cruel and unkind,” said M. de Beausset. “ Why
uay I not be your friend !—Because | am fettered by this
unhappy engagement, which is burdening me to death ¢
You understand how I am punished, and you add to my
misery !” |

“Jo not force me to despise you, indeed,” I said, sternly
and sorrowfully ; “ you, whose remembrance I would pre-
sarve in my heart without a stain.” .peekbeeebek ela ok tts

MALEMSLiteemehsBt Pho beska me Doc tvs

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ter:

826 FAMILY SECRETS.

Oh, how I dreaded being compeiled to believe evil of thie

man |

_M. de Beausset fell into one of the seats, and buried hia
face in his hands. I took up my work, and so left him.

FEILER

CHAPTER XVI.

THERE was a grand fete to be given at the Marquis de
Pauvenay’s, and Mademoiselle de Lammenais insisted upon
my accompanying her. I acquiesced the less reluctantly,
because I felt an uneasy interest in the poor marquis, that,
in the midst of my other troubles, allowed me no rest. It
is natural that the unfortunate should feel an interest in one
another, but something beyond this common attraction
seemed to draw me towards this forlorn and most unhappy
woman : I could not help thinking that some dreadful catas-
trophe would be the consequence of feelings so deep and so
terribly roused. Her noble figure, distinguished above all
others in the crowd—her troubled, though usually calm,
countenance—her wandering eyes,so often flashing, as if
from some inward fire,—fascinated my gaze, so that I could
observe little else when she was near me. The marquis, gal-
lant and attentive to every lady present, without being par-
ticular, so far as I could observe, appeared at all times to be
oblivious of her presence.

I must here mention, in grateful remembrance of Made-
moiselle de Lammenais, that with all her faults—rather the
result of education than of any native depravity of heart,—
she was generous, and affable, and confiding; free from the
offensive pride that exhibits itself in self-exaltation, or in’ op-
pressing others; wishful, if not anxious, for the happiness
of all around her; liberal to excess. In a word, she waa
not capricious ; and she only became little by forgetting her,
self. ‘To me, dependent and unknown, and, above all, flat
tered as I was in the society to which she introduced me-
her sisterly manner. never changed. She was constantlyFAMILY SEORETS. 827

giving me presents of dress, that enabled me to hoard up
my salary; and shs seldom willingly went abroad without
me.

All this inspired me, by degrees, with a grateful attach-
ment that made me anxious for her happiness with M. de
Beausset. Emotions had been roused within me that made
me feel like a culprit in her presence: I crushed them out,
and felt happier for the effort. He had loved her.at some
former period, and her own frivolity had most probably es-
tranged him. I thought it would be well repaying the debt
[ owed M. de Beausset if I could restore this merely thought-
less girl to him and to herself.

And therefore I frequently spoke of what I considered
wrong in her manner, both to M. de Beausset and abroad,
with the freedom that she allowed me. On these occasions
she unfortunately had the laugh of her prejudices against
me.

“ Ma chére Anglaise,” she would say, “don’t attempt to
freeze me with these cold decorums of your nation! You
forget that I was born nearer the sun, and that I have as
much right to exercise my privileges as you have. You
see, all this is inevitable: you continue a puritan and I a
coquette.”

I could get nothing more out of her; but there was thia
satisfaction in being with Emillie de Lammenais, that she
did not care about my being anything more than the puritan .
she called me. Indeed, she openly asserted that it was a
shame to spoil me by attempting to make a Catholic of me,
perfect as I was in my original state. In her presence,
therefore, I felt freed from every restraint, and this drew us
more closely together. On this occasion of our attending
the fete at the Marquis de Pauvnay’s, she was more than
usually anxious about our dress. She wished us to be dress-
ed alike, and, to my surprise, had provided for this arrange-
ment. There was still a wide difference in our appearance.
She was much shorter and more slender than myself; her
very fair skin and braided flaxen hair were remarkable,
while I was a brunette with heavy masses of dark hair curl-
ing naturally, I ineffectually attempted a remonstrance, 208
[ considered ‘hat there was an impropriety in this outwargKae

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898 FAMILY: Sh R Ee:

show of an equality that did not exist. IT appealed to her
in every available way, feeling that I should attract more
observation and criticism than would be pleasant to myself;
but mademoiselie de Lammenais coaxed and entreated (she
never commanded) till I was almost ashamed of my refusal ;
and so she had her way.

As I lost sight of mademoiselle de Lammenais almost im-
mediately on my entrance into the crowded saloons of the
hétel de Pauvenay, I soon dismissed from my mind the cir-
cumstance of our being dressed alike. She left me in charge
of Madame de Vigny, a lady with whom I had some previ-
ous acquaintance, and she turned me over to the old Com-
tesse de Reuilly. Seated by her side, I looked vainly round
for the marquis, and my companion soon brought me back
to myself.

“My dear,” she said, “how long do you intend to keep
up this mystery that is puzzling us all? Don’t you think
you have teased us long enough 9” 3

“ About what, madam ?”

“ How innocent youlook! About your real name, and
birth, and connexions, to be sure. All Paris is asking, ‘ Who
is this Marguerite who is seen and talked of everywhere, and
yet whom nobody knows? It is understood that the
Chevalier Roubillac js your suitor, and people ask, ‘ With
whom is he about to allay himself? All this is very natu-
ral, you know. There is a rumor that you are the daughter
of an English lord; others say that you are related to the

de Lammenais ; for my part, I don’t gee the use of being
mystical on the subject. You are young, and this is the
fault of your advisors,”

“Indeed madam,” I said, hastily, “you mistake. There
_ 18 no mystery, no need for any. I have no pretension; I
am humbly born; I am even less than I seem to be, because

I owe everything about me hore to the Kindness of my pro-
tectors. I explained all this to the Chevaljer Roubillac
when I declined the honor he intended me. I assure you
this is tne simple truth ”

“Ah, t is a charming little romance, and I don’t take

this for the dénouement,” ssid the comtease, “ I must wait
longer, I see.PAMIN Y S2eRrers, 329

This distressed me very much. I could bear to receive
courtesies On my own account; I was proud of the unhappy
protectors of my childhood, though I felt the impossibility
of proclaiming them to the world: but to be taken for what
I was not, and received in society upon the strength of sup-
position, seemed to give an air of Imposture even to
the small place I occupied that appalled ine. Surely this
idea was not general? surely it was not entertained by my
benefactors themselves? Yet now, when I was set thinking
on the subject, even this seemed possible. Ihad been met
with in an extraordinary manner; | had only spoken of the
past as too painful for myself to dwell upon; and my edu-
eation—perhaps my very appearance—might have given
the idea that 1 was well born. M. de Beausset himself had
probably fallen into this mistake. Miserable misconception |}
How I| might be depreciated in the opinion of all these peo
ple by the knowledge of what I really was!

This kind of position revealed to me my own powers of
self-sustainment ; but it was less easy to support the body
than the soul. To what sordid and petty necessities did I
owe most of the sufferings of my past life! what trouble
from the same source still lay before me! The glittering
throng oppressed me with its gaiety, and as I had not yet
been found by the Chevalier Roubillac, there seemed to be
a good opportunity for gliding out into the garden, which I
could easily do by way of the balcony. It was a moon-
less night, and rather cold, for it had rained during the day.
I wandered into the remotest alleys, not thinking of the im-
propriety of being there alone, or of the minor folly of lin-
gering in the wet-with my thin shoes. It at length occurred
to me that I might be missed, and I was returning by the
way of an arbor not far from the house, when I became
aware that some persons were in it, by whom I must be seen
.s I passed, while if I retraced my steps, I should have to go
a long way round. I had come close upon the spot in the
midst of the trees and thick shrubs that surrounded it, and
I could not be mistaken in the two voices that met my
ear during the brief pause 1 made. They were those of a
man and a woman, arid the woman was sobbing bitterly.
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aa0 FAMILY SEOBB®S.

once to be the Marquis de Pauvenay, “you will expose
yourself to-night if you give way like this. I promise, om
my honor, to take you away the instant I have completed
my preparations. Don’t be alarmed: I have a plan that
will save us both.”

“Oh, I am so wretched, Louis,” sobbed his companion ;
“ J cannot remain here, it will kill me!”

Consternation chained me to the spot on which I stood ; I
leaned against one of the trees, breathless and shivering. I
only heard one other sentence. The marquis said, “ Quick,
quick ! this is folly !’ and the next minute he came out and
rushed past me so close that he almost touched my dress.
Emillie de Lammenais also presently passed from the arbor,
and walked quickly down the path leading to the balcony.
I remained a long time where I was, feeling faint, sick, and
frightened. I might have remained half the night, if some
one had not seized my arm roughly. I started from my
reverie in fresh terror, and saw the gipsy girl, Morgotte.

“What brought yow here to be a spy upon them?” she
asked in a savage tone. “Do you pretend yet that you
care nothing for M. de Bezusset, though you are busying
yourself with the doings of his mistress %”

“| am here quite by accident, Morgotte,” I said.

The girl burst into her wild laugh.

“Say that to them that will believe you,” she said. “TI.
hate you! and I know that you are full of deceit |”

As she rushed away I roused myself. I had certainly no
business there ; I was laying myself open to suspicions, and
I had no right to expect any one to believe me in a matter
in which I had exhibited such a want of prudence. I has-
tened back by the longer, but more retired path, which ter-
minated in a large conservatory. The door was open, and I
knew there was a communication this way into the house.
In the interior I saw a distant glimmering of radiance, that,
falling amid the exotic flowers and fruits, and many-shaped
leaves, produced a variety of strange lights and shadows.
As I moved amidst them I heard other steps, stilthily track-
ing-mine, I thought; but on looking round I just caught a
glimpse of Morgotte and the marquise entering one of the
sections of the conservatory where the darkness was unbro-

RP SEE TST ST aFAMILY SECRETS,

ken. Was it possible that this unhappy woman had sub
mitted to the degradation of making an outcast girl a spy
upon her husband’s actions, and the depositary of her own
dishonor? What wretchedness! what an accumulation waa
here of sin, and shame, and pollution! All the produce of
one bad man’s heart, and that man so admired, so honored
by the world! In what frightful outburst of human agony
aud outraged trust would it all end!

