GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXXV. November, 1849. No. 5.

Table of Contents

Fiction, Literature and Other Articles

Poetry, Music, and Fashion

[Transcriber’s Notes] can be found at the end of this eBook.

HAPPY AS A KING.
Engraved and Printed expressly for Graham’s Magazine by J. M. Butler.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXXV. PHILADELPHIA, NOVEMBER, 1849. No. 5.

JASPER ST. AUBYN;

OR THE COURSE OF PASSION.

———

BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT.

———

(Continued from page 213.)

Reader, the heart of man is a strange compound, a deceitful thing.

Jasper St. Aubyn did love Theresa Allan, as I have said before, with all the love which he could bestow on any thing divine or human. His passion for the possession of her charms, both personal and mental, was, as his passions ever were, inordinate. His belief in her excellence, her purity, in the stability of her principles, the impregnable strength of her virtue, could not be proved more surely than by the fact, that he had never dared an attempt to shake them. His faith in her adoration for himself was as firm-fixed as the sun in heaven. And, lastly, his conviction of the constancy of his own love toward her, of the impossibility of that love’s altering or perishing, was strong as his conviction of his own being.

But he was one of those singularly constituted beings, who will never take an easy path when he has the option of one more difficult; never follow the straight road when he can see a tortuous byway leading to the same end.

Had his father, as he pretended, desired to thwart his will, or prevent his marriage with Theresa, for that very cause he would have toiled indefatigably, till he had made her his own in the face of day. Partly swayed by a romantic and half chivalrous feeling, which loved to build up difficulties for the mere pleasure of surmounting them, partly urged on by pure willfulness and recklessness of temper, he chose evil for his good, he rushed into deceit where truth would in fact have served his purpose better. A boyish love of mystery and mischief might probably have had its share likewise in his strange conduct, and a sort of self-pride in the skill with which he managed his plot, and worked the minds of older men into submission to his own will. Lastly, to compel Theresa to this sacrifice of her sense of duty and propriety, to this abandonment of principle to passion, appeared to his perverted intellect a mighty victory, an overwhelming proof of her devotedness to his selfish will.

If there were any darker and deeper motive in his mind, it was unconfessed to himself; and, in truth, I believe, that none such then existed. If such did in after times grow up within him, it arose probably from a perception of the fatal facility which that first fraud, with its elaborate deceits had given him for working further evil.

Verily, it is wise to pray that we be not tempted. The perilous gift of present opportunity has made many an one, who had else lived innocent, die, steeped to the very lips in guilt.

Such were the actuating motives of his conduct; of hers pure love, and the woman’s dread of losing what she loved, by over-vehement resistance.

At the dead of a dark, gusty night in autumn, when the young moon was seen but at rare intervals between the masses of dense driving wrack which swept continuously across the leaden-colored firmament before the wailing west winds, when the sere leaves came drifting down from the great trees, like the ghosts of departed hopes, when the long mournful howl of some distant bandog baying the half seen moon, and the dismal hootings of the answered owls, were the only sounds abroad, the poor girl stole, like a guilty creature, from her virgin chamber, and, faltering at every ray of misty light, every dusky shadow that wavered across her way, as she threaded the long corridors, crept stealthily down the great oaken staircase, and joined her young lover in the stone hall below.

Her palfrey and his hunter stood saddled at the foot of the terrace steps, and, almost without a word exchanged between them, she found herself mounted and riding, with her right hand clasped in his burning fingers, through the green chase toward the village.

The clock was striking midnight—ill-omened hour for such a rite as that—in the tower of the parish church, as Jasper St. Aubyn sprung to the ground before the old Saxon porch, and lifting his sweet bride from the saddle, fastened the bridles of their horses to the hooks in the churchyard-wall, and entered the low-browed door which gave access to the nave.

A single dim light burned on the altar, by which the old vicar, robed in his full canonicals, awaited them, with his knavish assistant, and the two witnesses beside him.

Dully and unimpressively, at that unhallowed hour, and by that dim light, the sacred rite was performed, and the dread adjuration answered, and the awful bond undertaken, which, through all changes, and despite all chances of this mortal life makes two into one flesh, until death shall them sever.

The gloom, the melancholy, the nocturnal horror of the scene sunk deeply on Theresa’s spirit; and it was in the midst of tears and shuddering that she gave her hand and her heart to one, who, alas! was too little capable of appreciating the invaluable treasure he had that night been blessed withal. And even when the ceremony was performed, and she was his immutably and forever, as they rode home as they had come, alone, through the dim avenues and noble chase, which were now in some sort her own, there was none of that buoyancy, that high, exulting hope, that rapture of permitted love which is wont to thrill the bosoms of young and happy brides.

Nor, on the following day, was the melancholy gloom, which, despite all her young husband’s earnest and fond endeavors to cheer and compose her, still overhung her mind, in anywise removed by the tidings which reached the manor late in the afternoon.

The aged vicar, so the tale went, had been called by some unusual official duty to the parish church, long after it was dark, and in returning home had fallen among the rocks, having strayed from the path, and injured himself so severely that his life was despaired of.

So eagerly did Jasper proffer his services, and with an alacrity so contrary to his usual sluggishness, when his own interests were not at stake, did he order his horse and gallop down to the village to visit his old friend, that his father smiled, well pleased and half laughingly thanked Theresa, when the boy had gone, saying that he really believed her gentle influence was charming some of Jasper’s willfulness away, and that he trusted ere long to see him, through her precept and example, converted into a milder and more humanized mood and temper.

Something swelled in the girl’s bosom, and rose to her throat, half choking her—the hysterica passio of poor Lear—as the good old man spoke, and the big tears gushed from her eyes.

It was by the mightiest effort only that she kept down the almost overmastering impulse which prompted her to cast herself down at the old man’s feet, and confess to him what she had done, and so implore his pardon and his blessing.

Had she done so, most happy it had been for her unhappy self; more happy yet for one more miserable yet, that should be!

Had she done so, she had crowned the old man’s last days with a halo of happiness that had lighted him down the steps to the dusky grave rejoicing—she had secured to herself, and to him whom she had taken for better or for worse, innocence and security and self-respect and virtue, which are happiness!

She did it not; and she repented not then—for when she told Jasper how nearly she had confessed all, his brow grew as dark as night, and he put her from him, exclaiming with an oath, that had she done so, he had never loved her more; but did she not repent thereafter?

It was late when Jasper returned, and he was, to all outward observers, sad and thoughtful; but Theresa could read something in his countenance, which told her that he had derived some secret satisfaction from his visit.

In a word, the danger, apprehension of which had so prompted Jasper’s charity, and quickened his zeal in well-doing—the danger, that the old clergyman should divulge in extremis the duty which had led him to the church at an hour so untimely, was at an end forever. He was dead, and had never spoken since the accident, which had proved fatal to his decrepit frame and broken constitution.

Moreover, to make all secure, he had seen the rascal sexton, and secured him forever, by promising him an annuity so long as the secret should be kept; while craftier and older in iniquity than he, and suspecting—might it not be foreseeing—deeper iniquity to follow, the villain, who now alone, with the suborned witnesses, knew what had passed, stole into the chancel, and cut out from the parish register the leaf which contained the record of that unhappy marriage.

It is marvellous how at times all things appear to work prosperously for the success of guilt, the destruction of innocence; but, of a truth, the end of these things is not here.

It so fell out that the record of Theresa Allan’s union with Jasper St. Aubyn was the first entry on a fresh leaf of the register. One skillful cut of a sharp knife removed that leaf, so as to defy the closest scrutiny; had one other name been inscribed thereon, before hers, she had been saved.

Alas! for Theresa!

But to do Jasper justice, he knew not of this villainy; nor, had he known, would he then have sanctioned it. He only wished to secure himself against momentary discovery.

The ill consequences of this folly, this mysterious and unmeaning craft, had now in some degree recoiled upon himself. And delighting, as he really did, in the closest intercourse with his sweet young bride, he chafed and fumed at finding that the necessity of keeping up the concealment, which he had so needlessly insisted on, precluded him from the possibility of enjoying his new possession, as he would, entirely and at all hours.

He would have given almost his right hand now to be able to declare openly that she was his own. But, for once in his life, he dared not! He could not bring himself to confess to his kind father the cruel breach of confidence, the foul and causeless deceit of which he had been guilty; and he began almost to look forward to the death of that excellent and idolizing parent, as the only event that could allow him to call his wife his own.

It was not long before his wish—if that can be called a wish, which he dared not confess to his own guilty heart, was accomplished.

The first snows had not fallen yet, when the old cavalier fell ill, and declined so rapidly that before the old year was dead he was gathered to his fathers. As he had lived, so he died, a just, upright, kindly, honorable man. At peace with all men, and in faith with his God.

His last words were entreaty to his son to take Theresa Allen to his wife, and to live with her unambitiously, unostentatiously, as he had lived himself, and was about to die, at Widecomb. And even then, though he promised to obey his father’s bidding, the boy’s heart was not softened, nor was his conscience touched by any sense of the wrong he had done. He promised, and as the good man’s dying eye kindled with pleasure, he smiled on him with an honest seeming smile, received his parting kiss, and closed his eyes, and stood beside the dead, unrelenting, unrepentant.

He was the Lord of Widecomb; and so soon as the corpse by which he stood should be composed in the quiet grave, the world should know him, too, as the Lord of Theresa Allan.

And so he swore to her, when he stole that night, as he had done nightly since their marriage, to her chamber, after every light was extinguished, and, as he believed, every eye closed in sleep; and she, fond soul! believed him, and clasped him to her heart, and sunk into sleep, with her head pillowed on his breast, happier than she had been since she had once—for the first, last time—deviated from the paths of truth.

But he who has once taken up deceit as his guide, knows not when he can quit it. He may, indeed, say to himself “thus far will I go, and no further,” but when he shall have once attained the proposed limit, and shall set himself to work to recover that straight path from which he has once deviated, fortunate will he be, indeed, if he find not a thousand obstacles, which it shall tax his utmost energy, his utmost ingenuity to surmount, if he have not to cry out in despair⁠—

Oh, what a tangled web we weave,

When first we practice to deceive.

Jasper St. Aubyn did honestly intend to do, the next day, what he that night promised; nor did he doubt that he could do it, and so do it, as to save her scatheless, of whom he had not yet grown weary.

But, alas! of so delicate a texture is a woman’s reputation, that the slightest doubt, the smallest shade once cast upon it, though false as hell itself, it shall require more than an angel’s tears to wash away the slain. All cautiously as Jasper had contrived his visits to the chamber of his wife, all guarded as had been his intercourse with her, although he had never dreamed that a suspicion had been awakened in a single mind of the existence of such an intercourse, he had not stolen thither once, nor returned once to his own solitary couch, but keen, curious, prying eyes had followed him.

There was not a maid-servant in the house but knew Miss Theresa’s shame, as all believed it to be; but tittered and triumphed over it in her sleeves, as an excuse, or at least a palliation of her own peccadilloes; but told it, in confidence, to her own lover, Tom, the groom, or Dick, the falconer, until it was the common gossip of the kitchen and the butlery, how the fair and innocent Theresa was Master Jasper’s mistress.

But they nothing dreamed of this; and both fell asleep that night, full of innocent hopes on the one hand, and good determinations—alas! never to be realized, on the other.

The morrow came, and Sir Miles St. Aubyn was consigned to the vault where slept his fathers of so many generations. Among the loud and sincere lamentations of his grateful tenantry and dependents, the silent, heartfelt tears of Theresa, and the pale but constrained sorrow of his son, he was committed earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, to his long last home, by the son of the aged vicar, who had already been inducted to the living, which his father had held so many years before him.

The mournful ceremonial ended, Jasper was musing alone in the old library, considering with himself how he might best arrange the revelation, which he proposed to make that very evening to his household of his hitherto concealed marriage with Theresa, when suddenly a servant entered, and informed him that Peter Verity, the sexton, would be glad to speak six words with his honor, if it would not be too much trouble.

“By no means,” replied Jasper, eagerly, for he foresaw, as he thought, through this man a ready mode of extricating himself from the embarrassment of the disclosure, “admit him instantly.”

The fellow entered; a low, miserable, sneaking scoundrel, even from his appearance; and Jasper felt as if he almost loathed himself that he had ever had to do with so degraded a specimen of mortality. He had need of him, however, and was compelled, therefore, much against his will, to greet him, and speak to him fairly.

“Ha, Verity,” he said, “I am glad you have come, I should have sent for you in the morning, if you had not come up to-night. You have managed that affair for me right well; and I shall not forget it, I assure you. Here are ten guineas for you, as an earnest now, and I shall continue your annuity, though there will be no need for concealment any longer. Still I shall want your assistance, and will pay you for it liberally.”

“I thank your honor, kindly,” answered the fellow, pocketing the gold. “But with regard to the annuity, seeing as how what I’ve done for your honor is a pretty dangerous job, and one as I fancy might touch my life.”

“Touch your life! why what the devil does the fellow mean!” Jasper interrupted him, starting to his feet, “I never asked you—never asked any man—to do aught that should affect his life.”

“You never did ask me, right out in words, that is a fact, your honor. You was too deep for that, I’m a thinking! But, lord bless ye, I understood ye, for all, as well as if you had asked me. And so, be sure, I went and did it straight. I’d ha’ done any thing to serve your honor—that I would—and I will again, that’s more.”

“In God’s name, what have you done, then?” exclaimed Jasper, utterly bewildered.

“Why, seeing as your honor didn’t wish to have your marriage with Miss Theresa known, and as there wasn’t no way else of hiding it, when the old parson was dead and gone, and a new one coming, I went and cut the record of it out of the church-register, and I’ve got it here, safe enough. So if your honor fancies any time to get tired like of Miss, why you can e’en take another wife, and no one the wiser. There’s not a soul knows aught about it but me, and black Jem Alderly; and we’ll never say a word about it, not we. Nor it wouldn’t matter if we did, for that, when once you’ve got this here paper. And so I was thinking, if your honor would just give me five hundred guineas down, I’d hand it over, and you could just put it in the fire, if you choosed, and no one the wiser.”

Jasper cast his eyes up to heaven in despair, and wrung his hands bitterly.

“Great God!” he said, “I would give five thousand if you could undo this that you have done. I will give you five thousand if you will replace the leaf where it was, undiscovered.”

“It ain’t possible,” replied the man. “The new vicar he has looked over all the register, and made a copy of it; and he keeps it locked up, too, under his own key, so that, for my life, I could not get it, if I would. And I’d be found out, sure as God—and it’s hanging by the law! nothing less. But what does it signify, if I may be so bold, your honor?”

“When my poor father died, all cause of concealment was at an end; and I wished this very day to acknowledge my marriage with Mrs. St. Aubyn.”

The man uttered a low expressive whistle, as who should say, “Here is a change, with a vengeance!” But he dared not express what he thought, and answered humbly,

“Well, your honor, I don’t see how this alters it. You have nothing to do but to acknowledge madam as your wife, and there’s no one will think of asking when you were married, nor hasn’t no right to do so neither. And if they should, you can say the Doctor married you in his own parlor, and I can swear to that, your honor; if you want me, any time; and so’ll Jem Alderly; and this writing, that I’ll give you, will prove it any time, for it’s in the Doctor’s own hand-writing, and signed by the witnesses. So just you give me the five hundred, and I’ll give you the register; and you can do as you will with it, your honor. But if I was your honor, and you was Peter Verity, I’d just tell the servants, as Madam was my wife, and interduce her as Mistress St. Aubyn like; but I’d not say when nor where, nor nothing about it; and I’d just keep this here paper snug; as I could perduce it, if I wanted, or make away with it, if I wanted; it’s good to have two strings to your bow always.”

Jasper had listened to him in silence, with his eyes buried in his hands, while he was speaking, and as he ceased he made no reply; but remained motionless for several minutes.

Then he raised his head, and answered in an altered and broken voice.

“It cannot be helped now, but I would give very much it had been otherwise.” He opened a drawer, as he spoke, in the escritoir which stood before him, and took out of it a small box bound with brass and secured by a massive lock, the key of which was attached to a chain about his neck. It was filled with rouleux of gold, from which he counted out the sum specified, and pushed the gold across the table to the man, saying, “Count it, and see that it is right, and give me the paper.”

Then satisfying himself that it was the very register in question, he folded it carefully, and put it away in the box whence he had withdrawn the gold; while the villain, who had tempted him stowed away the price of his rascality in a leathern bag which he had brought with him for the purpose, well assured that his claim would not be denied.

That done, he stood erect and unblushing, and awaited the further orders of the young Lord of Widecomb.

“Now, Peter,” said he, collecting himself, “mark me. You are now in my power! and, if I ever hear that you have spoken a word without my permission, or if you fail to speak when I command you—I will hang you.”

And he spoke with a devilish energy, that showed how seriously he was in earnest. “Do you understand that, Master Peter Verity?”

“I do, your honor,” answered the man, with a doubtful and somewhat gloomy smile; “but there is no need of such threats with me; it is alike my interest and my wish to serve you, as I have done already.”

“And it is my interest and my wish that you should serve me, as differently as possible from the way in which you have served me; or served yourself, rather, I should say, sirrah.”

“I beg your honor’s pardon, if I have done wrong. I meant to do good service.”

“Tush, sirrah! tush! If I be young, I am neither quite a child, nor absolutely a fool. You meant to get me into your power, and you have got yourself into mine. Now listen to me, I know you for a very shrewd rascal, Peter Verity, and for one who knows right well what to say, and what not to say. Now, as I told you, I am about this very evening to make known my marriage with the lady whom you saw me wed. You will be asked, doubtless, a thousand questions on the subject by all sorts of persons. Now, mark me, you will answer so as to let all who ask understand that I am married, and that you have known all about it from the first; but you will do this in such a manner that no one shall be able to assert that you have asserted any thing; and further, that, if need should be hereafter, you may be able to deny point blank your having said aught, or known aught on the subject. I hope you will remember what I am desiring you to do correctly, Peter Verity; for, of a truth, if you make the slightest blunder, I shall carry this document, which you have stolen from the church-register, to the nearest justice of the peace, and make my deposition against you.”

“I understand perfectly, your honor, and will do your bidding correctly,” said the fellow, not a little embarrassed at finding how much his position had altered, since he entered the library, as he thought, well nigh the young heir’s master.

“So you shall do well,” replied Jasper. “Now get you gone. Let them give you some ale in the buttery, but when I send word to have the people collected in the great hall, make yourself scarce. It is not desirable that you should be there when I address them;” and lighting a hand-lamp as he ceased speaking, for it had grown dark already during the conversation, he turned his back on the discomfited sexton, and went up by a private staircase to what was called the ladies’ withdrawing room, an apartment which, having been shut up since the death of his own mother, had been reopened on Theresa’s joining the family.

“The sexton of the church has been with you, Jasper,” she said, eagerly, as her husband entered the room; “what should have brought him hither?”

“He was here, you know, dearest, at the sad ceremonial; and I had desired him to bring up a copy of the record of our marriage. He wished to deliver it to me in person.”

“How good of you, dear Jasper, and how thoughtful,” she replied, casting her fair white arms about his neck, and kissing his forehead tenderly, “that you may show it to the people, and prove to them that I am indeed your wife.”

“Show it to the people! Prove that you are my wife!” he answered impetuously, and with indignation in his every tone. “I should like to see the person ask me to show it, or doubt that you are my wife. No, indeed, dear Theresa, your very thought shows how young you are, and ignorant of the world. To do what you suggest, would but create the doubt, not destroy it. No, when they have done supper, I shall cause the whole household to be collected in the great stone hall; and when they are there, I shall merely lead you in upon my arm, tell them we have been married in private these three months past, and desire them to respect you as my dear wife, and their honored mistress. That, and your being introduced to all friends and visiters as Mistress St. Aubyn, is all that can be needed; and, in cases such as ours, believe me, the less eclat given to the circumstances, the better it will be for all parties. And do not you, I pray you, dearest, suffer the servant girls to ask you any questions on the subject, or answer them if they do. But inform me of it forthwith.”

“They would not dream of doing so, Jasper,” she replied, gently. “And you are quite right, I am certain, and I will do all that you wish. Oh! I am so happy! so immeasurably happy, Jasper, even when I should be mournful at your good father’s death, who was so kind to me; but I cannot—I cannot—this joy completely overwhelms me. I am too, too happy.”

“Wherefore, so wondrous happy all on a sudden, sweet one?” asked the boy, with a playful smile, laying his hand, as he spoke, affectionately on her soft, rounded shoulder.

“That I need fear no longer to let the whole world know how dearly, how devotedly I love my husband.”

And she raised her beautiful blue eyes to his, running over with tears of tenderness and joy; and her sweet lips half apart, so perfumed and so rosy, and radiant with so bright a smile, as might have tempted the sternest anchorite to bend over her as Jasper did, and press them with a long kiss of pure affection.

“Now I will leave you, dearest,” he said, kindly, “for a little space, while I see that things are arranged for this great ceremonial. I will warn old Geoffry first of what I am about to say to them, that they may not overwhelm us by their wonder at the telling; and do you, when you hear the great bell ring to assemble them, put on your prettiest smile, and your most courageous look, for then I shall be on my way to fetch you.”

It was with a beating heart, and an almost sickening sense of anxiety, that poor Theresa awaited the moment which was to install her in the house of her husband as its lawful lady. She felt the awkwardness, the difficulty of her situation, although she was far indeed from suspecting all the causes which in reality existed to justify her embarrassment and timidity.

She had not long, however, to indulge in such fancies, and perhaps it was well that she had not; for her timidity seemed to grow on her apace, and she began to think that courage would fail her to undergo the ordeal of eyes to which she should be exposed.

But at this moment, when she was giving way to her bashfulness, when her terrors were gaining complete empire over her, the great bell began to ring. Slow and measured the first six or seven clanging strokes fell upon her, resembling more the minute-tolling of a death-bell, than the gay peal that gives note of festive tidings and rejoicing. But almost as soon as this thought occurred to her, it seemed that the ringer, whoever he was, had conceived the same idea, for the cadence of the bell-ringing was changed suddenly, and a quick, merry chime succeeded to the first solemn clangor.

At the same instant the door of the withdrawing-room was thrown open, and her young husband entered hastily, and catching her in his arms, kissed her lips affectionately. “Come, dearest girl,” he said, as he drew her arm through his own, “come, it will be all over in five minutes, and then every thing will go on as usual.”

And without waiting a reply, he led her down the great staircase into the stone hall, wherein all the servants of the household, and many of the tenantry and neighboring yeomen, who had not yet dispersed after the funeral, were assembled in a surprised and admiring although silent crowd.

The old steward, to whom Jasper had communicated his purpose, had already informed them of the object of their convocation, and great was their wonder, though as yet they had little time to comment on it, or communicate their thoughts and suspicions of the news.

And now they were all collected, quiet, indeed, and respectful—for such was the habit of the times—but all eagerness to hear what the young master had to say, and, to speak truly, little impressed by the informality of the affair, and little pleased that one whom they regarded as little higher than themselves, should be elevated to a rank and position so commanding.

Gathering even more than his wonted share of dignity from the solemnity of the moment, and bearing himself even more haughtily than his wont, from a sort of an inward consciousness that he was in some sort descending from his proper sphere, and lowering his wife by doing that which was yet necessary to establish her fair fame, the young man came down the broad oaken steps, with a slow, proud, firm step, his athletic though slender frame seeming to expand with the elevation of his excited feelings. He carried his fine head, with the brows a little bent, and his eyes, glancing like stars of fire, as they ran over every countenance that met his gaze, seeking, as it seemed, to find an expression which should challenge his will or underrate his choice.

She clung to his arm, not timidly, although it was evident that she felt the need of his protection, and, although there was an air of bashfulness and a slight tremor visible in her bearing, they were mixed with a sort of gentle pride, the pride of conscious rectitude and purity, and she did not cast down her beautiful blue eyes, nor avoid the glances which were cast on her from all sides, by some desiring to read her secret, by some wishing to prejudge her character, but looked around her tranquilly with a sweet lady-like self-possession, that won many hearts to her cause, which, before her coming, had been prepared to think of her unkindly.

Finding no eye in the circle that met his own with an inquisitive, much less an insolent glance, Jasper St. Aubyn paused, and addressed his people with a subdued and almost melancholy smile, although his voice was clear and sonorous.

“This is a sad occasion,” he said, “on which it first falls to my lot, my people, to address you here, as the master of a few, the landlord of many, and, as I hope to prove myself, the friend of all. To fill the place of him, who has gone from us, and whom you all knew so well, and had so much cause to love, I never can aspire; but it is my earnest hope and desire to live and die among you as he did; and if I fail to gain and hold fast your affections, as he did, it shall not be for want of endeavoring to deserve them. But my object in calling you together, my friends, this evening, was not merely to say this to you, or to promise you my friendship and protection, but rather to do a duty, which must not be deferred any longer, for my own sake, and for that of one far dearer than myself.” Here he paused, and pressing the little white hand which reposed on his arm so gently, smiled in the face of his young wife, as he moved her a little forward into the centre of the circle. “I mean, to present to you all, Mistress St. Aubyn, my beloved wife, and your honored mistress! Some of you have been aware of this for some time already; but to most of you it is doubtless a surprise. Be it so. Family reasons required that our marriage should be kept secret for a while, those reasons are now at an end, and I am as proud to acknowledge this dear lady as my wife, and to claim all your homage and affection for her, both on my account, and on account of her own virtues, as I doubt not you will be proud and happy to have so excellent and beautiful a lady to whom to look up as your mistress.”

He ceased, and three full rounds of cheering responded to his manly speech. The circle broke up, and crowded around the young pair, and many of the elder tenants, white-headed men and women, came up and craved permission to shake hands with the beautiful young lady, and blessed her with tears in their eyes, and wished her long life and happiness here and hereafter.

But among the servants of the household, there was not by any means the same feeling manifested. The old steward, indeed, who had grown up a contemporary of Jasper’s father, and the scarcely less aged housekeeper, did, indeed, show some feeling, and were probably sincere as they offered their greetings, and promised their humble services. But among the maid servants there passed many a meaning wink, and half light, half sneering titter; and two or three of the younger men nudged one another with their elbows, and interchanged thoughts with what they considered a vastly knowing grin. No remarks were made, however, nor did any intimation of doubt or distrust reach the eyes or ears of the young couple—all appeared to be truthful mirth and honest congratulation.

Then having ordered supper to be prepared for all present, and liquor to be served out, both ale and wine, of a better quality than usual, that the company might drink the health of their young mistress, well pleased that the embarrassing scene was at an end, Jasper led Theresa up to her own room, palpitating with the excitement of the scene, and agitated even by the excess of her own happiness.

But as the crowd was passing out of the hall into the dark passages which led to the buttery and kitchen, one of the girls of the house, a finely-shaped, buxom, red-lipped, hazel-eyed lass, with a very roguish if not sensual expression, hung back behind the other maids, till she was joined by the under falconer, a strapping fellow in a green jerkin with buckskin belt and leggins.

“Ha! Bess, is that you?” he said, passing his arm round her waist, “thou’rt a good lass, to tarry for me.”

And drawing her, nothing reluctant, aside from the crowd into a dark corner, he kissed her a dozen times in succession, a proceeding which she did not appear by any means to resent, the “ha’ done nows!” to the contrary notwithstanding, which she seemed to consider it necessary to deliver, and which her lover, probably correctly, understood as meaning, “pray go on, if you please.”