I re-entered one of the saloons, and as I was looking
roand for the Comtesse de Reuilly [ perceived mademoiselle
de Lammenais chatting gaily to a circle of gentlemen, ap-
parently full of life and spirits, and with no trace of her
late agitation visible in her countenance. I shrank back ;
I did not feel able just then to encounter her, and I fell
into the hands of the Chevalier Roubillac.

“I have been inquiring and looking for you everywhere,”
he said; “ what was it that spirited youaway? You know
that, in spite of your cruelty, I feel lost out of your pres-
ence.”

He found me a seat beside the deaf old Comtesse de
Bayard, who looked on this gay scene through her specta-
cles. It struck me as something very melancholy, this
clinging of the decaying senses to the transitory enjoyments
of earth. The Comtesse de Lammenais had a horror of
making a public exhibition of her wrinkles and infirmities:
but in her own way she destroyed all feeling of reverence in
others, and was miserable in herself. How different these
old people were to my grand-father, with his earnest piety
reguiating al} the conduct of his life; to Aunt Betsy, with
her strength of mind, and sturdy principle to do right, let
the sacrifice be what it would! The more I saw of the
world, the more I honored these two, from whom I was,
perhaps, separated for ever.

As I sat listening to the chevalier, and parrying his com-
pliments as well as I could, I had a full view of the circle
surrounding mademoiselle de Lammenais. The marquis
was there, talking as gaily as the rest. I looked round in
vain for the marquise. She was, perhaps, not yet capable
of bringing her agony into that gay scene. These new
interests were filling my heart with a profounder and more

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§82 FAMILY SECRETS,

purifying sorrow. I was lifted out of self, and, during the

rocess, I learned that mine had not been the greatest of
eee trials. I might have thought that I had much to
be thankful for; but that, I fear, did notoccur to me. I
was yet far from God, though drawing nearer to him through”
his creatures.

The chevalier was called from my side, and a few minutés
afterwards M. de Beausset approached me.

“You look weary,” he said; “I have been observing yor
some time.”

“Tam weary,” I replied; and I lifted my eyes to hia
pityingly.

“Ma belle Marguerite,” he said, seating himself beside me,
“those large, melancholy eyes of yours always make my
heart ache. They possessed this influence over me from
the first. To-night they are more than usually powerful:
there is a look in them, too, as if you had something to
reveal to me. Is it so, Marguerite $”

“ Nay, it is nothing,” I said, turning away.

“Nothing! what a blank word! The soul will not be
satisfied with this nothing, which is the sole fruit of ita
wishes and its hopes. I feel to-night as one in a dry desert,
who has no chance of reaching the spring. that might
quench his thirst,—the verdure that might assure him of
life. Iam altogether in an atmosphere of decay, and rot-
tenness, and death,”

Was this presentiment ? I thought so. I felt an invinci-
ble repugnance to continue this conversation, which op-
pressed me more than I could well bear. Iwas looking
round for some one I knew, in order to join them, when the
Comtesse de Reuilly beckoned me to approach her.

She took my arm, and led me out of the room and
down stairs.

“I think we can rely upon your discretion,” she said:
“the poor marquise has been seized with a fit, She is bet-
ter now, and she does not want to disturb her guests. She
has asked to see you. There is something very dreadful in
this, I'm afraid; something fresh about the marquis, who,
between you and me, uses her worse than a dog. I found
her, by chance, with a strange, wild-looking girl, who mustFAMILY SECRETS, 838

have brought her bad news. We must hear all about it,
and say nothing.”

_ She led me into a small room adjoining the conservatory
in which we found the marquise, seated and alone. She
waa deadly pale, and her wild, black eyes, rested upon me,
and seemed to look me through.

“You must leave us together, my friend,” she said, ad-
dressing the Comtesse de Reuilly ; “I wish to speak with
this young lady alone.” —

The comtesse looked disappointed: but there was a deci-
sion in the tone and look of the marquise that mastered he
and she went out. The marquise locked the door, and mo
tioned me to a seat, and continued standing.

“It is known to you,” she said, speaking rapidly,“ because
it is known to every one, that I am wronged, and that I
suffer. Neglect, and reproach, and insolent pity, meet me
on all sides, yet I dread inquiring into the extent of this
wrong and suffering. My God! I have been degraded ?
(She unclasped from her wrist, in h& strong agony, a costly
bracelet and dashed it upon the floor.) I have seen to-
night a wandering gipsy girl, who brought me fresh intelli-
gence of my husband’s infidelity. I questioned the truth
of what she told me as I well might, but she said she could
producs another witness—you! Iam already acquainted
with many who make no scruple of drawing my husband
from me; but Emillie de Lammenais!—Oh, my God! it is
too horrible !”

She seemed to writhe in the agony of this penge toss-
ing her arms wildly, winding them about her head, stagger-
ing as if she would fall.

“The girl told me you could confirm this to me,” she
continued, calming herself suddenly. ‘“ What have you to
say !” I had been sitting, cold and pale with emotion; the
presence of her mighty sorrow seemed to paralyse me; I
clasped my hands and bowed my head; [I felt as if sinking
beneath all this distress and shame.

“Tt is true, then?” she shrieked. Such a strange, wail
ing almost unearthly cry, accompanied her words, that }
looked up in terror. She was on her knees, clasping the

back of a chair with both her white arms, beating her head

   
  
 
   
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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834 FAMILY SECRETS,

against it. I went up to her and bent down, and threw my
arms about her neck, but she took no notice of me, and con
tinued tossing about in her agonizing grief, so that we fre
quently nearly fell together. The poor, distracted head '
how recklessly she dashed it against anything that came in
ber way!

In tones, now moaningly low and heart-rending to hear
nuw fierce with all the violence of her soul’s indignation,
she poured forth impassioned words, forgetting, perhaps, that
she’ was not alone.

“My children! my poor children! neglected, hated for

their mother’s sake !—my noble, tender Ernest—my beauti-

ful Louise—my fair-haired little Marie, with her loving
heart! Oh, God! why were these given to me?—And this
man, whom I have loved so well, he sees and knows it, and
he treats me with the cold indifference, the silent contempt,
that leave no chance, no hope of change! But thou, O
God, that seest my wrongs, wilt avenge me! What is there
that I have not suffered at his hands ?—outrage in my
home, scorn in the world, all my hopes crushed, all my af-
fections blighted, all my feelings worn down by this slavery
of insult and grief? Is not this too cruel, oh, my Father,
from whom nothing is hidden ?—have I not more than I
can bear 9”

The very exhaustion of her struggles, bodily and mental,
at length calmed her; but there seemed no effort in her to
rise from the posture she was in. — I still bent over her and
my tears fell fast.

“I am wearily punished |” she said, lifting her pale, hag-
gard face, and regarding me with her burning eyes, “If
this was only a dream and no reality it would still be too
bitter. You seem to feel for me, and I thank you, but
leave me now. I too will leave this place, full of pollu:
tions. I will no longer struggle for that which is impossi-
ble; I will devote myself to my children and we will con-
sole one another—we who are hated so unnaturally %”

“ Allow me to help you,” I said, still bending over her.—
She gently ut my arm away.

“Xou will not,” she continued, “ tell them of this up yon-FAMILY SECRETS. 835

dez—not now—not till I have had time io reach the home
of my children? [I ask this,”

“Neither now nor at any time will I mention what I
have seen and heard to these people,” I said.

“ God bless you !” said the marquise. “ You are young ;
God preserve you from trial like mine! Don’t fancy you
can help me otherwise than by leaving me to mvself. 1
must be alone before I can rouse myself. Go, go!”

There was evidently nothing better that I could do for
her. I arose in silence, unlocked the door and closed it
after me. The Comtesse de Reuilly seized upon me, and
was offended because I had nothing to communicate. After
another weary hour I entered the carriage with mademoiselle
de Lammenais, and we drove home.

Fnow understood the meaning of a gravity, sometimes
amounting to sadness, that I had observed in mademoiselle
de Lammenais for the last three weeks. I was very glad
that this fit was upon her during our drive, so that she did
not speak, and that upon our arrival at the hotel she hastily
bade me good night, and dismissed me. I not only could
not feel any sympathy for her just then, but fresh as I was
from witnessing the grief of the injured marquise, I was
sure that my indignation would find a vent some way. M.
de Beausset was altogether a minor consideration ; indeed,
this inevitable separation of the two was so far a happiness
for beth because they were unsuited to each other, and the
knew it, and they could only have been made wretched to-
gether by an indissoluble tie. [, who had never been re-
atrained in the expression of my feelings by conventional
rules, wondered how I should be able to meet mademoiselle
de Lammenais again without giving her some intimation of
what I thought and felt. I was quite determined not to go
out with her again; and, altogether, it seemed probable
that I should have to provide myself with another home.—
These thoughts kept me long awake, but I was sleeping
when Maraude came to my bedside, and asked me to get
up and go to the comtesse, who thought she was dying. I
went to her, and found her, as usual, more terrified than
really ill; but the physician and father Dessalle were sent
for, and we remained up with her. The morning was faa
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B36 FAMILY SECRETS.

advanced when the physician arrived, and after pronouncing
that the comtesse was not in any danger, he drew me out
f the room, and told me that a horrible affair had occur-
red during the night,—the Marquise de Pauvenay had been
found murdered in her apartment, and the marquis was ar-
rested on suspicion of being the murderer.