This pleasant interlude completed, “Well, Bess,” said the swain, “and what thinkst thou of the new mistress—of the young master’s wife? She’s a rare bit now, hant she?”

“Lor, Jem!” returned the girl, laughing, “she hant no more his wife than I be yourn, I tell you.”

“Why, what be she then, Bess?” said the fellow, gaping in stupid wonderment, “thou didst hear what Master Jasper said.”

“Why she be his sweetheart. Just what we be, Jem,” said the unblushing girl—“what the quality folks calls his ‘miss.’ Why, Jem, he’s slept in her room every night since she came here. He’s only said this here, about her being his wife, to save her character.”

“No blame to him for that, Bess, if it be so. But if you’re wise, lass, you’ll keep this to yourself. She’s a beauty, anyways; and I don’t fault him, if she be his wife, or his ‘miss,’ either, for that matter.”

“Lor!” replied the girl. “I shan’t go to say nothing, I’m sure. I’ve got a good place, and I mean to keep it too. It’s naught to me how they amuse themselves, so they don’t meddle with my sweet-hearting. But do you think her so pretty, Jem? She’s a poor slight little slip of a thing, seems to me.”

“She beant such an armful as thou, Bess, that’s a fact,” answered the fellow, making a dash at her, which she avoided, and took to her heels, looking back, however, over her shoulders, and beckoning him to follow.

Such were not the only comments of the kind which passed that evening; and although, fortunately for Jasper’s and Theresa’s peace of mind, they never dreamed of what was going on below, it was in fact generally understood among the younger men and women, both of those within and without the house, that Jasper’s declaration was a mere stratagem, resorted to in order to procure more respect and consideration for his concubine; and, although she was every where treated and addressed as St. Aubyn’s wife, every succeeding day and hour she was more generally regarded as his victim, and his mistress.

Such is the consequence of a single lapse from rectitude and truth.

Alas for Theresa! her doom, though she knew it not, was but too surely sealed forever.

Had it not been for the exceeding gentleness and humility of the unhappy girl, it is probable that she would have been very shortly made acquainted, one way or other, with the opinion which was entertained concerning her, in her own house, and in the neighborhood. But the winning affability of her manners, the total absence of all arrogance or self elevation in her demeanor toward her inferiors in station, her respect every where manifested to old age and virtue, her kindness to the poor and the sick, her considerate good-nature to her servants, and above all her liberal and unostentatious charities, rendered it impossible that any could be so cruel as to offer her rudeness or indignity, on what was at most mere suspicion. Added to this, the fierce impetuosity of Jasper, when crossed by any thing, or opposed in his will, and the certainty that he would stop at nothing to avenge any affront aimed at Theresa, so long as he chose to style her his wife, deterred not only the household and village gossips, but even that more odious class, the hypocritical, puritanic, self-constituted judges of society, and punishers of what they choose to deem immorality, from following out the bent of their mischievous or malicious tempers.

In the meantime, month after month had passed away. Winter had melted into the promises of spring; and the gay flowers of summer had ripened into the fruits of luxuriant autumn. A full year had run its magic round since Theresa gave herself up to Jasper, for better for worse, till death should them part.

The slender, joyous maiden had expanded into the full-blown, thoughtful, lovely woman, who was now watching at the oriel window, alone, at sunset for the return of her young husband.

Alone, ay, alone! For no child had been born to bless their union, and to draw yet closer the indissoluble bonds which man may not put asunder. Alone, ay, alone! as all her days were now spent, and some, alas! of her nights also. For the first months of her wedded life, when the pain of concealment had been once removed, Theresa was the happiest of the happy. The love, the passion, the affection of her boy bridegroom seemed to increase daily. To sit by her side, during the snowy days of winter, to listen to her lute struck by the master hand of the untaught improvisatrice, to sing with her the grand old ballads which she loved, to muse with her over the tomes of romance, the natural vein of which was not then extinguished in the English heart, to cull the gems of the rare dramatists and mighty bards of the era, which was then but expiring; and, when the early days of spring-time gave token of their coming, in the swelling flower-bud and bursting leaf, to wander with her through the park, through the chase, to ride with her over the heathery moorland hills, and explore the wild recesses of the forest, to have her near him in his field-sports, to show her how he struck the silvery salmon, or roused the otter from his sedgy lair—these seemed to be the only joys the boy coveted—her company his chiefest pleasure, the undisturbed possession of her charms his crowning bliss.

But passion is proverbially short-lived; and the most so with those who, like Jasper, have no solidity of character, no stability of feeling, no fixed principles, whereon to fall back for support. One of the great defects of Jasper’s nature was a total lack of reverence for any thing divine or human—he had loved many things, he never had respected one. Accustomed from his earliest boyhood to see every thing yield to his will, to measure the value of every thing by the present pleasure it afforded him; he expected to receive all things, yet to give nothing. He was in fact a very pattern of pure selfishness, though no one would have been so much amazed as he had he heard himself so named.

Time passed, and he grew weary, even of the very excess of his happiness—even of the amiability, the sweetness, the ever-yielding gentleness of his Theresa. That she should so long have charmed one so rash and reckless was the real wonder, not that she should now have lost the power of charming him.

Nevertheless so it was; the mind of Jasper was not so constituted as to rest very long content with any thing, least of all with tranquillity⁠—

For quiet to hot bosoms is a hell!

and his, surely, was of the hottest. He began as of old to long for excitement; and even the pleasures of the chase, to which he was still devoted, began to prove insufficient to gratify his wild and eager spirit. Day after day, Theresa saw less of him, and ere long knew not how or where many of his days were spent. Confidence, in the true sense of the word, there never had been between them; respect or esteem, founded upon her real virtues and rare excellences, he had never felt—therefore, when the heat and fierceness of passion died out, as it were, by the consumption of its own fuel, when her personal charms palled on him by possession, when her intellectual endowments wearied him, because they were in truth far beyond the range of his comprehension, and therefore out of the pale of his sympathies, he had nothing left whereon to build affection—thus passion once dead in his heart, all was gone at once which had bound him to Theresa.

He neglected her, he left her alone—alone, without a companion, a friend, in the wide world. Still she complained not, wept not, above all, upbraided not. She sought to occupy herself, to amuse her solitude with her books, her music, her wild flights into the world of fancy. And when he did come home from his fierce, frantic gallops across the country with the worst and wildest of the young yeomanry, from his disgraceful orgies with the half gentry of the nearest market-town, she received him ever with kindness, gentleness and love.

She never let him know that she wept in silence; never allowed him to see that she noticed his altered manner; but smiled on him, and sang to him, and fondled him, as if he had been to her—and was he not so?—all that she had on earth. And he, such is the spirit of the selfish and the reckless of our sex, almost began to hate her, for the very meekness and affection with which she submitted to his unkindness.

He felt that her unchanged, unreproaching love was the keenest reproach to his altered manner, to his neglectful coldness. He felt that he could better have endured the bitterest blame, the most agonized remonstrance, the tears of the veriest Niobe, than meet the ever welcoming smile of those rosy lips, the ever loving glance of those soft blue eyes.

Perhaps had she possessed more of what such men as he call spirit, had the vein of her genius led to outbursts of vehement, unfeminine, Italian passion, the flashing eye, the curling lip, the face pallid with rage, the tongue fluent with the torrent eloquence of indignation, he might have found in them something to rouse his dormant passions from the lethargy which had overcome them, something to stimulate and excite him into renewed desire.

But as well might you expect from the lily of the valley the blushes and the thorns of the rose, from the turtle-dove the fury and the flight of the jer-falcon, as aught from Theresa St. Aubyn, but the patience, the purity, the quiet, and the love of a white-minded, virtuous woman.

But she was wretched—most wretched—because hopeless. She had prayed for a child, with all the yearning eagerness of disappointed craving womanhood—a child that should smile in her face, and love her for herself, being of herself, and her own—a child that should perhaps win back to her the lost affections of her lord. But in vain.

And still she loved him, nay, adored him, as of old. Never did she see his stately form, sitting his horse with habitual grace, approaching listlessly and slowly the home which no longer had a single attraction to his jaded and exhausted heart, but her whole frame was shaken by a sharp nervous tremor, but a mist overspread her swimming eyes, but dull ringing filled her ears, her heart throbbed and palpitated, until she thought it would burst forth from her bosom.

She ever hoped that the cold spell might pass from him, ever believed, ever trusted, that the time would come when he would again love her as of old, again seek her society, and take pleasure in her conversation; again let her nestle in his bosom, and look up into his answering eyes, by the quiet fireside in winter evenings. Alas! she still dreamed of these things—even although her reason told her that they were hopeless—even after he had again changed his mood from sullen coldness to harsh, irritable anger, to vehement, impetuous, fiery wrath, causeless as the wolf’s against the lamb, and therefore the more deadly and unsparing.

Politics had run high in the land of late, and every where parties were forming. Since the battle of Sedgemoor, and the merciless cruelty with which the royal judges had crushed out the life of that abortive insurrection, and drowned its ashes in floods of innocent gore, the rage of factions had waxed wilder in the country than they had done since the reign of the first Charles, the second English king of that unhappy race, the last of whom now filled the painful seat of royalty.

Yet all was hushed as yet and quiet, as the calm which precedes the bursting of a thunder-cloud. Secluded as Widecomb Manor was, and far divided from the seats of the other gentry of Devonshire by tracts of moor and forest, and little intercourse as Jasper had held hitherto with his equals in rank and birth—limited as that intercourse had been to a few visits of form, and a few annual banquets—the stir of the political world reached even the remote House in the Woods.

The mad whirl of politics was precisely the thing to captivate a mind such as Jasper’s; and the instant the subject was broached to him, by some of the more leading youths of the county, he plunged headlong into its deepest vortices, and was soon steeped to the lips in conspiracy.

Events rendered it necessary that he should visit the metropolis, and twice during the autumn he had already visited it—alone. And twice he had returned to his beautiful young wife, who hailed his coming as a heathen priestess would have greeted the advent of her god, more alienated, colder, and more causeless than before.

Since he had last returned, the coldness was converted into cruelty, active, malicious, fiendish cruelty. Hard words, incessant taunts, curses—nay, blows! Yet still, faithful to the end and fond, she still loved him. Still would have laid down the dregs of the life which had been so happy till she knew him, and which he had made so wretched, to win one of his old fond smiles, one of his once caressing tones, one of his heartfelt kisses.

Alas! alas! Theresa! Too late, it was all too late!

He had learned, for the first time, in London, the value of his rank, his wealth, his position. He had been flattered by men of lordly birth, fêted and fondled by the fairest and noblest ladies of the land. He had learned to be ambitious—he had begun to thirst for social eminence, for political ascendency, for place, power, dominion. His talents had created a favorable impression in high quarters—his enthusiasm and daring rashness had made an effect—he was already a marked man among the conspirators, who were aiming to pull down the sovereignty of the Stuarts. Hints had been even thrown out to him, of the possibility of allying himself to interests the most important, through the beautiful and gorgeous daughter of one of the oldest of the peers of England. The hint had been thrown out, moreover, by a young gentleman of his own county—by one who had seen Theresa. And when he started and expressed his wonder, and alluded tremulously to his wife, he had been answered by a smile of intelligence, coupled with an assurance that every one understood all about Theresa Allan; and that surely he would not be such a fool as to sacrifice such prospects for a little village paramour. “The story of the concealed wedding took in nobody, my lad,” the speaker added, “except those, like myself, who chose to believe any thing you chose to assert. Think of it, mon cher; and, believe me, that liaison will be no hindrance.”

And Jasper had thought of it. The thought had never been, for one moment, absent from his mind, sleeping or waking, since it first found admission to the busy chambers of his brain. From that unfortunate day, his life had been but one series of plots and schemes, all base, atrocious, horrible—some even murderous.

Since that day his cruelty had not been casual; it had a meaning, and a method, both worthy of the arch fiend’s devising.

He sought first deliberately to break her heart, to kill her without violence, by the action of her own outraged affections—and then, when that failed, or rather when he saw that the process must needs be too slow to meet his accursed views, he aimed at driving her to commit suicide—thus slaying, should he succeed in his hellish scheme, body and soul together of the woman whom he had sworn before God’s holy altar, with the most solemn adjuration, to love, comfort, honor, and keep in sickness and in health—the woman whose whole heart and soul were his absolute possession; who had never formed a wish, or entertained a thought, but to love him and to make him happy. And this—this was her reward. Could she, indeed, have fully conceived the extent of the feelings which he now entertained toward her, could she have believed that he really was desirous of her death, was actually plotting how he might bring it about, without dipping his hand in her blood, or calling down the guilt of downright murder on his soul, I believe he would have been spared all further wickedness.

To have known that he felt toward her not merely casual irritation, that his conduct was not the effect of a bad disposition, or of an evil temper only, but that determined hatred had supplanted the last spark of love in his soul, and that he was possessed by a resolution to rid himself of the restraint which his marriage had brought upon him, by one means or another—to have known this, I say, would have so frozen her young blood, would have so stricken her to the heart, that, if it had not slain her outright, it would have left her surely—perhaps happier even to be such—a maniac for the poor remnant of her life.

That morning, at an early hour, he had ridden forth, with two or three dogs at his heel, and the game-keeper, James Alderly, better known in that neighborhood as Black Jem, who had of late been his constant companion, following him.

Dinner-time had passed—supper-time—yet he came not; and the deserted creature was yet watching wistfully, hopefully for his return.

Suddenly, far off among the stems of the distant trees, she caught a glimpse of a moving object; it approached; it grew more distinct—it was he, returning at a gallop, as he seldom now returned to his distasteful home, with his dogs careering merrily along by his side, and the grim-visaged keeper spurring in vain to keep up with the furious speed at which he rode, far in the rear of his master.

She pressed her hand upon her heart, and drew a long, deep breath. “Once more,” she murmured to herself, “he hath come back to me once more!”

And then the hope flashed upon her mind that the changed pace at which he rode, and something which even at that distance she could descry in his air and mien, might indicate an alteration in his feelings. “Yes, yes! Great God! can it be? He sees me, he waves his hand to me. He loves—he loves me once again!”

And with a mighty effort she choked down the paroxysm of joy, which had almost burst out in a flood of tears, and hurried from the room, and out upon the terrace, to meet him, to receive once more a smile of greeting. His dogs came bounding up to her, as she stood at the top of the stone steps, and fawned upon her, for they loved her—every thing loved her, save he only who had most cause to do so.

Yet now, it was true, he did smile upon her, as he dismounted from his horse, and called her once more “Dear Theresa.” And he passed his arm about her slender waist, and led her back into the house, chiding her good-humoredly for exposing herself to the chilly night-wind.

“I feel it not,” she said, joyously, with her own sunny smile lighting up her face, “I feel it not—nor should feel it, were it charged with all the snow storms of the north; my heart is so warm, so full. Oh! Jasper, that dear name, in your own voice, has made me but too happy.”

“Silly child!” he replied, “silly child,” patting her affectionately on the shoulder, as he had used to do in times long past—at least it seemed long, very long to her, though they were in truth but a few months distant. “And do you love me, Theresa?”

“Love you?” she said, gazing up into his eyes with more of wonder that he should ask such a question, than of any other feeling. “Love you, oh, God! can you doubt it, Jasper?”

“No,” he said, hesitating slightly, “no, dearest. And yet I have given you but little cause of late to love me.”

“Do you know that—do you feel that, Jasper?” she cried, eagerly, joyously, “then I am, indeed, happy; then you really do love me?”

“And can you forgive me, Theresa?”

“Forgive you—for what?”

“For the pain I have caused you of late.”

“It is all gone—it is all forgotten! You have been vexed, grieved about something that has wrung you in secret. But you should have told me of it, dearest Jasper, and I would have consoled you. But it is all, all over now; nay, but I am now glad of it, since this great joy is all the sweeter for the past sorrow.”

“And do you love me well enough, Theresa, to make a sacrifice, a great sacrifice for me?”

“To sacrifice my heart’s blood—ay, my life, if to do so would make you happy.”

“Your life, silly wench! how should your little life profit me? But that is the way ever with you women. If one ask you the smallest trifle, you ever proffer your lives, as if they could be of any use, or as if one would not be hanged for taking them. I have known girls refuse one kiss, and then make a tender of their lives.”

He spoke with something of his late habitual bitterness, it is true; but there was a smile on his face, as he uttered the words, and she laughed merrily, as she answered,

“Oh! I will not refuse you fifty of those; I will be only too glad if you think them worth the taking. But I did speak foolishly, dearest; and you must not blame me for it, for my heart is so overflowing with joy, that, of a truths I scarcely know what I say. I only wished to express that there is nothing in the wide world which you can ask of me, that I will not do, willingly, gladly. Will that satisfy you, Jasper?”

“Why, ay! if you hold to it, Theresa,” he answered, eagerly; “but, mind you, it is really a sacrifice which I ask—a great sacrifice.”

“No sacrifice is great,” she replied, pressing his arm, on which she was hanging with both her white hands linked together over it, “no sacrifice which I can make, so long as you love me.”

“I do love you, dearly, girl,” he answered; “and if you do this that I would have you do, I will love you ten times better than I do, ten times better than I ever did.”

“That were a bribe indeed,” she replied, laughing with her own silvery, girlish laugh. “But I don’t believe you could love me ten times better than you once did, Jasper. But if you will promise me to love me ever as you did then, you may ask me any thing under heaven.”

“Well, I will promise—I will promise, wench. See that you be as ready to perform.”

And, as he spoke, he stooped down, for the keeper had now retired with the horses, and they were entirely alone, and embraced her closely, and kissed her as he had not done for many a month before.

“I will—I will, indeed, dear, dearest Jasper. Tell me, what is it I must do?”

“Go to your room, dearest, and I will join you there and tell you. I must get me a crust of bread and a goblet of wine, and give some directions to the men, and then I will join you.”

“Do not be very long, dearest. I am dying to know what I can do to please you.” And she stood upon tiptoes, and kissed his brow playfully, and then ran up stairs with a lighter step than had borne her for many a day.

Her husband gazed after her with a grim smile, and nodded his head in self-approbation. “This is the better way, after all. But will she, will she stand to it? I should not be surprised. ’S death! one can never learn these women! What d—d fools they are, when all is told! Flattery, flattery and falsehood, lay it on thick enough, will win the best of them from heaven to—Hades!”

Oh, man, man! and all that was but acting.

[Conclusion in our next.

THE BROKEN HOUSEHOLD.

———

BY MISS ALICE CAREY.

———

Vainly, vainly, memory seeks

Round our father’s knee,

Laughing eyes and rosy cheeks

Where they used to be:

Of the circle once so wide,

Three are wanderers, three have died.

Golden-haired and dewy-eyed,

Prattling all the day,

Was the baby, first that died;

O ’twas hard to lay

Dimpled hand and cheek of snow

In the grave so dark and low!

Smiling back on all who smiled,

Ne’er by sorrow thralled,

Half a woman, half a child,

Was the next God called:

Then a grave more deep and wide

Made they by the baby’s side.

When or where the other died

Only heaven can tell;

Treading manhood’s path of pride

Was he when he fell:

Haply thistles, blue and red,

Bloom about his lonesome bed.

I am for the living three

Only left to pray;

Two are on the stormy sea.

Farther still than they,

Wanders one, his young heart dim,

Oftenest, most, I pray for him.

Whatsoe’er they do or dare,

Wheresoe’er they roam,

Have them, Father, in thy care,

Guide them safely home;

Home, O Father, in the sky,

Where none wander and none die.

FRAGMENTS OF AN UNFINISHED STORY.

———

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

———

“A friend!” Are you a friend? No, by my soul!

Since you dare breathe the shadow of a doubt

That I am true as Truth: since you give not

Unto my briefest look—my gayest word⁠—

My faintest change of cheek—my softest touch⁠—

Most sportive, careless smile, or low-breathed sigh⁠—

Nay, to my voice’s lightest modulation,

Though imperceptible to all but you,⁠—

If you give not to these, unquestioning,

A limitless faith—the faith you give to Heaven⁠—

I will not call you “friend.” I would disdain

A seraph’s heart, as yours I now renounce,

If such the terms on which ’twere proffered me.

Deny me Faith—that poor, yet priceless boon⁠—

And you deny the very soul of love.

As well withhold the lamp, whose light reveals

The sculptured beauty latent in its urn,

As proffer Friendship’s diamond in the dark.

What though a thousand seeming proofs condemn me?

If my calm image smile not clear through all,

Serene, and without shadow on your heart⁠—

Nay, if the very vapors that would veil it,

Part not, illumined by its presence pure,

As round Night’s tranquil queen the clouds divide,

Then rend it from that heart! I ask no place,

Though ’twere a throne, without the state becomes me⁠—

Without the homage due to royal Truth.

And should a world betide pronounce me false,

You are to choose between the world and me.

If I be not more than all worlds to you,

I will not stoop to less! I will have all⁠—

Your proudest, purest, noblest, loftiest love⁠—

Your perfect trust—your soul of soul—or nothing!

Shall I not have them? Speak! on poorer spirits⁠—

Who are content with less, because, forsooth,

The whole would blind or blight them, or because

They have but less to give—will you divide

The glory of your own? or concentrate

On mine its radiant life?—on mine! that holds

As yet, in calm reserve, the boundless wealth

Of tenderness its Maker taught to it.

Speak! shall we part, and go our separate ways,

Each with a half life in a burning soul,

Like two wild clouds, whose meeting would evoke

The electric flame pent up within their bosoms,

That, parted, weep their fiery hearts away,

Or waste afar—and darken into death?

Speak! do we part? or are we one forever?

——

Since I must love thee—since a weird wild fate

Impels me to thy heart against my will⁠—

Do thou this justice to the heart I yield:

Be its ideal. Let it not blush to love.

Bid it not trail its light and glorious wings

Through the dull dust of earth, with downcast eyes

And drooping brow, where Shame and Grief usurp

Calm Honor’s throne!—be noble, truthful, brave;

Love Honor more than Love, and more than me;

Be all thou wert ere the world came between

Thee and thy God.

Hear’st thou my spirit pleading

With suppliant, claspéd hands to thine, dear love?

Degrade her not, but let thy stronger soul

Soar with her to the seraph’s realm of light.

She yields to thee; do with her as thou wilt.

She shuts her wings in utter weariness,

For she has wandered all night long astray,

And found no rest—no fountain of sweet love,

Save such as mocked her with a maddening thirst.

She asks of thine repose, protection, peace;

Implores thee with wild tears and passionate prayers

To give her shelter through the night of Time,

And lead her home at morn; for long ago

She lost her way.

Ah! thou may’st give, instead

Of that sweet boon she asks, if so thou wilt,

Wild suffering, madness, shame, self-scorn, despair!

But thou wilt not! thine eyes—thy glorious eyes⁠—

Are eloquent with generous love and faith,

And through thy voice a mighty heart intones

Its rich vibrations, while thou murmurest low

All lovely promises, and precious dreams

For the sweet Future. So, I trust thee, love,

And place my hand in thine, for good or ill.

——

Do not my soul that wrong! translate not thus

The spirit-words my eyes are saying to thee:

I would not fetter that rich heart of thine,

Save by the perfect liberty I give it,

For all God’s worlds of glory. Go thou forth⁠—

Be free as air! Love all the good and pure;

Cherish all love that can ennoble thee;

Unfold thy soul to all sweet ministries,

That it may grow toward heaven, as a flower

Drinks dew and light, and pays them back in beauty.

And if—ah heaven! these tears are love’s, not grief’s⁠—

And if some higher ministry than mine,

Or some more genial nature, bless thee more,

Wrong not thyself, or me, or love, or truth,

By shrinking weakly from thy destiny.

I would not owe to pitying tenderness

The joy with which thy presence lights my life.

Thou shalt still love all that is thine, dear friend,

In my true soul—all that is right and great;

And that I still love thee, so proudly, purely⁠—

That shall be joy enough! Go calmly forth.

——

Would I were any thing that thou dost love⁠—

A flower, a shell, a wavelet, or a cloud⁠—

Aught that might win a moment’s soul-look from thee.

To be “a joy forever” in thy heart,

That were in truth divinest joy to mine:

A low, sweet, haunting Tune, that will not let

Thy memory go, but fondly twines around it,

Pleading and beautiful—for unto thee

Music is life—such life as I would be;

A Statue, wrought in marble, without stain,

Where one immortal truth embodied lives

Instinct with grace and loveliness; a Fane,

A fair Ionic temple, growing up,

Light as a lily into the blue air,

To the glad melody of a tuneful thought

In its creator’s spirit, where thy gaze

Might never weary—dedicate to thee,

Thy image shrined within it, lone and loved;

Make me the Flower thou lovest; let me drink

Thy rays, and give them back in bloom and beauty;

Mould me to grace, to glory, like the Statue;

Wake for my mind the Music of thine own,

And it shall grow, to that majestic tune,

A temple meet to shrine mine idol in;

Hold the frail shell, tinted by love’s pure blush,

Unto thy soul, and thou shalt hear within

Tones from its spirit-home; smile on the wave,

And it shall flow, free, limpid, glad, forever;

Shed on the cloud the splendor of thy being,

And it shall float—a radiant wonder—by thee!

To love—thy love—so docile I would be,

So pliant, yet inspired, that it should make

A marvel of me, for thy sake, and show

Its proud chef d’œuvre in my harmonious life.

——

I would be judged by that great heart of thine,

Wherein a voice more genuine, more divine

Than world-taught Reason, fondly speaks for me,

And bids thee love and trust, through cloud and shine,

The frail and fragile creature who would be

Naught here—hereafter—if not all to thee!

Thou call’st me changeful as the summer cloud,

And wayward as a wave, and light as air.

And I am all thou sayest—all, and worse;

But the wild cloud can weep, as well as lighten,

And the wave mirrors heaven, as my soul thee;

And the light air, that frolicks without thought

O’er yonder harp, makes music as it goes.

Let me play on the soul-harp I love best,

And teach it all its dreaming melody;

That is my mission; I have nothing else,

In all the world, to do. And I shall go

Musicless, aimless, idle, through all life,

Unless I play my part there—only there.

In the full anthem which the universe

Intones to heaven, my heart will have no share,

Unless I have that soul-harp to myself,

And wake it to what melody I please.

——

So wrote the Lady Imogen—the child

Of Poetry and Passion—all her frame

So lightly, exquisitely shaped, we dreamed

’Twas fashioned to the echo of some song⁠—

The fairest, airiest creature ever made⁠—

Flower-like in her fragility and grace,

Childlike in sweet impetuous tenderness,

Yet with a nature proud, profound, and pure,

As a rapt sybil’s. O’er her soul had passed

The wild simoom of wo, but to awake

From that Eolian lyre the loveliest tones

Of mournful music, passionately sad.

Not thus her love the haughty Ida breathed:

In her ideal beauty calm and high,

O’er the patrician paleness of her cheek,

Came, seldom, and how softly! the faint blush

Of irrepressible tenderness.