I cannot well describe the way in which I received this news.
So many horrors coming upon me at once seemed to freeze
up my faculties. I wandered about during many hours,
doing things mechanically, hearing a great deal about this
murder that had excited the whole population of Paris, and
saying little. I was first roused by the comtesse asking me
to communicate these tidings to her grand-daughter, who
had not yet been disturbed. I shuddered, and declared my-
self unequal to the task, which was then committed to
Maraude. As she went out of the room the comtesse dis-
patched me to fetch something for her out of the drawing
room. I found M. de Beausset there; he approached me,
and held out his hand.

“You look pale and ill” he said; “ you have heard of
this great misery ? Ah! how dreadful it is %”

I had not had time to reply when a terrible shriek from
Emillie’s chamber reached us. I snatched my hand from
his, and hastened to this new scene of terror. Mademoiselle
de Lammenais was in strong convulsions, and the physician,
who had only lately quitted the house, was again sent for.
I felt now for this poor girl, for I knew that her agony had
repentance in it. Hers was not a nature to persevere in
wilful sin, of which the consequences were so awful, and I
‘elt that her sufferings would be great. For many hours she
ssemed hovering between life and death, and during that
time I never left her. When consciousness and compara-
tive calmness returned, she shrank away from me, and de-
sired to be left with her own maid. It was on the third day
after this when mademoiselle de Lammenais, who had not

et been able to leave her bed, requested an interview with

. de Beausset. They were together nearly an hour, and
when he left her he quitted the house. The comtesse, with
whom I was now altogether confined, complained loudly of
the trouble occasioned by this ‘ndisposition of her grand-FAMILY SECRETS, 837

daughter, until informed by father Dessalle that it was
mademoiselle de Lammenais’s intention to enter a convent,
and devote the remainder of her days to the service of God
This was, at first, a great surprise and shock to her, and it
seemed for the moment to rouse her out of her selfishness.
She was, however, too much under the influence’ of the
priests to persevere in any decided resistance of thia. |

ere 1 ace of this, to her,
strange determination. As mademoiselle de Lammenais
continued too ill to leave her room, and the comtesse had

an idea that it would kill her to move out of her own,
which she rarely did, the two did not meet until t

which the unhappy Enmillie quitted her home fo
time.

A fortnight elapsed, and M. de Beausset had never been
near the house. It seemed certain that Mademoiselle de
Lammenais had confessed her sin to him, and I knew what
he must feel at this degredation of one whom he had once
loved. Oh, that every woman, before stooping to dishonor,
would seriously consider the shame that she is heaping upon
others of her sex, whether connected with her or not ;
the infamy, whose shadow spreads a wide darkness apart
from all the sorrow; the example of weakness, of which
vice is always ready to take advantage; the indelible stigma
upon which it thrives, and which furnishes a theme for its
godless wit! Why will not woman be true to herself,
knowing how this truth would help to regenerate the world {

I suppose it was the fault of my education that made me
reel as if I should be ashamed to look in M. de Beausset’s
face again. I felt implicated in this dishonor: I said to my-
self,— Why should any of us be trusted, weak, and trivial,
and imbecile, and unprincipled, and wanting in self-respect,
asso many are? All this distressed me, apart from any
ther causes of distress.

Mademoiselle de Lammenais quitted the house without
seeing me again. She, however, Toft a note for me, in which
I found these words :—

 

Le
ne

“ Mareusr(ts, oe |

“T have not kept faith with M. de Beausset, and

I have proved to him the impossibility of our unien. He
21

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8&8 FAMILY SEOBETS

loves you, and you are worthy of him. Do not refuse w
make him happy, if only for the sake of 2
“ EMILLIZ DE LAMMENAIS.”

Poor Emillie ! she did not yet understand how many ob-
stacles to happiness there are in this world. Nothing was
more impossible than my union with M. de Beausset.
Should I also have to endure the trial of proving this im-
possibility to him ?

The Comtesse de Reuilly and other visitors brought us
from time to time all the particulars respecting the murder
that had been collected, with perhaps a good deal of intelli-
gence that was imaginary. Many ladies were mentioned as
being rendered inconsolable, not by the dreadful end of the ©
poor marquise, but by the danger threatening the reputed
murderer; and many anecdotes were related respecting the
intrigues in which he had been engaged. If suspicion had
ever rested upon Emillie, it of course was not to be repeated
in the hétel de Lammenais; but when I was given to un-
derstand that the dress and office of a sister of mercy were
considered very convenient for the carrying on of an in-
trigue, I remembered that Mademoiselle de Lammenais had
frequently gone out in the habit at night, and alone. The
teaching of her grand-mother, and the example of others,
had prepared for her the way to this sin, whose punishment
in her case was so heavy.

With regard to the murder itself and the murderer, who
was shortly afterwards executed, full particulars respecting
both are to be found in the French chronicles of the time to
which I am referring. A sudden change in my own affairs
compelled me to put aside for a season my interest in oth-
ere.

I had met once at the convent, and frequently at the hétel
de Lammenais, a M. |’Abbé Roullet, who had labored with
father Dessalle for my spiritual advancement. J had noth-
ing to dislike in this man beyond a bold look, which was
perhaps natural to him, and which was only to be borne on
the supposition that he could not help it. This abbé was
more indulgent than father Dessalle, who evidently grew out
of patience with my stubborn resistance of ghostly help isthe matter of my conscience. The abbé would laugh at my
sometimes freely-expressed opinions, and call me his “ little
sinner, In a way that greatly encouraged me to sin on_—
And, widely as I had separated myself from the truth of God,
+ Was not made of the stuff that can be moulded into any
shape. I could put the idea of religion away from me, al-
togeth a delnaen Gavan t heh :
vogether, as a delusive invention of man, but I could not
consent to assist in making a farce of it, pretending belief
in what only excited my ridicule, acquiescences in what
roused my indignation. It had evidently become a question
with these people what they were to do with me, and I won-
dered why they would not leave me to myself,

val

CHAPTER XVIL

Maprmorsetiz pe Lammenais had only been gone four
days, when the comtesse intimated to me that I might as-
sist her in a very important matter. She had an estate and
chAteau in Lombardy, in the latter of which were several
valuables that she wished to remove to Paris, Her grand-
daughter, she said, had intended to have superintended thia
work, and that being now impossible, she did not know
whom to trust except myself. She would supply me with
money, and Annette for a companion, and such instructions
as I should not mistake. I was also to be accompanied by
Baptiste, who would attend to all the arrangements of trav-
eling.

I accepted this commission very eagerly. Paris was be-
coming oppressive to me on many accounts, and the idea of
a long journey, during which I should be my own mistress,
besides seeing so much that was new to me, was quite cap-
tivating. Preparations were therefore, immediately set on
foot, and in less than a week I commenced my journey to
Lombardy.

We travelled in our own carriage, with post-horses, to
which, as to our accommodations at night when we did not

Pee at Neer ide
Sorisad | See iaee shan CA ey
we cnt thle A Aa chicos fe ies HAAS

i Meta bile oh.

 

 

Ete AISA nae ls aN nie sada dp dee hacrcnk pa sak RR a eT

BN a Leads Mle Ns ala id Za SgDitds MRLs eebabaahthd os Vtdhd TE (hates?

 
  
   
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
   
 
 
  
   
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
   
   
  
 
  
  

ie rier pater an enatenen nner

its

LN Mehmet a mihest iit catheter tte hice) Hehe .
Leet) THORS PE CRerr tpt SE 04 TTS BOS td OF Hi SiN elaaeaset ay

baiaad bi 1a tly Stale pata at

pe RRR ay te ote j

Cm ENT Ne 9

sae meets:

i 1 ¥ Se SB d
travel through t
Sele,
the days, ror BYE ary

iit
oom

fry i
before n ne. The scenery

I eure by anticiy
chat 1 in one
hee aa
sightly building, ha
spot, and in si
exciter nent
found, for there
pected. ver’
chateau, and besi
own poor fare, th

 

 

  
   

 

gy

fit for me “ enter, tnat I i
L

 

and, to her grea
same. Wevw we re fairly
a

on the day of our a aad

old-f
nished in a hea’ vy, old-fa

seemed to have settled t
as we could do to ca
and mvself.
fol lowing
task.

I was struck m
with the dilapidation :
Was any aes valu uals,

seemed odd tha
Ue mn such imsecure

 

 
   

e qe ear
in making one of the
It was a very large
J 8
high- -backed chairs, and «
that we thus att le

ht Be

Jy LPC

lay brought some new object of interest
Switzerland delighted me, and
on the pleasure of exploring an old

provinces of the south.
its when we at | ee reached this place, a not very

L
aft
Ot

 

1e rive

> WaAS 8i
rote ared my own services to help;
ust, called upon Annette to do the

eaten altogether in effecting much

 

ae Eran Say eins ee

7

 
 
   
  
  
   
 

PGR OST ee eee ie

iptiste attended. IY did not count

I was in

lins, situated in a solitary but fertile

r Aidge.
r with the Tude accommodation we«
re was no appearance of our having been ex
ry old man and his wife had charge of the

es ce g nothing to offer us except their

It was a pleasurable

eh a bustle to make the rooms

There ae several rooms fur-

shioned style, but a century’s dust
upon everything, and it was as much
one eds room habitable for Annette

n on the previous day
s of the place.
as yet out of sight; and ‘it
s should have been left so
tody.. a however, did not doubt

If there

ore opening my sealed instructions,

two old

custodiers of the place

ig-rooms habitable.

ee scantily furnished wit.
couches, and marble-topped tabla
to reduce to order.