——

Your course has been a conqueror’s through life;

You have been followed, flattered and caressed;

Soul after soul has laid upon your shrine

Its first, fresh, dewy bloom of love for incense:

The minstrel-girl has tuned for you her lute,

And set her life to music for your sake;

The opera-belle, with blush unwonted, starts

At your name’s casual mention, and forgets,

For one strange moment, fashion’s cold repose;

The village maiden’s conscious heart beats time

To your entrancing melody of verse,

And, from that hour, of your belovéd image

Makes a life-idol. And you know it all,

And smile, half-pleased, and half in scorn, to know.

But you have never known, nor shall you now,

Who, ’mid the throng you sometimes meet, receives

Your careless recognition with a thrill,

At her adoring heart, worth all that homage!

You see not, ’neath her half-disdainful smile,

The passionate tears it is put on to hide;

You dream not what a wild sigh dies away

In her laugh’s joyous trill; you cannot guess⁠—

You, who see only with your outer sense,⁠—

A warped, chilled sense, that wrongs you every hour⁠—

You cannot guess, when her cold hand you take,

That a soul trembles in that light, calm clasp!

You speak to her, with your world tone; ah, not

With the home cadence of confiding love!

And she replies: a few, low, formal words

Are all she dares, nay deigns, return; and so

You part, for months, again. Yet in that brief,

Oasis hour of her desert life,

She has quaffed eagerly the enchanted spring,

The sun-lit wave of thought in your rich mind;

And passes on her weary pilgrimage

Refreshed, and with a renovated strength.

And this has been for years. She was a child⁠—

A school-girl—when the echo of your lyre

First came to her, with music on its wings,

And her soul drank from it the life of life.

Then, in a festive scene, you claimed her hand

For the gay dance, and, in its intervals,

Spoke soothingly and gently, for you saw

Her timid blush, but did not dream its cause.

Even then her young heart worshiped you, and shrunk,

With a vague sense of fear and shame, away.

She who, with others, was, and is, even now,

Light, fearless, joyous, buoyant as a bird,

That lets the air-swung spray beneath it bend,

Nor cares, so it may carol, what shall chance,

With you, forgets her song, foregoes her mirth,

And hushes all her music in her heart.

It is because your soul, that should know hers

With an intuitive tenderness, is blind!

But once again you met; then, years went by,

And in a thronged, luxurious saloon,

You drew her fluttering hand within your arm;

A few blest moments next your heart it lay;

And still the lady mutely veiled, from yours,

Eyes where her glorious secret wildly shone;

And you, a-weary of her seeming dullness,

Grew colder day by day. But once you paused

Beside her seat, and murmured words of praise.

Praise from your lips! My God! the ecstasy

Of that dear moment! Each bright word, embalmed

In Memory’s tears of amber, gleams there yet⁠—

The costliest beads in her rich rosary.

But you were blind! And after that a cloud,

Colder and darker, hung between her heart

And yours. There were malicious, lovely lips,

That knew too well the poison of a hint,

And it worked deep and sure. And years, again,

Stole by, and now once more we meet. We meet? ah, no;

We ne’er have met! Hand may touch hand, perchance,

And eye glance back to eye its idle smile;

But our souls meet not: for, from boyhood, you

Have been a mad idolater of beauty.

And I! ah, Heaven! had you returned my love,

I had been beautiful in your dear eyes;

For love and joy and hope within the spirit

Make luminous the face. But let that pass:

I murmur not. In my soul Pride is crowned

And throned—a queen; and at her feet lies Love,

Her slave—in chains—that you shall ne’er unclasp.

Yet, oh! if aspirations, ever rising,

With an intense idolatry of love,

Toward all of grace and parity and truth

That we may dream, can shape the soul to beauty,

(As I believe,) then, in that better world,

You will not ask if I were fair on earth.

You have loved often—passionately, perchance⁠—

Never with that wild, rapturous, poet-love

Which I might win—and will. Not here on earth:

I would not have the ignoble, trivial cares

Of common life come o’er our glorious union,

To mar its spirit-beauty. In His home

We shall meet calmly, gracefully, without

Alloy of petty ills. . . . . .

Meantime, I read you, as no other reads;

I read your soul—its burning, baffled hopes;

Its proud, pure aims, whose wings are melted off

In the warm sunshine of the world’s applause;

Its yearning for an angel’s tenderness:

I read it all, and grieve, and sometimes blush,

That you can desecrate so grand a shrine

By the false gods you place there! you, who know

The lore of love so perfectly, who trace

The delicate labyrinth of a woman’s heart,

With a sure clew, so true, so fine, so rare,

Some angel Ariadne gave it you!

If I knew how to stoop, I’d tell you more:

I’d win your love, even now, by a slight word;

But that I’ll say in heaven. Till we meet there,

Unto God’s love I leave you. . . . .

You will glance round among the crowd hereafter,

And dream my woman’s heart must sure betray me.

Not so: I have not schooled, for weary years,

Eye, lip, and cheek, and voice, to be shamed now

By your bold gaze. Ah! were I not secure

In my pride’s sanctuary, this revelation

Were an act, Heaven, nor you, could ever pardon;

And still less I. Nor would I now forego,

Even for your love, the deep, divine delight

Of this most pure and unsuspected passion,

That none have guessed, or will, while I have life.

You smile, perchance. Beware! I shall shame you,

If with suspicion’s plummet you dare sound

The unfathomed deeps of feeling in this heart.

It shall bring up, ’stead of that love it seeks,

A scorn you look not for. Ay, I would die

A martyr’s death, sir, rather than betray

To you by faintest flatter of a pulse⁠—

By lightest change of cheek or eyelid’s fall⁠—

That I am she who loves, adores, and flies you!

. . . . . . . . .

Ask why the holy starlight, or the blush

Of summer blossoms, or the balm that floats

From yonder lily like an angel’s breath,

Is lavished on such men! God gives them all

For some high end; and thus, the seeming waste

Of her rich soul—its starlight purity,

Its every feeling delicate as a flower,

Its tender trust, its generous confidence,

Its wondering disdain of littleness⁠—

These, by the coarser sense of those around her

Uncomprehended, may not all be vain,

But win them—they unwitting of the spell⁠—

By ties unfelt, to nobler, loftier life.

And they dare blame her! they whose every thought,

Look, utterance, act, has more of evil in ’t,

Than e’er she dreamed of, or could understand!

And she must blush before them, with a heart

Whose lightest throb is worth their all of life!⁠—

They boast their charity: oh, idle boast!

They give the poor, forsooth, food, fuel, shelter!

Faint, chilled and worn, her soul implored a pittance⁠—

Her soul asked alms of theirs—and was denied!

It was not much it came a-begging for:

A simple boon, only a gentle thought,

A kindly judgment of such deeds of hers

As passed their understanding, but to her

Seemed natural as the blooming of a flower:

For God taught her—but they had learned of men

The meagre doling of their measured love,

A selfish, sensual love, most unlike hers.

God taught the tendril where to cling, and she

Learned the same lovely lesson, with the same

Unquestioning and pliant trust in Him.

And yet that He should let a lyre of heaven

Be played on by such hands, with touch so rude,

Might wake a doubt in less than perfect faith,

Perfect as mine, in his beneficence.

PARTING.

———

BY MISS PHŒBE CAREY.

———

Till the last mortal pang is o’er,

Aid me, my human friend,

Let thy sweet ministries of love

Support me to the end!

In such a fearful hour my soul

Unaided cannot stand,

Leave me not till my Saviour comes

To take my trembling hand.

My heart is weak, is earthly still,

And though such love be crime,

I cannot yield thee till my feet

Have passed the shores of time.

Gently, O, gently lead me on,

Soothe me with love’s fond tone—

Thou hast been near through all the past

How shall I go alone?

The last my lips shall ever drink

Is life’s most bitter cup—

Nearer the wave of death hath rolled,

How can I give thee up?

Closer, O, closer! let me feel

Thy heart still fondly beat,

While the cold billows of the grave

Are closing round my feet!

MEN AT HOME:

OR THE PRETTY MAN-HATER.

———

BY MRS. C. B. MARSTON.

———

CHAPTER I.

What droll scenes hobgoblins and sprites catch a peep at, in their perambulations through this ludicrous world of ours!

Now we, poor mortals, rarely stumble upon any thing funny, because, forsooth, we must ring the bell, or knock at the door, and then people throw themselves into proper positions and put on their company faces, and the farce is at an end. No human being, for instance, could have walked, unannounced, into Miss Ariana Huntingdon’s boudoir, on that morning when Mr. Atherton Burney was kneeling at her feet, but the merry sprites gathered around, and it is a wonder that he did not hear them shout:

“Ha! ha! the wooing o’t.”

Mr. Burney’s courtship was by no means a premeditated affair. Who ever thinks exactly how he shall tell pleasant news? Such, that gentleman thought, would be the intelligence of his most honorable preference. And now that Miss Ariana looked coldly on his suit, he was lost in wonder at the blindness to her own interest which she exhibited. Like most men, he never dreamed that a refusal could arise from personal dislike, and while wounded pride turned his attempt at a pathetic face into a wry one, he desired to know the motives which had induced so uncomplimentary a decision.

Miss Ariana’s face wore the expression of Sir Joshua Reynold’s “Mucipula,” excepting that it said, “I have caught a man!” instead of “a mouse;” but she remembered that a respectable offer must be respectfully treated, and covering the smile lurking around her mouth with one of her plump little hands, she looked as gravely as she could from out her mischievous hazel eyes. It might have been nervousness which kept her tiny foot in motion, but it seemed very like a desire to make a football of her kneeling suitor.

“I have two reasons, sir,” she said, “for declining the honor you intended me. The first is, I have determined not to marry at all, and the second, that you are by no means the person likely to make me change this resolution.”

Had Mr. Burney been practicing that exercise in gymnastics, by which one rises at a single jerk from a horizontal to an upright position, he could not more suddenly have changed his suppliant attitude to the most rigid of perpendiculars.

“Madam,” he replied, in that husky voice which men in a passion assume when trying to appear cool. “Madam, the first reason is so singular for a person in your situation, that the second excites no surprise.”

Ariana was an orphan and dependent upon her brothers-in-law. Her piquante face exhibited no irritation at this insulting remark; although the motion of her pugnacious little foot was somewhat quickened, a merry laugh was the only rejoinder.

Mr. Atherton Burney was prepared for a burst of indignant scorn, but he found no words to express his surprise and indignation at this ill-timed mirth; he wheeled round as if on drill, “right about face,” and made a “forward march,” which did not terminate till he found himself, hat in hand, upon the pavement of Washington Square. His head and his temper being by this time a little cooled, his few scattering brains were again packed in their narrow-brimmed receptacle, and none who met Mr. Atherton Burney that day on the pavé, suspected that behind his elegant moustache a refusal was sticking in his throat.

——

CHAPTER II.

No two persons are more dissimilar than a gentleman dining-out, and the same individual quietly taking a family dinner at home. The smiling guest has a keen relish for every article placed before him, and should the rules of etiquette not allow him to express his gratification in words, he manifests in every possible way his entire approbation of the cuisine of his host.

Mr. Andrew Dormer was a favorite guest at the tables of his wealthy fellow-citizens. His perfect suavity of manner, his keen appreciation of gastronomic art, and his skillful carving, won greater favor than would the possession of the richest treasures of learning or the highest intellectual endowments. “A clever fellow,” was Andrew Dormer when dining out. But, whereas the rules of society require that a guest should be pleased with every thing, the modern social economy demands that the master of a family should, at home, be pleased with nothing. The forementioned sprites of the air who attended at the family dinners of the Dormers, were beginning to look a little glum; the only bright things to be seen on these occasions were the polished knives and Miss Ariana’s eyes.

The door had scarcely closed after the exit of Mr. Atherton Burney, when the shuffling and stamping were heard by which the lord of the mansion was wont to announce his arrival. Before the meek Mrs. Dormer obtained a view of that redoubtable personage, a scolding soliloquy fell upon her trembling ear.

“Nothing ever in order in this house! A mat I bought only a month ago, all torn to rags! Smell of dinner coming all the way to the front door! Over-done! Knew it by the first snuff! Bad servants! All this comes of a careless mistress. Harriet! Harriet, I say!”

“What is it, Andrew?” inquired the soft voice of Mrs. Dormer, as she put her head timidly out of the dining-room door.

“Nothing in this house but rack and ruin,” exclaimed Mr. Dormer, dashing more vinegar into his tone and manner than either the occasion or his own feelings required. “What’s the use of buying any thing, I say, if this is the way it is to be treated?” And he pointed at the mat, which his own outrageous stamping had torn to tatters.

Ariana had the same instinctive knowledge of a family feud as the war-horse has of a battle, and rushed to the charge in her sister’s defense.

“What!” she exclaimed, “all that hemp left of the mat you have tried so faithfully to annihilate! When I heard your last furious attack, I did not think there would be a single shred remaining in the shape of a mat.”

Such a beseeching look as Mrs. Dormer gave Ariana as she herself stood trembling in her shoes!

What was the reason, that instead of becoming indignant at the impertinence of his sister-in-law, Mr. Dormer tried to look amiable? It might have been that he read that mischievous glance, which said, “Ignoble ambition to be a triton among ‘minnows.’ ”

If Ariana had not been dependent she would have been less saucy, but so fearful was she of becoming cringing from interested motives, that she went to the other extreme, and dared

“To beard the lion in his den.”

The brother-in-law could no more dispense with her racy society, than with pungent sauces for his piscatory favorites. Instead of becoming angry when Ariana declared that she had seen too much of men at home ever to marry, he was heartily glad of a determination which insured the continuance under his roof of his merry antagonist.

Never was married woman so wretched herself that she discouraged matrimony among her young relatives and friends. Scarcely were the Dormers seated at dinner, and the first outbreak of invectives against cook, waiter and market-woman at an end, than the meek Harriet remarked, with an attempt at the playfulness for which she was distinguished before broken to the hymenial yoke: “Ariana, you had better have the ham placed before you, that you may learn to carve, as I suspect from the visit which you received this morning that you will soon be at the head of your own table.”

Mr. Dormer checked the grimace by which he was expressing disgust at the over-done mutton before him, and stared, but ventured not a question.

“Never more mistaken in your life, sister. Mr. Dormer cannot spare me,” was Ariana’s laughing reply; “he would burst a blood-vessel in one of his fury-fits, if I were not here to soothe him.”

“Am I such a tyrant then?” asked Mr. Dormer, in nearly as humble a tone as his wife would have used.

“A very despot; but not worse at heart than most men. There is scarcely one who does not revenge himself for the rude world’s buffetings, by inflicting all sorts of petty annoyances upon those at home,” was the calm reply.

“You will certainly be an old maid, Ariana,” remarked Mrs. Dormer, as she cast a furtive glance at the engrossing object of all her thoughts.

“A consummation devoutly to be wished,” said Ariana, smiling at the fearful tone in which the remark was made. “I had rather be caged in a menagerie, than obliged from morning to night to listen to the growling of a human tiger.”

“Mr. Atherton Burney is very mild, and only needs a gentle shepherdess to make him perfectly lamb-like,” said Mr. Dormer, with an attempt at sportiveness which reminded his sister of the fabled donkey emulating the lap-dog’s playfulness.

“I never liked pastorals,” she began, but the time for joking was at an end.

The servant, in handing Mr. Dormer a glass of water, spilled part of the contents upon his plate, and stood trembling at the angry rebuke which his carelessness had called forth.

“Misnamed lords of creation,” thought Ariana for the hundredth time, as she saw what a trifle had disturbed her brother’s equanimity.

There was a dead silence for a few moments, only broken by the clatter of knives and forks, and then Mr. Dormer, casting very much such a glance at his sister-in-law as a naughty boy would at his offended mamma, muttered—“the steamer is in to-day and the banks are breaking faster than ever.”

Mrs. Dormer looked sympathetic at this intelligence, and Ariana remarked kindly—“Business troubles you then! It must be very tormenting,” and a suspicion flashed across her mind that men, after all, might sometimes have an excuse for their ill-humor.

“Well, if we are to lose our money, let us keep our temper,” she added, as she rose to leave the table. Then turning to her sister she said—“Don’t sit up for me, Harriet. If I am not at home before nine, I shall stay all night at sister Jane’s—she sent for me to spend the evening with her, and—and you know it is always quite uncertain whether Mr. Daley will be in a humor to escort me home.”

——

CHAPTER III.

“If I were only sure that fishes did not feel, I should not mind hooking them,” said a lad of tender heart.

Miss Ariana Huntingdon was convinced that men did not feel, and therefore had not the slightest scruple in taking captive as many as came within range of her fascinations.

Had the misanthropical little coquette been old, or ugly, the stronger sex would have risen in a body to expel her from the city, but being very young and very pretty, they seemed to love her all the better for her alledged heresy as to man’s supremacy.

“That is one of the most beautiful apparitions that I ever met,” said a young gentleman who caught a glimpse of our heroine upon a fashionable promenade, crowded with insipid faces, whose fair unmeaningness was made more conspicuous from being contrasted with the gayest of colors.

“Ashes of roses” would have been the only appropriate hue for some of these passé damsels, of whose bloom certainly but the cinders were remaining, on which the marks of their former beauty were faintly traced in flittering characters.

There was a peculiar freshness and individuality in Ariana’s appearance, arising from her clear, original intellect, which made her always noticed, even by those who did not admire the piquant style of her beauty. Then her dress, without trespassing upon the mode of the season, bore some tasteful addition, so unique, that it was at once surmised that she must be very distingué to be allowed such independence.

“Madame Bonheurie has not a hat trimmed in that manner,” said a characterless parvenu, who could not have afforded even a ribbon without a pedigree.

The article of dress, thus criticised, was a hat of delicate rose-color, but, alas! instead of wearing the stiff top-knots of ribbon which were then in vogue, Ariana had arranged the trimming so as to drop upon one side, without hiding the swan-like throat of its petite wearer. Her mantle, too, though unexceptionable in the richness and color of the velvet, was but slightly trimmed, and its graceful sleeves were quite unlike the stiff armlets through which some fair ladies’ hands were peeping in unnatural constraint.

Ariana, while smiling sweetly on her acquaintances, so moderated her tokens of favor upon this particular day, that no one stepped to her side to offer their escort, for she was deep in meditation,

“Am I really anxious to be an old maid?” was the question she was revolving in her own mind, and every antiquated maiden whom she met seemed to weigh against the affirmative that an hour since she would have been ready to pronounce.

“Yes,” however, sprung to her lips as she entered the parlor of Professor Daley, or rather study, as it might more appropriately be named. All signs of feminine refinement were neutralised in this uncomfortable apartment by huge piles of books, placed where most convenient for that gentleman.

If Mrs. Daley flew into a passion on the subject, and declared that she had seldom a place where a guest could be seated, he took up another volume, and perhaps, laid the one he had been reading upon the only vacant chair.

“You are the rudest man in the world, Madison,” was Ariana’s involuntary exclamation, as her learned connection gave her a kind of chin bow when she entered the apartment, without appearing to favor her with a single glance.

“That is what I always tell him,” rejoined Jane, who seemed, as is the case with some one in most families, to have absorbed all the spirit intended amply to endow the whole; “read, read, from morning till night. I might as well have no husband.”

Like the boy under stoical tuition, if Mr. Daley had learned nothing else from philosophy, it had enabled him to meet reproach with perfect calmness. It is questionable, however, if that mode of meeting reproach is a virtue, which instead of turning away wrath, infuriates it beyond all bounds. Mr. Daley’s perfect indifference to the happiness of every living thing, was the alkali to the acid of Mrs. Daley’s character, and produced violent fermentation. How cold those blue eyes of his looked through the green spectacles worn to repair the effect of constant study by lamp-light! It would have been well if the carpet could have been defended from the effects of these nocturnal vigils, as many a spot was visible in spite of the constant wear which had reduced the once elastic Brussels to a floor-cloth consistency.

Home, to the man of science, was only a place where the torch of mind was to be re-lighted; his wife, a being who fed it with oil, and her house the mere laboratory used for those supplies of a physical nature which made the ethereal flame burn purer and brighter.

What a pity it is that all who are destined to play the part of cyphers have not a taste for nonentity! Mrs. Daley, as she often told her husband, who, however, had not once seemed to hear the remark, “never dreamed before her marriage that it would come to this.” To be sure he had been a different man as a lover, but it is one of the standing wonders of the world how the wise and great ever condescended to the foolishness of courting; yet philosophers in love are always lamentably absent, and being quite out of their element, flounder away more boisterously than any other kind of fish, but marriage puts them again at ease, and then their cold blood creeps on uninterrupted in its sluggish course.

“Old maid or not old maid,” again passed through Ariana’s mind as her eyes rested on Mr. Daley’s boots, which, in their turn, rested upon the marble mantelpiece.

“Literary men are I presume all just such bears, and men of business like Andrew.” Single-blessedness would have carried the day had not the most finical of her maiden acquaintance arisen to efface the images of the brothers-in-law.

“Do these old books make you happy, Madison Daley?” she asked, when her sister was quite exhausted with the relation of her grievances. The Professor had been caught looking up at the cessation of the sound of his wife’s tongue, which he seemed to have imagined was to be perpetual.

One cannot pretend to deafness as easily when they meet the eye of a questioner, and a cold “Yes,” fell from the thin lips of the philosopher. He instantly resumed reading a “Treatise upon the promotion of individual happiness, as the only certain way of enhancing national prosperity.”

It was a lucky thing for Ariana, that with her quick perception of character she had so strong a love for the ludicrous, for what otherwise might have aroused her indignation now only excited her mirth. The incongruity between Professor Daley’s philanthropic studies and his habitual selfishness, struck her as so droll that she burst into a merry peal of laughter. The astonished glance of the Professor at this sudden merriment said quite plainly, “Is the girl demented?” and Jane’s querulous voice, still more audibly,

“It is easy enough to laugh at other people’s misfortunes! I only wish that I may live to see you married, and yet as much alone and as dependent on your own exertions, as if you had no natural protector.”

Ariana knew by long experience that her sister considered Mr. Daley’s faults as her exclusive property, and wished others to speak of him always as if he were a model of a man. When she spoke in society herself of her learned husband, no one would have dreamed that she had discovered the feet of her idol to be of clay, but in tête-à-têtes she even insinuated to him that they were slightly cloven.

Ariana had a good share of mother wit, and knew very well the wisdom of exciting a counteracting passion when she had subjected herself to reproof by her open disrespect toward her learned brother-in-law.

“You told me, sister,” she said soothingly, “that you expected company, and my aid would be needed in preparing for their reception.”

All Mrs. Daley’s motions were sudden, and at this remark she started up, exclaiming, “There! I have not given half my orders in the kitchen, and I dare say that the children have put the dining-room all out of order while I have been talking here. Do go and see to them, while I tell Betty what linen to put on the bed in the spare room.”

One would have thought that the dining-room might have been sacred to eating and drinking, but the Professor had insisted on piling the surplus of his library in one corner of this cold, parlor-looking apartment. People have various ideas of comfort, but to Ariana’s eyes the disorder which her pretty little niece and nephew had caused was rather an improvement.

Archie had built a very respectable house out of the Encyclopedias, and a large stone inkstand, which luckily was corked, served very well, when turned upside down, for a parlor centre-table. A smaller one and an accompanying sand-box, from his mother’s escritoir, answered for ottomans, and upon them two table-napkins, with strings round their waists, to improve their figures, were sitting up, quite like ladies and gentlemen.

The bright faces of Archie and Etta wore a troubled expression, at the opening of the door, but it turned to one of unfeigned delight as they both scampered toward Ariana, exclaiming—“Oh, aunty, come and see our pretty baby-house. We have found out such a nice way of using pa’s tiresome old books.”

Like the cat transformed to a lady, who always showed her feline origin at the sight of a mouse, Ariana seemed always to return to childhood when in company with Archie and Etta. Mrs. Daley might as well have set a monkey to keep them out of mischief, for down dropped the moderator on the floor beside the baby-house, and commenced twisting the napkins into most ludicrous imitations of humanity. Etta finding that while her aunty was thus employed, she could get a nice chance at playing with her hair, slily drew out the comb and fell to “turling it” over her little fingers, while Archie clapped his hands and danced about in wild delight at the beauty of the napkin ladies and gentlemen—Hark! there was a footstep in the hall—no! two. The door opened and the Professor, with scarcely a glance at the occupants of the room, thrust into it a tall, fine-looking stranger, and merely saying, “My sister-in-law, Cousin Arthur,” retreated.

Ariana was so much amused at this strange introduction of the visiter, that she scarcely thought of her own disordered appearance.

“So, brother Madison has ejected you, sir, from his study at once,” she said smiling. “His way of making people completely at home is by turning them out of his own door. Do take a seat with us children, and my sister will be here presently.”

Arthur Grayson had a great respect for his cousin, the Professor, having never seen him in domestic life, and only knowing his high reputation among the scientific men of the day. He was ignorant of the reason why Ariana spoke in so disrespectful a tone of so near a connection, and it seemed a want of politeness.

“No beauty can atone for such rudeness,” he thought to himself, but replied courteously, “My cousin probably knew what society I should find most entertaining, and I am glad that he did not allow me to trespass upon his time.”

Before Ariana could answer this remark, Jane emerged from a staircase leading to the kitchen, with a bowl in her hand, exclaiming, “Do, Ariana, stir up this cake.”

In her surprise at the sight of the stranger, the bowl slipped from her hand and fell on the floor, scattering its yet fluid contents in every direction. Our pretty man-hater turned mischievously toward Arthur Grayson, to observe how he bore the bespattering of the very elegant suit of broadcloth in which his unexceptionable form was enveloped, but instead of betraying any marks of irritation, he said with perfect self-command and good-humor, “I presume that the dispenser of such good things can only be that Lady Bountiful, my Cousin Jane, of whose open-handed hospitality I have often heard.”

It could never have been said of Mrs. Daly that she was

“Mistress of herself though china fall.”

And to have lost china and cake both together was quite too severe a trial of her patience.

Ariana immediately came to her relief, by saying to the guest very politely, “Will you walk into the study with me, sir? I assure you that Madison does not care how many people are there, so he is saved from the task of entertaining them.”

“It is all the fault of that selfish animal,” she added mentally. “What is the use of all the learning in the world if unmixed with a particle of common sense?”

——

CHAPTER IV.

A week after Arthur Grayson’s arrival in the city, the following letter was received at his father’s delightful residence on the banks of the Susquehanna:

“My dearest Mother,—Were it not for the domestic happiness I have witnessed at home, I should begin to believe that no literary man ought ever to marry. When I remember your anecdotes of the mischievous pranks of little Madison Daley, and then look at his immovable face, I can scarcely believe that he is the same individual. His soul, during the last seven years, must have as completely changed as the elements of that stiff-knit frame, which day and night is bent over some ponderous volume, for not an atom of playfulness or bonhommie now enters into his composition. Perhaps a ‘silent loving woman’ might have retarded this metamorphosis, but Cousin Jane is of quite a different class. Out of respect to you, dear mother, I try always to think that women are free from blame, and sincerely commiserate the philosopher’s wife, who makes me thoroughly uncomfortable, by trying to make me comfortable, and her children wretched, in endeavoring to bring them up properly. Her promised visit to Castleton, will, I am sure, be a green spot in her existence, and the mummy husband makes no opposition to the excursion. Will you have the kindness to include in your invitation, Miss Ariana Huntingdon, a sister of Madison’s wife, whom I should like you to know as a peculiar specimen of womanhood? She has wit and beauty enough to fascinate any man, were it not for her having conceived so thorough and unfeminine a contempt for mankind, that she is often guilty of such rudeness that my heart resists all her attractions. Andrew Dormer and Madison Daley are not, it is true, such men as would give any person of discernment a high respect for our sex, yet it is a mark of a little mind to condemn whole classes for the faults of individuals. Then Miss Ariana is an arrant little coquette, insisting that it is of service to a man to break his heart, as it will have a little softness ever afterward, whereas it otherwise would continue all stone. We have many pleasant tilts on these subjects, and when pushed for a reason, she always maintains her cause by such cunning sarcasms, that I am obliged to own myself defeated. ‘Men at home!’ is her frequent exclamation, in a tone of perfect contempt, at any new proof of the selfishness of her brothers-in-law. I wonder if she would dare to utter this sneer at the lords of creation, after seeing my honored father under his own hospitable roof. Please say to him that I have almost completed the business entrusted to my care, and shall return home in two weeks from to-morrow. Till then, I remain as ever,

“Your devoted son,

“Arthur Grayson.”