In the midst

of our labor, Annette threw herself despairingly into a

ee

urely don’t inter] to stop long in this place, Made-
moiselle le Marguer 3 #” she

said. “Why not look for the

f there are any; but I don’t believe it,

My y young ] lady never mentioned ‘such a thing; never spoke> +ha¢ me
me that morning. I

©
} . } Sats
sente nee, and nothing

 

rete = a 2,2
“The treasure I send yo sec the true faith, which
‘ 5 e¢ wat maw 3 wa + | 4 = } 2 € 7
that you na find and value properly is the prayer of your
iriend,

make nothing of it. I
liked, and I was not with-
to look for Annette,
he apartment occupied
man pointed out-to me
away in the distance.
not understanding the
ough from their
left me,
any great alarm,
the OOUnE Ys I saw no
ssity of collect-
ey up stairs

ea eis

som>tesse had recom-
a gee og AO) ES aaa

men detained in Lombardy

   

some =
hings as I could carry
© o
se two old people, there

   

Pon oy yp
ped-roon
on pes round

s ppeurahes =) f M. PAbbé Roullet.

    

 

 

 

i a cha cc

  
   
 
  
  
     
   

   
 
   
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
    
 
 
   
  

a@.See,

soepeme
ot

i naaeles ewe
IE EET OM,
—=

TTL oaeeee a
sine ee

Seah papal sdobaphadt sha wo wedba re E is 8

Fe tai Heer

ry

Phe NTT int HI POE RAMS HPAL UH LAA 2 <7)e) L/bt be agtanereeMcaHANobtaWinLaR rede

rein Ae gins ies ray

becomes Nr rat
ome ore : smiiae

 

This man, who was upwards of forty, regarded me with a
more than usually bold and repulsive louk.

“ You see we are not inclined to give you up, Marguerite,”
he said; “by fair means or by foul, you must belong to us.
For my part I am quite ready to consult your own happi-
ness and interest, as I shall prove to you.”

“You are beginning in a singular way,” I said; separa-
ting me from those who might have protected me, dragging
me into a strange country by a fraud.”

“Oh, merely a pious fraud.” said the abbé. “Mother
Church allows a latitude in cases like yours, and you shall
find me still more indulgent to yourself. You laugh at
what you call our mummeries—well, you shall laugh on,
Marguerite, and I will laugh with you. They ere mumme-
ries; but he who knows it amongst these people, and who
can make his own use of the knowledge, is possessed of a
power mighty enough to move nations. You shall partici-
pate in this power, Marguerite; you have a bold, free spirit ;
you were born to rise in the world, and you shail rise.”

I had not really feared this man till I heard him thus avow
his contempt of the creed he professed. Religionless as I

as myself, I could place no trust in any man, a comparative
stranger to me, who boasted of his freedom from religious
restraint. I shrank more than ever from the abbé’s bold
and now triumphant look.

“You have not read me aright,” I said. “If I crave for
power it is the power of doing good, not of perpetuating
evil. Nothing you could say or do, would engage me in
this work. I feel ashamed of my connexion with your church
altogether. I bere renounce it altogether.”

“Here! Do you know where you are—that you are in
my power entirely—that you cannot escape me ? Margue-
rite, listen to me and don’t be a fool. You are a brave girl,
and I admire you; upon my soul, I love you as I never
loved woman. I wish to share the fortune of my life
with you. Be reasonable, and listen to what I have to
Bay.

“Ah, my God!” I exclaimed, recoiling in horror, “ you
s mockery, then, altogether, you and your religion—all,el ae ee ee Tee : a A
a ae se NE SE BURT 2 Re Spe 21 ew mee ene ogee aN ern ae

     
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 

FAMILY SECRETS. 848

“Yes, all if you will have it so, What is it that appalls
ou now? Don’t you understand that every cardinal in
tely has a mistress? Bah! why shouldn't they? |
wouldn’t change you with any one of them, But mind, I.
am not used to be thwarted, and this pretty affectation of
heroic virtue won’t pass with me. Do you know this ?”
He drew forth my grand-father’s pocket Bible, which ]
imagined to be safe in my trunk. It must have been ab-
stracted on the road. I had always congratulated myself
on having kept it safe from observation, both at the convent
and at the hétel de Lammenais; for, besides the written
names of my grand-father and all his family, including my-
self, it contained the name of my native city.
“T first saw this in the convent at Lille,’ continued the
abbé. “I abstracted from it the information I needed, and
every particular of your birth and connexions was known
before you were consigned to your relative, the Comtesse de ;
Lammenais. The Church was in need of spirits at once be
earnest and bold, and you were originally designed to assist :
in carrying on the conversions in England. You are aware
how you turned rusty upon our hands. Well, whilst dis-
comfiting others you captivated me. You must be aware
that you can maintain no reputable place in the world :
where your history is known. Being illegitimate you are A
an outcast by birth,and the crime of your grand-father :
whether he is guilty or not is no matter) makes you doub-
ly so. I lik® you all the better, Marguerite, for these disad-
vantages, which others would use for your condemnation. 3
I will teach you how to trample upon the neck of this
world, that would crush you down with its conventionalism,
meaning nothing but the caprice of petty and inglorious
power. You shall rule, Marguerite, instead of being ruled ;
I will show you in what you may become absolute.”
I had fallen low enough now. If there was anything in

 

me superior to that stigma of hi’ ‘» spite of it—if I, indeed,
possessed a soul and an inheri.: part from this earthly
identity with more of evil and d._ «lation than earth could

tolerate, this was the time to show it. From that bold, bad :
man, I felt myself driven back upon God, and I took my :

ad gah ERENT IT dee
25 pm - gee

i

  

Gare aS:
NR celaRA op ERA eh So ch oko g OE cw

Arkib

HPL ara HL LL

mcg ener

me

ERT Paine re vente eet ais
ELT SEPA Cd pee MPT eats be PERT LGU

isd ta beDEE Tdi the Sidtiedh J a. Ae bea: ie
Seer le erates i ibe es

 

ee ee

?
eee

  
 

844 FAMILY SECRETS.

stand aa confidently as if 1 had never doubted or questiones
God’s power.

“T have heard you on compulsion, ”T said, “and we are
so far upon an equally that you are compelled to hear me
I loathe, I detest, I abhor you! 1th 1rOW pas your ine
ations and your offers alike with scorn! You dare to ae
on me, judging what I am— ‘speculating on what I am not}
I am fresher from the hand of God than you are, aad I
wield a mightier power—the power of discerning what is
iniquitous, and repelling it! You have my answer, let me
pass.”

“Gently !” said the abbé, putting himself in my way.
“ You have not heard all that it is essential you should know.
In these dominions you are liable to be prosecuted for being

y
found in possession a a Ce e, That prosecution means
I
perpetual imprisont nen acai You are even oe of
an offender than this: a vide tried to aid the escape from

her vows of a novitiate in the convent at Lille, named
Clémence, by Sony ne a letter for her; and this crime
alone makes you liable to a fearful ‘a nishment. I hold the
fiat in my hands; I can denounce you u at any hour.”

“ Denounce me !” : ee “anything will be preferable
to being here and ne Te he

“Oh! can you DB so scornful, mistress?” he said, seizing
my hands, and grasping th em so that I had no power of re-
lease. “There!” he continued, flinging them from him,
“go to your room, and vewetahoe that even in physica!
power I am your supericr |”

My superior, indeed, in the latter! I rushed to my room
with a new horror upon me. I sought to lock my door,

but there was no key. Presently I heard some one come
io the door and fasten it outside, and I felt that I was s

prisoner.

Then I fell upon my knees, and preyed. I had neve:
cont templated situations in wink my ow n power would not
help me. IJ turned to God, because I could no > longer rely
pen myself, and there was the consciousness in my own
aoul that inahicd and humbled me. I thought of my grand

4 >

father ‘n hia tribulations, sustained b y his un wavering trustFAMILY SECRETS, 845

How little I had profited by the pious instructions of m my
childhood and youth !

Whilst I was thus partially drawn to God, I still had a
determined reliance upon myself. I took from one of my
boxes a parr of SHaTp -pointed scissors, and hid them in my
dress. I t hought far less of murdering that man, in an ex-
tremity, then of killing a fly, for in. this “smaller matter I had
every Inclination to be humane. It was another thing to
be human, and to battle with the outrages of earth.

I examined my window, as other priaone rs have done, but
to no purpose. I could not even break my neck out of it,
for it would not open. I could entertain no hope of escap.
ing the vigilance of which the abbé had giving me such
convincing proofs; nothing was to be expected from his
generosity or sense of justice, and everythin is to be feared
from the brute force, even more congenial t his ae
than finesse. As so much seemed to. Be hone to him, he
had probabl y seen the expediency of removing me out of
the reach of M. de Beausset. He—the kind and the noble
—where washe did he ever dream of me by day or night $
did he missme These thoughts would come epon me,
even in the midst of my terrible “distress, and though I knew
that we could never be anything to each other

I was left to such reflections as I had during many hours,
At length my door was opened, and a dark-complexioned wo-
man, of about thirty years of age, entered, bringing me some
refreshment. I was in the sort of state that urged me tc
appeal to LOS: anything bearing about it the impress of
humanity ; but there was something in the appearance of
this woman that kept me silent. J! had been a witness of
the spiritual slavery of those who are yet allowed a wide
latitude in the world; she gave me the idea of this entire
subjection, in the absence of every individual desire, or hope
or satisfaction in life. Her face was less animated than tha.

of a galvanized corpse. Her complete spiritual abjectness
and worldly indifference seemed to have locked up her fac-
ulties, so that there was nothing to appeal to; and the seal —
of an inflexibility, at once passionless ard cruel, was set upon
her thin lips. She was the living representative of a creed,
assentially dead, which commancs obedience to the literalae

. i oT
sec i-inr are ee Won mere —r fa

PAbA RPE LaL RADA bA ThA « rEsbA IST 1k cubes!