“This old study is not such a disagreeable room after all,” said Ariana, as she was ensconced in the low window-seat, with Arthur Grayson beside her. They were hidden from the view of her brother-in-law by his long overcoat, which no remonstrances could induce him to have hung elsewhere. “Madison has probably discovered that the parlors of Herculaneum were thus ornamented,” she continued, pointing to a pair of boots which were standing in the midst of the apartment.

“It is a very pleasant room to me,” he replied, “and I shall long remember the hours spent here.”

A glance of joy shot from Ariana’s eyes, but it passed away as she thought, “I dare say both of my brothers-in-law used to say just such agreeable things before they were married.”

“If I ever meet with a man who tries to be disagreeable, I shall believe that he is sincere,” she replied, somewhat pettishly.

“Why do you suspect me of hypocrisy?” said Arthur, coldly. “I remarked that our pleasant chats had cheated me of many weary hours; you cannot doubt that this is the case. I neither said nor intended more.”

Ariana had always applauded sincerity, but this frank avowal did not meet her approbation. The tête-à-tête was becoming awkward, and was luckily interrupted at this juncture by the ring of the postman. A letter was handed to Mr. Grayson; it contained a note which he gave to Miss Huntingdon. She blushed at seeing that it bore the signature of Isabella Grayson, and was penned in a feminine hand, of remarkable delicacy and beauty. The flush on her cheek grew absolutely crimson, as she read the polite invitation to accompany her sister on a visit to Castleton the ensuing month. At that moment Arthur Grayson was wishing that he had not induced his mother to extend her hospitality, as Ariana had of late openly announced her predilections for single blessedness, and had at the same time been so bewitchingly agreeable, that he began to feel that her society was dangerous to his peace.

“I fear I must decline this invitation,” said she, after a pause of some minutes.

“For what reason?” he asked, while his dark eyes were fixed in close scrutiny upon her varying countenance.

Ariana blushed still deeper, and then attempted to smile, but a tear stole to her eye as she replied with great frankness, “We have spent so many delightful hours together that your memory will be very pleasant, but I am afraid that the charm would be broken if I were to see you at home.”

This confession almost drew from Arthur one of still deeper import, but a remembrance flashed upon him of all he had heard of Ariana’s coquetry, and he merely replied, “If that is all, I will remain away from Castleton, rather than deprive my mother and Mrs. Daley of the pleasure of your society.”

This proposition, however, was by no means agreeable.

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed, “I have no idea of exiling you on my account, only promise to try and not be very disagreeable.”

This pledge was easily given. Soon after a messenger arrived to say that Mr. Dormer was quite unwell, and begged that Mrs. Daley would spare Ariana.

If there be any where in the world a striking instance of the fallen pride of humanity, a sick man affords the example.

When Ariana returned, Mr. Dormer was lying on the sofa, in the parlor, in his gay dressing-gown, having absolutely refused to go to his chamber and be regularly treated as a patient. Harriet stood by him with a wine-glass of medicine in one hand, and a saucer of sweetmeats in the other, trying to coax the invalid to swallow the dose she had so carefully prepared for him. The naughtiest of boys never made up such rueful faces, or protested more willfully against the disagreeable injunction.

“There’s no use,” he said at last, angrily; “I’d rather die than swallow such stuff.”

“But, dear Andrew, what could I do without you?” said the affectionate Mrs. Dormer, now almost in tears.

A sudden and violent pain made her husband inclined to change his resolution, and snatching the glass, he said, “There, give me the sweetmeats, quick.” With much writhing and choking, he swallowed a dose which one of his children would have taken without a murmur.

“What is the matter, Andrew?” asked Ariana, kindly, as she stepped to his side.

“Matter enough,” he replied, “my stomach is entirely ruined by the horrid messes on which I have been fed for the last month. A horse could not have stood the cooking to which I have been forced to submit.”

Mr. Dormer, after smoking his digestive organs out of order, in spite of the remonstrances of his friends, now actually believed that he was an injured man, victimised by a bad cook and a careless wife.

Such a miserable week as followed this scene had rarely fallen to Ariana’s lot, but she was really grateful to Mr. Dormer for his disinterested kindness to her, and relieved her sister of much trouble and care. Every day that detained the peevish patient from his business made him still more unreasonable and exacting. He would have been well much sooner if any one could have induced him to obey the orders of the physician. After a dose of calomel, he would insist on a hearty dinner of beef-steak, and when purposely kept in a low state to prevent the danger of fever, called loudly for wine or brandy, declaring that his wife would like nothing better than to see his strength so reduced that there could be no hope of his recovery.

The servants were so exhausted with his caprices that the chambermaid took French leave, and then Mrs. Dormer, who had double duty to perform, was taxed with inattention to his wants.

“I wonder if Arthur Grayson has a strong constitution?” was the question which passed through Ariana’s mind, as she witnessed the daily martyrdom of her meek sister. Now the dressing was all torn from the blisters of the impatient invalid, then the covering thrown off, and a moment after a complaint made that some outer door had been left open on purpose to freeze him to death. Every dose of medicine was taken with a struggle, every word of advice regarded as an infringement on his rights.

Where was that clever fellow, Andrew Dormer? What would the merchants on ’change have said to the transformation? Nothing, we presume, for like himself, they were few of them clever fellows to their own wives and servants.

——

CHAPTER V.

It is quite an objection to rail-roads and steamboats that they present so few inconveniences as to give one but little opportunity of discovering the temper and good-breeding of their fellow passengers. Nobody is crowded within, nobody has to sit without, no one is sick on the back seat, or lacks support on the middle one, as used to be the case in those dear old stage-coaches, where persons were shaken out of all ceremony, and jostled into a pleasant acquaintance.

A private carriage, however, if well filled, has still its points of trial; and the Grayson equipage, when packed with the Daley family, promises to exercise the patience of its inmates.

Of course, the ladies were too modern to be troubled with bandboxes; but Mrs. Daley’s beautiful traveling-bag, which had been worked by her sister, needed as much tending as a baby; and the bouquet of flowers, which Ariana was carrying from a city green-house to Mrs. Grayson, in a tin case, wanted great care, being sprinkled every time that the horses were watered.

Arthur Grayson had been early schooled to consider annoyance at petty evils as totally unworthy of a man of sense, and there was no affectation in his indifference to his own ease while making the ladies as comfortable as lay within his power. He even succeeded in beguiling Etty from Ariana’s arm to his own, and Jane’s brow grew smoother at every mile, from finding the children so easily amused. Archie Daley had a quick inquiring mind, and drank in eagerly all the information which his friend gave with regard to the objects that they passed on the road. At length, wearied with pleasure, he fell asleep, leaning his whole weight on Arthur’s, while Etta slumbered on his breast, as much at home as if in her nurse’s arms.

Ariana had been unusually silent during the journey. The peculiar gentleness of her companion, his delicate attentions to Jane and herself, with his sweet consideration for the children, and carelessness of his own comfort, made her wish that the journey might be long, and suggested the thought how happy any one would be, who should enjoy such protection through life.

These reflections gave an unusual softness to her generally vivacious manners, which was peculiarly attractive; and Arthur, as he glanced at the little sleeper on his bosom, and then at the sweet smile on Ariana’s face, had his own dreams also of domestic bliss.

These gentle thoughts had not faded from the hearts of our travelers, nor the light of the setting sun from the evening sky, when they entered the open gates of Castleton. An elderly gentleman, of noble appearance, stood on the porch of his fine mansion, to welcome the strangers. His dignified yet kindly manners impressed Ariana with instant respect, but she felt a still deeper emotion in receiving the cordial greetings of Mrs. Grayson. Arthur’s mother was still a beautiful woman, though her hair was slightly silvered with age, for her dark eye was intellectually bright, while a smile of uncommon sweetness played around her pleasant mouth. The heart of the orphan was touched by the motherly kindness of tone with which she was welcomed; and as she heard the joyful greeting which Arthur received from both his parents, and the tender respect with which it was returned, she felt that there was a happiness in domestic life of which she had scarcely dreamed.

“We must not forget your health, Mary, in our pleasure at seeing our friends,” said Judge Grayson, to his wife, as he gently placed her arm in his, and led the way to the cheerful parlor.

How much expression there is in the interior of any dwelling! That tastefully ornamented room, provided with every comfort for the elder members of the family, and filled with materials of amusements for all persons of cultivated minds, breathed nothing but peace and joy.

Arthur placed a footstool at his mother’s feet, and then rang for a servant, to show the ladies to their apartment, while Judge Grayson was helping them to disencumber themselves from some of their numerous wrappings. Archie had loitered to take a ride on the porch, where he had spied a rocking-horse, which had been brought down from the garret with a view to his amusement, while Etty had caught up a kitten which seemed used to nothing but kindness.

“What an excellent housekeeper Mrs. Grayson appears to be!” was Jane’s exclamation, the moment that they reached their apartment. “They say that the judge is a learned man, but I do not see any thing that looks like it.”

A disorderly dwelling, and a cold, disagreeable man at its head, were to Mrs. Daley, alas! the usual indications of the abode of literature. She had not noticed that one little cabinet of books in the parlor, contained some very profound works, and that the large room opposite, was a well furnished library.

The beautiful art of making others happy had been so completely studied by Mrs. Grayson, that before the evening passed away, Mrs. Daley and her sister scarcely remembered that they were guests. As Ariana began to feel perfectly at home, her natural vivacity arose, and the judge smiled pleasantly at her lively rejoinders to the playful remarks of his son.

Now and then Mrs. Grayson looked up a little seriously, from her conversation on family affairs with Jane, as if afraid that Arthur might be tempted to some slight rudeness, in replying to the gay sallies of his companion.

——

CHAPTER VI.

When Ariana awoke the next morning, she feared that her last night’s enjoyment had been all a dream; but a glance around her chamber convinced her that at least she was not in the habitation of either of her sisters.

The sound of a loud, manly voice below, fully restored her to consciousness, and with it came the tormenting thought that it must be Judge Grayson. I am afraid that after all he is like other men at Home, was her mental ejaculation.

The voice came nearer, but its tones were not harsh, and Ariana now distinctly heard the words, “Up, up, Arthur! Your mother wishes a letter sent to the village, and we ride there on horseback before breakfast. Hurry, my boy!”

“Here I am, sir, booted and spurred,” was distinctly audible, in a gay, yet respectful tone. And then the cheerful voices of father and son, as they mounted their horses and rode away.

“Take another muffin, Miss Ariana,” said the judge, as they sat at breakfast. “It may be vanity, but I think my wife always manages to have nicer muffins than are found any where else in the whole country. I know Arthur is of the same opinion, for he gives us the best possible proof of it.”

The son gave a smiling assent, and Ariana thought of Andrew Dormer and his habit of finding fault with every thing that was placed before him.

It is not much the fashion at the present day for young men to consult their parents with regard to their love affairs, but Arthur Grayson walked closely in the footsteps of his father, and he was a gentleman of the old school. Were this mode more prevalent, there would not be so many unhappy mothers-in-law and such miserable wives.

The visiters from the city had spent two days at Castleton before Arthur could ask his mother’s advice about the subject which lay nearest his heart. The moment, however, that he found an opportunity of speaking to her alone, he said, eagerly, “What do you think of Ariana?”

“A question that I am not yet qualified to answer, my son,” was her reply, while she looked earnestly into his troubled face, as if seeking to discover how deeply he was interested in the inquiry, which he had just made.

“You do not like her, I see plainly,” he hastily remarked, in a tone of bitter disappointment.

“You are much mistaken in that supposition, my dear Arthur. On the contrary, her frankness and talents interest me exceedingly, and even her faults make me anxious for a more intimate acquaintance, for I think that I might be of service in aiding her to overcome them. I am not sure, however, that she would be a suitable companion for life for my darling son, if that is what you wish to know.”

“Then I must not stay here any longer,” he exclaimed, impetuously. “I have too much confidence in your judgment to believe that I could ever be happy with any one, of whose character you disapproved. I feared that it would be so.”

“You are too hasty, Arthur. Why does the opinion I have expressed make it necessary for you to leave home?”

“Because I have discovered that I love her too well to trust myself longer in her society,” he answered, with agitation.

“Then you are right in your resolution. Why do you not make your long promised visit to Carysford Lee? If I find on further acquaintance that Ariana is worthy of your affection, you shall not long remain in ignorance of the conclusion.”

“Thank you,” Arthur replied, and then sorrow of heart prevented him from adding more, but kissing affectionately his mother’s pale cheek, he hastily left the apartment.

Ariana’s face was radiant with smiles when she descended to the dining-room. Her gayety, however, quickly disappeared when Arthur, who sat next to her at the table, asked abruptly, “Have you any commands for my friend, Lee? I am going this afternoon to Allendale, to remain with him for a few weeks.”