Tents <a Seda pdrtabe iguebee M sta SEs ET

ber

 

Padi pean ieaetieeenedttitgnce tetotn et - ‘ »
Me EAH EMA US eatin aT

i

trae

ih athe ae aie Us oie oad De ceed Peers
( ; ipetan 4 ; |
¢ Witee i Cais rad CUED othe 4

  
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
    
  
 
 
 
    

546 FAMILY SECRETS.
word enjoining hatred of father and mother, brother and
sister, if need be; perfect apathy and passiveness in the ex-
ecution of its decrees. ‘What I had seen already enabled
me thus to comprehend this woman, from whom I had no
hope; and driven as I was to God, I still took exceptions to
the Christianity that brought forth no better fruits.

The appearance of this woman led me to believe that I
was to remain imprisoned where I was, but I was mistaken.
At a later hour she returned, and told me in French that
M. Abbé Roullette wished to speak to me in the apartment
where I had before seen him. I went to him as calmly as
I could outwardly, with all my faculties so intensely on the
alert.

“T hope I see you in a better temper, Marguerite,” he
said, with a mingled expression of ferocity and gratified

   

“malice. “It is hard to teach you what is right, but we

must try. To-night you will have to take another journey,
therefore prepare yourself. You are going to Vienna, and
you must see that though I could detain you here if I liked,
i am able to pursue my schemes amid crowds and in open
day-light. This is al] I have to say to you; and now you
may go and prepare yourself.”

There was something particularly insolent in this sum-
mons merely to receive an imperative order that might
have been conveyed to me in another manner. With ali
his knowledge of human nature, the abbé was mistaken ‘n
supposing that he could subdue me by this means, which
only made me the more determined to resist. This prospect
of going to Vienna rejoiced me; I thought that in a crowd-
ed city I should have the chance of making my situation
Enown, and obtaining redress. For the present, therefore, £
could afford to refrain myself; I heard him in silence, ar
returned to my room. 3

It was late at night—a beautiful summer night—when
the woman of whom I have spoken, and Andrea, came to
fetch my boxes and to summon me down stairs. I found a
carriage in the court-yard of the chAteau, with two horses
and a postillion. The abbé himself helped to mount my
buxes, and in helping me into the carriage gave my hand aFAMILY SECRETS, R47

forced and odious squeeze. The woman followed me, and
the abbé seated himself outside. Then we drove off

The carriage blinds were down, and when I attempted to
raiseone of them the woman forbade meina peremptory tone,
I sank into a corner of the carriage, and continued my bit-
ter reflections. I would not yet believe that there were any
circumstances of life in which courage and resolution might
be rendered availless, and I determined to be on the watch
for any opportunity thet might occur for effecting my re-
lease. But it was yet the dead of the night, and there was
blank silence round me. When the sun rose and streamed
through the windows we were still hurrying on at a rapid
pace. At length the carriage stopped.

[lifted the blind before my companion could prevent me
and looked out. There was a wide, fertile country, and a
solitary house, at which we were changing horses. I
dashed my hand through the glass of the window and cut it,
and screamed aloud.

“Parbleu! what have we here?” said a strange man’s
voice.

“ Let her alone!” shouted the abbé; “she is a heretic,
one that has been convicted of trying to effect the escape
of anun. I am answerable for conveying her to Vienna.”

“Ah! that is another matter,” said the man, and there
was silence again. :

Silence without; but I wrestled with my companion in
the coach, and broke the window again, and called out louder,
and asked to be heard. The abbé opened the coach-door.

“You had better be quieter here,” he said “before I sub-
ject you to greater restraint. You see how obstinate this
ee is,” he continued, appealing to those outside; “I
shall be glad to get her out of my hands.”

I caught a glimpse of a comely young woman, who
seemed to be looking on with much curiosity. I called out
to her, and said that the charge against me was false.

“Holy Virgin!” she exclaimed; “what a wretch! See
how she persists in her sin |” ;

“You see you will gain nothing by this conduct,” said
my companion. “ Why don’t you be quiet?” The coach-
door was at the moment dashed to, and we drove off again.

SNS Le

wie wees!Mor fat

 

LARSALiL(panhAM sab. Fiske pis thse? tomate

aoe

astal rigid)

rasedeieta

Hehe

Caine

Mina

,
i

 

 

 

  

I sank back in the carriage, more helplessly than before.

1ad not taken into my consideration that T was in a land
. : ; ee ane rwizalt "AC } §
f bigots, who would sanction my cruelty practised upon a
Pa a J
1 (ox

y Sai a sa el
ist. the mandates of the Churca. In spite of my

4) x
; 5 sy eT
bravery, large tears filled my eyes, and rolled unheeded
v

down on eueck s. I began to think mere kindly of Eng-

land. ne I exclaimed, mentally, if I could find myself
where, at least, I could suffer no

aa
@®
ey
oO
5S
Cw
@
not
a
bom)
Oo
nek
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@
ez
&®
<=

We ae to roll on for hours. There were provi-

sions in the carriage, whicl anion asked me to par-
take of; but I turned ay loathing. I felt myself
becoming really ill, and this terrified me more. At length,

a sudden backward movement in the carria ue, as if it was

rt of a pistol, roused me.
. ao 99
lain as you are!

t Q 112 a
1ed a voice that Il kne\ il: “look te yourself, for

 

M. de Beausset

ward, and fell

ch I forgot in
ws

   
 

    
    

 

   

just wrenched the murderous weapon out-of the abbé’s

hard, and was beating him about the head and shoulders
: it. Jean, M. de I at linge v

ke postillion, Icalled tothem, but before they came M. de

  

ee x
beside him at
ound him.

peat om
2

9 ve BE
me,” said N

wes ony ¥ 7€ ey
F mn <i rl ¥e ¢ for you Ci¥ A ¥ I {, y be: 1% & a4 cH Tt at 849

“7 will not leave you in thi
his hand and bathing it with
get help {”

“That’s what I want to know,
lain!” he continued, turning to

—- ;
stand there and see a gentleman die? There’s a town only
a mile off: monsieur }

All this time Jean ws
vainly commanded hip
upon the ground stw
the woman kept her seat

“ You dare to disobey
said M. de Beausset.
suid? José, look to this—

Peau seemed paralyzed

“Come, mademoiselle,”
sigur no good. Here’s
must get into te

a For God’s sake
“Tf they get you to

your fidelity José, wh ve

C sla 8 i ping

es
Where can we

 

 

  

  
  

       
   
  

A

save her!” A sinki
fainted.
] thought he WAS

 

with. an : agonizing
tion has “been been stopped.
Beausset was dead—that he
who might not have beer all
the agonized thought of liv
him. I could have borne to
go Jeave me!

 

 

 

 

I felt’ sick unto death; |
mind, I had tasted no food sn

it was late in another ¢ felt
the carriage at length stopped dto change
appeared at the door and assured me, in answer t

AE: rATT
Ot

  

; j
inoar »
had Ti

sager inquiry, that we had niSHRPS Ae petboub thd ag Hsbh mL kis hed? a

eT RNNT sere e t

SGA Sig) pga aiset OCC nang enna

peuares ee =
sPnehariateh sant eed ig ta baithas

+e Sek sBLT Bkaea: feed bat Ta hanes
hat ry
MENURRETEIS TEE pt at

ie

oe nee tabbed
AE SHITE

 

  

850 FAMILY SECRETS.

that José remainad with him, and that there was hope of
his recovery. He told meI might rest a few minutes, and
I entered the small inn before which we were stopping and
partook of some refreshment. Then he explained to me
that he was provided with a passport, describing me
as an English lady traveling to Paris, and that I must an-
swer to this description at the frontier town which we were
approaching. Ali went on well, and we traveled day and
night. We had entered France, when one day the carriage
stopped, and Luce and one of the gipsy-men came with
Jean to the carriage-door.

“ Mademoiselle has been inquired for by a gentleman who
is stopping yonder with our people,” said Luce. “He says
she belongs to him, and he is going further to seek her.”

“T have my instructions from master about mademoiselle,”
said Jean, “and I must obey them. What is to be done %”

I questioned Luce and her companion about the appear-
ance of the gentleman, and no doubt remained in my mind
that it was Uncle Stephen. I hesitated,—not with any
thought of avoiding him, who had journeyed so far to
seek me, but I was violently agitated, and when I alighted
from the carriage [ was compelled to lean upon Luce for
support. We were op an open road, surrounded by trees,
and nothing more met my view as I looked apprehensively
round.

“Iam answerablefor mademoiselle’s safety,” said Jean.
“T don’t like the look of this: we had better drive on.”

I was asking Luce how far the encampment of her people
was olf, when ! saw her companion, whom I had not mis-
sed, emerging from the trees close beside me. He was ac-
companied by another, and—ah! how did we two meet!
I remember sobbing upon Uncle Stephen’s neck, and that he
held me with a strong grasp.

“My poor child!” he said, “ you have suffered, and you
have made us suffer. Oh, you have wrung our hearts, Mar-
garet! But that is past, and I have good news for you.”

“TI dare not ask for news,” I said, without lifting my head.

“You do not deserve to be allowed to ask for anything.”
said Uncle Stephen. “I will tell you. Aunt Betsy is with
God, and I and George attended her to the grave—not aFAMILY SECRETS. 851

pauper grave, Margaret. Your grand-father is proved to
é innocent, and he will return to England if you and I do
not rather join him where he is,”

I lifted my head now. “Oh, bless God for him!” I ex-
claimed.

“Amen! bless God for all things!” said Uncle Stephen,
lifting his hat reverently. “This is all I shall tell you now;
let me understand how yow are situated.”

We had been speaking in English, but I called Jean to
us, and in French gave an account of my rescue by M. de
Beausset. Jean corroborated what I said,in his own way,
and expressed great anxiety to return to his master.

“He must be a good master to inspire such affectionate
attachment as yours,” said Uncle Stephen; “a good man
to have performed so meritorious an action. You shall re-
turn to him, and bear him my thanks, and an assurance
that mademoiselle Margaret ‘is safe and with her friends.—
We are two miles distant from the next post town,—you
ean, perhaps, convey us thither ?”

To this Jean gladly consented. My old acquaintances,
the gipsies, had gathered round us in large numbers; and
as | turned to take leave of them, I briefly acquainted
Uncle Stephen with my obligations to José and the rest.—
He took from his purse, and gave to be distributed amongst
them, a quantity of gold and silver, whose amount quite ap-
palled me. In his joy at my restoration, Uncie Stephen
was indulging in one of the fits of extravagant generosity
which his means would not bear. When | held out my
hand to Morgotte, who amongst others had been eagerly
listening to Jean’s narrative, she indignap4ly dashed it aside.

“ You could leave him to die!” she exclaimed; “you
that have brought him to this! He wi : find, at last, that
the despised Egyptian girl loved him vest! I scorn you
for this while I rejoice !”

Morgotte’s love for M. de Beausset, like every human
passion that is genuine and fully develo sd, had a power in
it that commanded attention; if not 1 spect. This out-
burst of her feelings made me for a1 instant quail, and
look little in comparison; but I had % deal with realities

   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
   

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and wish what I might, and ee what] might, there was
only one dene in course for me te pursue.

While it was satisfying to: my own love and my gratitude
to know that I had d forgotten my danger in his, and that I
had only left him involunt tarily, I felt that our separation
was right, and necessary for the pesce of both. Love him
more than ever { did, and my anxiety about him was an
agony to me; but I pr ayed that we might never meet again,

GS

ind T believed vu t the sorrow, whose very intensity served
to sustain me, w ae eventually impart te my character the
atability and aie t that would better fit me for the battle of
ita.

When we arrived at the next town, Uncle Stephen wrote
a let te of thanks to M. de Bin usset, which he committed to

  

: B.

Jean’s charge. He also gave to the latter his address in
Lor ndon, and desired to be made acquainted with his mas-
ter’s situation ; but when he offered money, Jean respectful-
ly Acie it. He said his instructions had been to convey
me to Antwerp, to a Madame Schomberg, a cousin of M.

 

de Be 3, Who was a married lady and a Protestant, and
in w! use [ should have found a safe asylum.
We issed Jean with thanks, and did not resume ou

journey till the next day. As we sat together in the eve-

ning, Uncle Stephen entered poe into the particulars of

what had occurred during my absence. His sister was dead,
1Q

and George had gone out to Aint taking with him young
Henry Elliott.
“gd

‘George drooped very much after you first left us,” said
sle § Stephen ; “but eventually your example, or the éon-
tents of your letter, which the dog would never show me,
seemed to rouse bak to exertion. Where he is, I have full
“ Yo ra that he W ll is th ] d fi ] h
dence that he will rise in the world, and feel happier in

asked Uncle Stephen how he contrived to trace

reby hangs a tale,” he rephed. “You must wait
for a full explanation till ee arrive in London, Thus much,
however, | can tell you. When 1 was first furnished with
the knowled lige that you had proceeded to France, I made

what haste I could to Calais, where you were rememberedFAMILY SECRETS. 858

through the circumstance of having lost a purse. I was di-
rected to a mother Meulen, who gave me a vast deal of in-
formation. Through her I was enabled to trace you to
Clerons ; thence in company with the gipsies to Mouscron
and Lille; to the convent, and the hétel de Lammenais. I
proceeded instantly to Paris; but the Comtesse de Lamme-
nais declared that you had left her, and that she did not
know where you could be found. Then I made inquiries
about the country for the gang of gipsies, and met with
them yesterday night. They told me that you had been en-
trapped away, and that a certain M. de Beausset had gone
to your rescue. I had intended to follow in the wake of
this M. de Beausset, when I fortunately met with you. Here
is material for a marvellous story, and I shall expect you to
narrate it to me faithfully.”

And faithfully I did narrate it, entering into my feelings
of various kinds; my inclination to become a Roman Cath-
olic till the absurdities of that religion drove me back, be-
fore | had been quite revolted by the mockeries and the op-
pressions which it sanctions. If I touched lightly on the
attachment of M. de Beausset, Uncle Stephen did not seem
to require much enlightenment from me upon the subject.

“ Ah, I always feared George was not the right individual
for you,” he said, smiling. “Never mind, it is all ending
right. M.de Beausset is a fine, generous-hearted fellow,
who seems to act asif he had the fear of God before his
eyes. He is, too, I understand, noble in birth, and possessed
of some wealth; minor considerations, yet of importance as
the world goes. But I chiefly rejoice, Margaret (by the bye,
I ought to have scolded you first, and I am forgetting that) :
I chiefly rejoice because you have not been enthralled by the
errors of this church, to which you felt an inclination to at-
tach yourself. This has spared another, as well as myself, a
iarge amount of anguish, knowing as we do that in the
most important of all matters we have equally neglected you

rough the past.”

: aL otek might have been excited as to who this “ oth-
er’ was. I saw that a great spiritual change had been
wrought in Uncle Stephen; he had become a humble and
earnest follower of Christ, and he looked back with horrot
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FAMILY SECRETS.

upon the unbelief of his past life. It was easier to tell me
all this, than to work in myself the change I yet needed. ]
did not feel any absorbing interest in the matter ; and, both
with respect to myself and him, | was willing to let much
rest without further inquiry. The two circumstances that
alone made any great impression upon me were the proving
of my grand-father’s innocence, the particulars of which I
was yet to learn, and Uncle Stephen’s wish to go out to
Australia. Speaking as he had done of M. de Beausset,
seemed to tear open the many wounds of my heart; and I
hoped that, without any necessity for my recurring to the
subject, I should be able to turn the current of Uncle Ste-
phen’s thoughts.

I remained in possession of my own small property, Jean
having, in the midst of all the confusion, transferred my
boxes to M. de Beausset’s carriage. I thought I had aright
to keep the small sum supplied to me by the Comtesse de
Lammenais, and which had been considerably- diminished
during my journey to Lombardy. This, with what I had in
my box, seemed sufficient to defray the expenses of a pas-
sage to Australia, and to Australia all my thoughts now
turned. I still retained my horror of either renewing my
struggle for existence in England, or remaining a burden
upon Uncle Stephen. I, however, reserved what I had te
say until we arrived in England, for I did not yet feel my-
eelf safe from the machination of the priests,CHAPTER XVIIL

i quittep France at the close of the month of August,
and I had been absent from England eleven months. Uncle
Stephen traveled post from Dover, and we arrived in London
at night. My curiosity was inevitably roused by finding
myself in a private dwelling, furnished with considerable
elegance, though rather with a view to comfort than luxury,
and the seeming mistress of which was introduced to me
by the name of Mrs. Delamere. She was not more than
thirty-six years of age, mild and pleasant in her manner—
to me, even affectionate.

“ Poor child!” she said, drawing me towards her, and
kissing me,—“ how I rejoice over yon! We have had you
in our thoughts and prayers a long time.”

This address puzzled me still more, but I let it pass. I
was next introduced to Mr. Delamere,—a quiet, gentlemanly
personage,—who received me with the same unpretending
kindness. We four took a light supper together, during
which we were attended by a man-servant in plain clothes.
I remarked how reverently Uncle Stephen bowed his head
during the grace pronounced by Mr. Delamere. Shortly af-
ter supper the whole household of servants assembled to
join in prayer.

Uncle Stephen first read a portion of the Scripture. He
selected that affecting parable of the Prodigal Son, to which
my attention had first been seriously drawn by little James
Graham. My heart had Jong been in a stony state with re-
gard to any real religious impression; but there were asso-
eiations that softened it, as I listened to Uncle Stephen’s im
pressive and fervent delivery of this passage,—of itselfyt roy ragriee rey Teer vy

ites Uke bars snh Ti

EAE TIAERL a state

SIU HRAMLiRartS

art

PIAA EMME sriei Li aieaantuei

 

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waren

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ean

 

356 FAMILY SECRETS.
God’s most touching appeal to sinners such as he had been
—such as 1 was. Uncle *tcphen’s conversion seemed re-
markable, as he had held Christianity in abhorrence, as well
as contempt, through a long life. I began to feel curious
about the means by which it had been effected.

Mrs. Delamere showed me to my bed-room, the arrange-
ments of which spoke of the same opulence and good taste.
I slept heavily, not through any absence of mental pain, for,
bear up bravely as I would, and amidst all that I had to be
thankful for, there was a sense of sorrow and desolation
about me that I could not shake off. When 1 awoke in the
morning, and looked from the window, I saw that I was in an
aristocratic part of the town. I was ina mood to be rath-

-er impatient with mysteries; I could not endure repose and

uncertainty. I needed action, even to keep up my own
courage, under the bitter triai I was compelled to go through,
come what would. I was disappointed when I found that Un-
cle Stephen had gone out, merely leaving me a note, in which
he promised to acquaint me with everything in the evening.
I was received by Mr. and Mrs. Delamere with the same
quiet benignity that characterized their demeanor the pre-
vious night. When the latter and myself were left togeth-
er, she led me into a large room at the back of the house,
that reminded me at once of a draper’s shop and a ready-
made linen ware-house. A long table, looking very like a
counter, was covered with plain and new garments, of all
sorts and sizes; and partitions round the walls were filled
with flannels, prints, and calicoes.

“JT and a number of other Christian women,” said Mrs,
Delamere, “employ a portion of our time in making gar-
ments for the poor. I expect some of them immediately,
and perhaps you will not mind sitting with us until Mr.
Leath’s return.”

I could not object to this arrangement, though I had no
heart in it. I distrusted these demonstrations of philan-
thropy, that were often the effect of a whim; oftener of a
desire to appear well before the world. I was weary and
impatient, too, as I have said; and it was not in the power
of mortal to make a good Christian of me all at once, and
enamour me with this work of love, and chain me down te it,b57

the work-——to
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I merely signified my acquiescence in this arrangement,
and nothing more was said. Uncle Stephen left me to my-
self for a short time, and I heard many people enter the
house Then he returned to me, and conducted me up
stairs. The drawing-room was lighted up, and a large as-
semblage of people was collected, including Mr. and Mrs,
Delamere and servants of the house. Uncle Stephen led me
to a seat behind a chair and table, elevated near the centre
of the room. There, with his arms resting upon the table,
and his head bowed as if in prayer, knelt a man plainly
dressed, whom I supposed to be the preacher. When all
seemed to have arrived, he arose and gave out the worde
of a hymn, which he joined in singing. Then he read a
portion of the Scripture, and finally, after another brief in-
terval occupied in silent prayer, he arose and spoke. |
could only see the back of his head; but his dark hair, and
tall, manly figure, showed him to be in the prime of life. He
selected for his text the verse from Isaiah: “For a small
moment have I forsaken thee, but with great mercies will I
gather thee.” He spoke extempore; one hand placed up-
on the Bible before him, the other resting in the folds of his
coat. His rich, flexible, and powerful voice, was of itself
sufficient to arrest attention ; bnt there was evidently an utter-
ance beyond this from the spirit and the heart, that ir-
resistibly stirred the hearts and spirits of his hearers. I had
never heard anything like it before, and my face flushed and
paled by turns as he went on. There seemed to be no situa-
tion of life that he did not enter into and probe with a master-
ly hand,—down, at one moment, into the lowest depths of
man’s degradation, and apathy, and impotent rebellion; up,
the next, into the heights of God’s forbearance, and mercy,
and fatherly care. He made me feel for the first time that
I was entirely in God’s hands—helpless in myself. A stub-
born pride made me repress the tears that sprung to my
eyes, but others were weeping round me; and I at length
yielded to the impulse, and wept unrestrainedly. Uncle Ste-
phen was at my side, weeping too; and I thought of my
grand-father. I passed through the agony that all must
feel who are convicted of sin; and then a holy calm fell up-
on my spirit, I was prepared for the concluding words ofFAMILY SECRETS,

the preacher, who said, speaking of the conversion of sinners,
“This is thy work, O Lord Jesus !”

Another hymn was sung, and'the meeting broke up.
Unele Stephen led me into a room, where we wire alone.

“Oh, Uncle Stephen!” I said throwing my arms round
his neck; “I have strayed altogether from the right way.
Let us go to my grand-father; let us imitate lim, and we
shall be happy !”

Uncle Stephen returned my embrace with strong emo-
tion, “Bless God!” he exclaimed ; “our prayers have been
heard! Yes, darling, we will go to your grand-father if
you wish it, but first you have much to learn. Sit down
now, and listen to me. I was first converted by the man
you have just been listening to, who, like me, has been sin-
gularly delivered from sin and spiritual darkness by God’s
mercy. Two months back I heard that a certain personage
was busy investigating your grand-father’s case at
He made discoveries, respecting which he wrote to me, and
he inquired earnestly after you. I went to him at I
first met him in a poor man’s house, where I heard him
preach with the same power that he showed to-night ; for
this, Margaret, was the man. I was strongly prejudiced
against him—strongly fortified by my own opinions ; but
the strength of prejudice and the pride of human reason came
to nothing in his hands. He was God’s instrument to make
me docile as a child. Since then we have acted in concert.
He had learned some particulars, which we searched into,
and this was the result. The son of David Marples, a boy
twelve years old, had, out of curiosity, hid himself in the
room in which the interview betwixt his father and uncle
took place. He witnessed it from beginning to end. He
averred before the magistrates that the two never approach-
ed each other, until his father, in the very moment of an
ovtburst of passion, fell against the fender, displacing in his
fa/; the poker, which fell upon the hearth-rug. Then he
saw his uncle run to his father’s help, and made his own escape
by the side-door by which he had entered. He said he had
been ashamed of speaking of this matter, knowing that he
had done wrong; but even the conscience of the child
would not let him rest after his uncle’s condemnation. The

 

 

   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
   

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862 . FAMILY SECRETS.

ouly one earthly subject upon which I can dwell: I wish te
go to my grand-father—to ieave thie place.”

« And me, Margaret ?”

“And you. I leave you in God’s hands; I will pray for
you. Through the future we can never be indifferent to
each other if we keep the faith. Let us rejoice in this, and
in everything else keep silence.”

“You oppress me,” he said, with a disturbed look. “You
are young, and you have a future in the world, which I
would provide for. I hada hope that you would point out
to me the way of doing this.”

Here was the retribution. I was prouder than this man,
who had formerly fenced himself about with all the pride
of earth. That which appeared to him a possibility was to
me a dead blank. In this contention between us, should I
be compelled to make him aware of the fact ? I remained
silent, and he spoke on.

“T have scarcely a right to inquire, yet I should like te
learn from yourself the particulars of your sojourn in France.
Will the recital be too painful to you, Margaret ?”

I replied by narrating all that had happened to me in
France.

“T never,” said Colonel Leigh, when I had conluded,
“felt the same bold, bad confidence, in myself after your
visit. I could not put away from me the thought of your
wandering, forlorn and friendless, in a foreign land. This
restless feeling prepared me for what afterwards happened
when coming to Mr. Delamere’s prayer-meeting, merely out
of curiosity, I left the house a changed man. But this M.
de Beausset, Margaret, who should have married my cousin ;
he evidently loves me: you cannot be indifferent to him ?”

It struck me as a singularity that Colonel Leigh, himself
go recently a man of the world, should seriously dwell upon
the likelihood of M. de Beausset willingly uniting his fate
with mine when made acquainted with all the facts of my
life ; overlooking the certainty of society’s disapprobation
and his family’s disgust; overcoming his own prejudices,
and stifling his inborn sense of what was honorable; or
worse, subj xcting himself to a life of after-regret. In ouFAMILY. Stores. 868

severa. Ways we expect too much from others, and so become
finally intolerant,

He had equally overlooked myself, and it seemed odd to
have to say to him, “I am too proud to marry this M. de
Beausset.” I was compelled to say something, therefore |
acquainted him with my early determination never to mar-
ty. He rested his face upon his hands as I spoke, and re-
mained silent some minutes.

“You have had the advantage of being educated by two
honorable and upright men, Margaret,” he said, at length,
“and you have proved youself to be brave and incorrupti-
ble. Do not let this bravery overwhelm me. I have flat-
tered myself with the hope of being allowed to contribute to
your happiness in the future: do not destroy this hope. I
considered myself a poor man three months ago; but I am
rich now with my altered habits and tastes. All that I
have is yours, Margaret; and, as my acknowledged daugh-
ter, you will have a position in the world. Consider how
strong is my wish to make atonement ; how heavily it is in
your power to punish me.”

All this distressed me very much, because my own unal-
terable resolution, was the sole stay of my life. I was not
capable of being drawn from it, and the offer now made was
repugnant to me on many accounts. I could only shrink
from the idea of remaining in England, and descending to
the meanness of seeking, in chance advantages, a meagre
pretence of eligibility to the hand and affections of M. de
Beausset. If unworthy of him, as I had been, I would re-
main so, and preserve my own self-respect. I turned from
Colonel Leigh to my grand-father as decidedly as I should
have turned in that Girection from the merest stranger.—
With all my respect for the Christiah I lacked affection for
the man. I explained to him, as briefly and inoffensivel r

as possible, my conviction that I could only be happy in
the condition in which I was born and educated. If I rose,
[ must rise of myself. He was considerably depressed by
my obstinacy, and afterwards appealed to Uncle Stephen,
Fortunately, for the ending of this contention, a letter ar-
rived from my grand-father. He spoke of enjoying good
health, and of having received much kinder treatment thar

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3FAMILY SECRETS. 885
promising to proceed immediately to Vienna and inquire
into these circumstances, and explain the s ee rendured to
myself, and thank M. de Beausset personally, if possible. I
entrusted him with a letter for M. de Be ausset from myself.

Upon quitting England finally, I must ae it the justice of
expressing my belief that nowhere are he De of Christ
more fully ¢ carried out by those imbued a the genuine
spirit of Christianity. This is only a poor tribute to the
kindness I met at the hands of Mr. and Mrs. Delamore and
their friends, and which was constantly ar a actively exerted
for the destitute and unfor ‘tunate. This human sympathy
in the midst of religious toleration is the true glory of the
land. I certainly felt some affection for Colonel Leigh when
we parted—perhaps some compunction on his account; he
seemed so depressed, so forlorn. I understood from Uncle Ste
phen that the general, who gave him up as a madman, and
lady Leigh and her daughters, who considered that he was
disgr acing the family, and the dean, who protested that his
new views and habits were derogatory to the dignity of the
Church, were all estranged from him. He was made to pay
the penalty of forsaking the world and following Christ, but
he was borne up to the end.

It wanted just three weeks of my eighteenth birthday
when I and Uncle Stephen took a final leave of our friends
and England. I was not free from heart-ache during the
voyage, though I did not regret the step I had taken. I
was viole ntly, and for ever, w wrenching myself away from

one whom | loved with my Whole soul : I was leaving him
n circumstances of danger and of bodily suffering all incur-
red on my account. In the midst of this conflict, however,
1 was aware of the presence of more mental quiet than I
had known during the last three years Young as I was, |
had been sobered by experienc ce and oe my faith in
God was no longer wavering ; ¢ and I knew that, unless the
heart could brave sorrow, the spirit’s courage 16 persevere in
right was availless. If had lost, t00, the restless conscious-
ness of being impelled irresis oe y on by some power supe-
rior to my own will, toward w vhat I knew not. I could
understand and feel that, in gaining Christ, I had accom

plished the end and object of my being.

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86¢ FAMILY SEORRETS.

I shall not attempt to describe our meeting with my
grand-father, nor the effect upon him of the news we
brought, further than to say that the dear, blind old man,
was temperate in his joy, as he had been firm and uncom-
plaining under wrong and sorrow. We proceeded together
from Sydney to Melbourne, where Uncle Stephen learned from
a gentleman to whom George had been furnished with a letter
of introduction the address of the latter, near two nundrea
miles off, in the heart of Australia Felix. George had seen
my grand-father, and had written home by a ship that
passed us.

Leaving me and my grand-father very comfortably set-
tled at Melbourne, Uncie Stephen set out alone for George’s
station, intending to purchase another farm for us and him-
self. In the course of two months he and George came to
fetch us. |

_I was pleased to see the latter treat me with the frank
snd brotherly affection that I had formerly told him I should
prize, and I expected no less from him; for George was a
generous and noble-minded inan, and it was quite delightful
to see how heartily he entered into his new occupations, ag
if he had really found out the right sphere of action at last

I was struck at first sight with the improved looks of both
him and my grand-father. The climate seemed to agree
marvellously with the latter, who was growing stout. As
to young Henry Elliott, he was half wild with exuberance
of spirits. I began to feel this effect of the climate myself.
The weight upon my heart waslightened; [began iotakea more
earnest interest in what was around me, and I soon found
plenty todo. Uncle Stephen had taken a farm, on which
we found a very commodious dwelling, situated about five
miles from George’s. It was wonderful, and of itself a plea:
sureable excitement, to see how earnestly the hale and hearty
old man entered into his new pursuits; clearing his land
(for there was much wood about us,) buying, and tending,
and selling cattle, as if he had never done anything else all
his life. I was his house-keeper, and I soon became learned
in the mysteries of kangaroo steaks and cockatoo pies. I
had a dairy, which I superintended myself; and I insisted
upon having a garden, which was chiefly attended to byPAMILY SBORETG. $07

George and Henry Elliott during spare hours. Uncle Ste-
phen would often laughingly say, whilst eulogizing me as
the best house-keeper for miles around, that he might have
spared himself a deal of trouble, if he had known, years ago,
that my only really useful acquiremenis would come natu-
rally. My grand-father was delighted as a child with every-
thing, though he could see nothing ; f was restored to him,
and his old friend was brought into the fold of Christ. Oh,
we were very happy, in spite of the old turmoil, in spite of
my regrets!

At the expiration of six months from our arrival we re-
ceived a large packing-case and a letter from Colonel Leigh,
The former was filled with books, the works of select authors,
and the letter chiefly referred to an interview he had had
with M. de Beausset, who was restored to health, and free,
and happy to hear of my welfare. This was all he said of
him, and I felt a pang resembling disappointment. Had |
been hoping something more, after all? I reproved my
own folly, and roused myself, and returned to my ordinary
occupations,

Three more months elapsed, and we went on very cheeri-
ly. There was no weariness in this new life of itself. I be-
lieve we all had an idea that we were growing younger
every day,—at least, that was my impression with regard ta
myself and others. We had many neighbors within the
circuit of a few miles, friendly and intelligent people, whom
it was a pleasure to entertain and visit ; and we had fre-
quent calls from strangers, who were always welcome ; fre-
quent encounters with the natives, all amicable. Above
everything, we were free from the terror of poverty and its
consequences—that great incubus of my former life,

By contrasting my destiny with thousands who, in free
and happy England, were condemned to slavish toil for the
preservation of a miserable existence, I grew into a gradual
thankfulness for my individual lot. What a great help it
was to have everybody happy about me! There was no es-
caping the contagion. I heard of nothing but progress from
day to day, for if any failed in this prosperous country, we
were ignorant of the fact in our remote and thriving settle.

ment,ed Whihe ATs ih eaaeet Leekant php Tas

Ply wh Lisanne

HRY TSF ake Mata ee

atethe MM apecthiaMalratiitirctiau vistertaieactiere | Po ~_ —
Tem. TG PHNT Hs Ht ee os Wit Vint arte Es agtid hata BUSEY seh

[ie ea

Sobeal itis ised eae
ait, hd,

868 FAMILY “SEORETS.

T was one day walking about the garden, which, by dint
of coaxing and scolding, I had brought Uncle stephen to
attend to in earnest, when our female servant brought me a3
letter, which she said a strange gentleman, who had just ar-
rived, and who was sitting with my grand-father, had de-
livered to her. It was in the hand-writing of Colonel Leigh.
and I opened it with trepidation. I read thus much of it
at the moment :—

“ My pEAR DAvexHTER,

“This will be delivered to you by M. de Beausset ;
and for my sake, and for the sake of the devotion to your-
self that he has proved so fully, { hope-———”

The words swam before my eyes, and the letter shook in
my hands. I was not in a much better condition, when, a
‘ew minutes afterwards, M. de Beausset himself knelt at my
feet.

Well, it ia no use dwelling upon what he said, or what 1
did in consequence. At the moment that I am writing this,
a very airy young Victor de Beausset, five years old, is
ieading bis blind grand-father about the garden; a little
“mille de Beausset, who has scarcely numbered three years,
's feeding a tame cockatoo on the steps of the verandah, in
whose shade I am sitting. Nurse is not far from me, with
baby sleeping in her lap while she is knitting. Uncle Ste-
phen is seated at a table very close to mine, with a Bible be-
fore him, arranging the heads of his to-morrow’s discourse
for to-morrow is Sunday, dear reader, and Uncle Stephen is
our minister. In a large log-shed, erected especially for the
purpose by M. de Beausset, we muster a rather numerous
and very “respectable” congregation.

M. de Beausset is more of a lover than he was before our
marriage ; making up, as he says, for lost time. I expect
every moment to hear his cheery voice, and meet his bright,

joyous look; for he has been absent all day, with three of
our men, helping George, who is still a bachelor, to recover
some strayed cattle. If] had any words that would expresg
happiness of my present lot, J should write them down
BORG.

MN

So SESE ae A rR a PO SES a

   
  
   
  
   
  
  
 
    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
 

jaFAMILY

Volonel Leigh (there are no words, either, to express the
love I feel for him now) died nine months ago, leaving te
me all he was possessed of, after making some charitable
bequests. Jem, to whom he left a competence, has, from
choice, entered the service of Mr. Delamere.

If it had been possible for me to believe, that in securing
my own happiness and independence I had earned the right
of fencing myself about with earthly good, chiefly as a warn-
ing against trespass to the anfortunate and the needy; if,
without believing this, I could do it, and shut out from my
thoughts the thousands who are suffering in many lands, I
should not have written this book, the result of my haunting
dreams of the past. I owe it to God’s grace firat, and next
to my own trial, that I have been incapable of forgetting oF
ceasing to feel for the privation and oppression that are at
this moment crushing down souls and dooming bodies to a
lingering and torturing death in the old country. To that
country I would say,—Instead of teaching, as now, that

want of money, and such position as money only may give,
tncludes the want of moral rectitude, the A eahee of all that
is elevating in thought or feeling, thereby making poverty &
mighty engine for the degradation of man, and too hide-
ous to be borne :—let the truer doctrine be promulgated,
that wealth, and competence, and worldly rank, fostering as
they do a selfish indulgence and a spirit of insolent Hue
ority, tend to make men little and feeble, by giving them
false views of life: for struggle is the parent of heroisms,
and the heroic will, in the end, triumph over the indulged
and the self-conceited ; and this truth may be carried to the
extent of proving a nation’s prosperity to be ita great weak
ness instead of its power.

For the great of this world, the ostentatious, the wealthy
and 'o comfortable, are not the truly fortunate, and never
x .< whilst the power of doing good is not universally
recognized as the highest privilege of humanity; never
whilst adversity and trial continue to be God's chief means
of drawing soule to Himself. And the experience of all
time claims for them that have suffered, and through suffer-
ing cen to know themselves and understand othera, @oi Hi ii4 ipa oM Ra
Hille it

he thaet. a te Matas eres eer ae “eo
Ht tad i rrrvirrisnieente TUM Guramimattienest in tonto eee
. PT TTT AE MUERTE EEE td

Hae MSS Usp Laeseis aval tect oe

lace iach teint " on
ibe tei iba eniiey NTH NH bee agen TE Tie VT AR eater Sta EAH rae

e7¢

 

PAMILY SEORETS.

ppenony of mind and will that has won for itself a proud
place in the chronicles of earth.

In conclusion I would say, ae to the down-trodJen
of my own sex, Come to this Jand! Come from the sla-
very of whatever kind that is a disgrace to others, and a
wearing down of life with its energies to yourselves! Coine
from the contempt that makes even honest bread bitter to
the taste! Here the educated and the sensitive will not be
tried beyond endurance by the meanness and the insolence
of power; here the ignorant will not be debased by the
grovelling teachings of conventionalism. If England has
sent out to us many imbued only with a sordid spirit, of
gain, these either hurry back with their gold to the home
where it promises them most consideration, or, by their
reckless extravagance and want of intelligence and princi-
ple, give fair promise of coming to nothing where they are.
We havea nobler population, made up of earnest strugglers
for independence; men and women, who have passed
through an ordeal that has purified their dross, and pre-
pared them for an earnest pursuit of noble purposes ; plans
and views worthy of immortal creatures, whose course here
was not meant to be impeded by bans and difficulties that
drag down and confine flesh and bone, and every sinew of the
spirit, to an inadequate providing for the most sordid of all
wants. I glory in the country of my adoption; I have

reat hope for it in the future that is to come; and though

think Jess than nothing of the chance prophecy of Mor-
gotte, I believe that a noble empire will arise in this land,
whose chief power will be derived from the teachings of
men, who, by endurance and struggle, have. learned to be
just; and amongst the generations of these will be found
the descendants of Thomas Marples and-Victor de Beayaset.aera ee eT
pee eae aac es
es Saar epere ean eR eres | PONT
ee en ear harenrcaraaee
Selori a iat itean eo

Crear cared

Be

ie= ’ See ae
SSS Sinteist tress

ete
Spree Feta pew eweteee ss