Luckily for Ariana, Jane immediately exclaimed, “What, going to run away from us so soon. How will the children get along without you?”

“Please don’t go, sir!” said Archie, mournfully. “I cannot finish my new bow without your help.”

“I will show you about it,” said the judge, kindly, “and take you to ride on horseback behind me, just as Arthur has done.”

By this time Ariana had recovered her composure, and said, with an attempt at gayety, “What a delightful time we ladies shall have with none to molest or make us afraid. The only fear will be, that I shall quite forget my saucy ways if I have no one to practice them upon.”

“Suppose you should make me a target for your wit,” said the judge, playfully.

“My weapons would only rebound upon myself, with so invulnerable a mark,” she replied, in a respectful tone.

A conversation, in which evident constraint was visible, followed, and every one glad when the meal was at last over. An hour afterward Arthur’s horse was brought round to the door, and with an air of extreme embarrassment, he bade Mrs. Daley and Ariana a hasty farewell. The assumed indifference of the latter was so well counterfeited, that her lover rode away with the full conviction that his absence was considered as a relief.

——

CHAPTER VII.

The next morning, Judge Grayson was obliged to leave Castleton to attend a court at a neighboring village, and the ladies were left in sole possession of the mansion.

“How dull it is here to-day,” said Ariana, to her sister, as they were tête-à-tête, while Mrs. Grayson was occupied with domestic affairs. “I just saw a pair of boots at the door of the opposite chamber, and it was actually a delightful sight. I really think that everlasting overcoat of Madison’s would be a pleasant addition to our prospect in this dearth of mankind.”

Jane was delighted at a chance to revenge herself for all Ariana’s attacks upon the odd ways of the professor. “What ails you,” she said, “to make such strange remarks? They come very unexpectedly from such a professed man-hater. Why I have heard you say, that Eden could not be a Paradise to you, if men were allowed to enter it.”

“Let by-gones be by-gones, Jenny. We grow wiser every day,” said Ariana, playfully. “Do you need me here this morning?”

“No, I shall be busy in copying these receipts for cake, but if you will have an eye to the children who are down stairs, I shall be obliged to you.”

Ariana took up her basket containing a pair of slippers, which she was working for Andrew Dormer, and went into the parlor, where she hoped to find Mrs. Grayson.

That lady was, however, not there, but soon came in, and setting down her work, commenced one of those easy, confidential chats, which make two people better acquainted than years of intercourse in general society.

“I am going to ask a question, which you will think very strange,” said Ariana, at length, “but it would make me so much happier if I was certain about it.”

“What is it, dear?” asked the kind lady, with a benevolent smile, which encouraged curiosity.

“Will you then tell me,” said Ariana, hesitatingly, “if Judge Grayson is always as kind and agreeable at home as he appears to us?”

The tears rose to Mrs. Grayson’s eyes as she answered, “He has never been otherwise. I could not with propriety have replied to your question if I had not testimony to bear to his never failing love and kindness.”

“Oh! how glad I am!” exclaimed Ariana, with a fervency that startled her companion. “All the men I know are so disagreeable in their own homes, and so neglectful of the comfort of their wives, that I thought the rest of the world were like them.”

“It is too true, my child,” said Mrs. Grayson, kindly, “that there are those who sacrifice their private peace to their public duties, or exhibit at home the vexation consequent upon lives of constant toil and anxiety. Even where this is the case, however, it is a woman’s duty to give her home all the cheerfulness in her power; and if her husband is not in private life what she could wish, the secret should be confined to her own bosom.”

Mrs. Grayson was one of the few persons who can give advice so discreetly as not to wound the feelings of the person whom they are trying to benefit. Her last remark made Ariana feel the impropriety of having allowed the faults of her brothers-in-law, who were generous, indeed, though their manners were often so disagreeable. Her confession in this respect was so frankly made, that it won upon Mrs. Grayson’s affection, and their conversation continued in a still more confidential tone.

Day after day Ariana would glide down into the parlor, to enjoy a tête-à-tête with her new friend, while Jane was occupied with her receipts, and the children busy at play. Her laughing philosophy was only the armor of pride, and her warm, generous feelings gushed forth unrestrained, in conversing with Mrs. Grayson. The sportive bursts of humor, which were so perfectly natural to her lively disposition, awoke in the elder lady some of the vivacity of her early years, and Jane would be startled from her monotonous employment, by the sound of their merry laughter. Insensibly the bright, impulsive girl was winding around the heart of her friend, in trying to win whose approbation her own character was rapidly improving.

There was only one subject on which there was not perfect confidence between Mrs. Grayson and Ariana. Arthur’s name was never mentioned by either of them. Ariana could not with delicacy, tell his mother how bitterly she was grieved at his departure, but her languid eyes, and frequently wandering thoughts, revealed the truth.

Sometimes, when at evening Judge Grayson returned from court, she saw the affectionate meeting with his dear wife, she would sigh deeply, as if looking on happiness that could never be her own.

The six weeks which Mrs. Daley intended to spend at Castleton, had passed rapidly away. On the morrow the family were to return to the city, and all regretted the necessity for their separation.

As Ariana sat listening to the regrets of Mrs. Grayson and her sister that their intercourse was so soon to be terminated, she was unable to command her spirits, and under pretence of breathing the fresh air, walked out upon the piazza. She stood looking toward the stars in melancholy abstraction, when a gentleman came suddenly around the corner of the house, and stood at her side. “Mr. Grayson!” she exclaimed, with such unaffected joy, that a smile of delight beamed on his face as he eagerly seized her proffered hand.

“Did you not then know that I was to return this evening?” he asked. “Could you think that I would allow you to depart without saying farewell?”

“You left us so abruptly, that I did not know what to expect,” she replied, blushing deeply.

“Did you not object to coming here lest my presence should mar your enjoyment?” he inquired, mischievously.

“But you know,” she replied, with warmth, “what was the reason for that silly remark.”

“Why silly? If seeing me at home might destroy your respect, it was quite wise to send me into banishment,” he remarked, playfully.

“But I could not have done so, I am sure, now,” she replied, earnestly.

“Have you really sufficient faith in any man to believe him free from the faults which I have so often heard you impute to the whole sex?”

The question was put in a jesting tone, but Arthur listened eagerly for her reply.

“Your father’s constant politeness has overcome all those foolish prejudices. I do believe that his son may resemble him.”

“Would you dare to trust your happiness to the keeping of that son?” he asked, with tender earnestness.

“I should,” she replied with characteristic promptness, while a tear glistened in her eye.

“Then why may not this place henceforth be your home. My mother already loves you dearly, and my father’s approbation sanctions my suit.”

Ariana’s consent was easily won to this proposition, and then Arthur went to announce his own arrival to the family circle, while she stole to her apartment to compose her agitated heart.

Mrs. Daley insisted that Ariana should remain with her a month previous to her marriage, and then Mrs. Dormer pleaded for a visit of equal length. Andrew would have been quite out of humor at her loss, were it not for the pleasure of hearing that she had given up her rebellious thoughts as to man’s supremacy. The professor was so much ameliorated by Jane’s more prudent conduct, that he presented the bride elect with a set of very dry books, in token of regard for her choice. Mr. Dormer made her many valuable gifts, though his manner of bestowing favors almost neutralized the pleasure which he otherwise would have conferred.

Ariana Huntingdon has been for many years a happy wife. Arthur Grayson has found that well regulated wit and cheerful independence, heighten domestic life; and Ariana asserts that men deserve the title of Lords of Creation, and that her Arthur, to be fully appreciated, must be seen “at Home.”

THE FEAR OF DEATH.

———

BY MARY L. LAWSON.

———

It is not that I shrink to yield

My soul to God, whose claim is just;

I know my spirit is his own,

And that this human frame is dust;

To Him my higher powers I owe,

The light of mind, the faith of love;

Too mean the service of a life

My ceaseless gratitude to prove;

But still I pause in mortal fear,

For life is sweet—and death is drear.

The ties that bound me close to earth

With deep affection’s tender chain,

Were severed by his sovereign will,

And tears and agony were vain;

And blighted hope and withering care

Their shadows o’er my soul have cast;

And sunny dreams, that fancy wove

Of rainbow hues, too soon have past;

But still I pause in mortal fear,

And life is sweet—and death is drear.

For memory brings to me again

The dear ones that are laid to rest,

And scenes ’mid which they bore a part

In lovely visions haunt my breast;

Their looks, their words, their beaming smiles,

Soft tears from out my eyelids press;

They’re with me through the waking day,

My nightly slumbers gently bless;

And still I pause in mortal fear,

For life is sweet—and death is drear.

My faithful friends whose gentle deeds

Of kindness words were poor to tell;

My daily walks, my favorite flowers,

The page where genius throws its spell,

And Nature with its varied hues,

Where spring and summer brightly glows,

By many a fine and subtle link

Of custom round my being grows;

And still I pause in mortal fear,

For life is sweet—and death is drear.

Kind Lord! subdue this trembling dread,

My spirit nerve with firmer zeal,

Death is the portal of our life,

Its promised good Thou wilt reveal;

And in thy word I read with joy

The blessings that believers share,

And peace within my bosom steals,

The heavenly peace that springs from prayer;

No more I pause in mortal fear,

The grave is sweet when Thou art near.

A YEAR AND A DAY:

OR THE WILL.

———

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.

———

(Concluded from page 199.)

CHAPTER IV.

We will take a brief retrospect of the last two years in the life of Crayford.

Upon a pleasant summer evening, two gentlemen, mounted on fine, spirited steeds, came gayly cantering down the gentle slope of a hill, and across the rustic bridge which formed the entrance to a small village in the interior of Pennsylvania, just as a party of merry milk-maids were returning the same way from the green pastures beyond. The road, or rather lane, was here quite narrow, and observing the rapid approach of the equestrians, the girls hastily stepping aside into the deep grass, stood still for them to pass by. Instead of doing so, however, they slackened their pace, and one of them reining in his steed, gazed impertinently into the blushing faces of the village girls.

“By heavens!” he exclaimed, in a low voice to his companion, “what a pair of eyes that little witch has in the blue petticoat—and what a shape! look at her, Hastings.”

The damsel thus pointed out could not have been more than sixteen. In face and form a perfect Hebe, with a most superb pair of laughing black eyes, shaded by long curling lashes. Her little sun-bonnet was thrown off, but rested loosely upon her shoulders; her hair, which was as black and brilliant as her eyes, was cut short to her beautiful neck, and clustered in tight ringlets over her finely formed head, upon the top of which sat her pail of foaming milk. With one hand she held it lightly poised, while the other rested upon her hip, in an attitude most graceful and picturesque. Her petticoat was of dark-blue bombazet, set off by a white muslin short-gown reaching half way to the knees, where it was finished with a narrow frilling—a dress still in vogue among the farmers’ daughters both in Pennsylvania and New England—and a very pretty dress it is, too. Her little feet were bare, hiding themselves modestly in the tall grass.

“The girl is an angel—a perfect divinity!” replied Hastings, after a rude stare at the young maid, “What a sensation she would make—eh, Crayford!”

“I say, Hastings,” added the other, with a devilish leer, “it will be worth our while to stay here a day or two—what say you?”

To this Hastings returned a significant wink, which was responded to by the other in the same way.

During these remarks they had rode slowly on, but now suddenly wheeling his horse, Crayford once more approached the little group, and lifting his hat, bowed most gracefully as he said,

“Can you tell me, fair maidens, where my friend and myself may be so fortunate as to find a night’s lodging? We are somewhat fatigued with a long day’s ride, and would fain rest our weary limbs, as also our jaded steeds. Can you direct us, then, to some public house in your village?”

A sprightly blue-eyed girl, delighted to be of service to the polite stranger, stepped quickly forward, and said, while her cheeks grew redder and redder, and her eyes rounded with every word:

“O, yes, sir, there is a good tavern at the other end of the village, and here is Effie Day, she lives there, you know, for it is her grandfather who keeps the house; here, Effie, you will show the gentleman the way, wont you Effie?”

“By all the saints, how lucky!” whispered Crayford, to his friend—Effie proving to be no other than the identical maiden who had so charmed him.

Springing from his horse, and throwing the reins to Hastings with a meaning glance, Crayford lifted the pail from the head of the blushing girl, and begged the privilege of assisting her with her burden, while she acted as his guide to the inn. The girls all laughed merrily at this, but Effie, blushing still deeper, drew her sun-bonnet closely over her face, and tripped lightly on before him, so fleetly, too, whether from bashfulness or mischief, that her gallant could scarcely keep pace with her twinkling feet. On reaching the inn, his fair guide suddenly disappeared, leaving Crayford to dispose of the milk-pail as he could, to the no small delight of Hastings, who highly enjoyed the evident discomfiture of his friend.

The old landlord welcomed the strangers heartily, and gave them the best rooms his house could boast, and soon placed before them an excellent supper. But what gave it its true zest was the attendance of the pretty milk-maid—and a more lovely cup-bearer never served the gods.

Poor Effie Day was but an infant when both her parents were taken from her by death, and no other home had she ever known than the roof of her kind old grandfather. With a tenderness far exceeding that which they had felt for their own children did her grandparents regard her, and in pity for her orphan state, indulged her in every wish which it was in their power to grant. As she grew up her beauty and vivacity was their pride, and no theme could sooner reach their hearts than the praises of their darling Effie. She was brought up in all the simplicity of country life; a circuit of ten miles the boundary of her little world, and from books her knowledge was scarcely more. Yet the birds which sang at her window, or the lambs with whom she skipped in the meadows, were not more gay or happy than was the old inn-keeper’s bright darling child, when like the serpent in Paradise, Crayford came. He found the honest old couple and the artless Effie of the very sort whom his cunning could most easily dupe, and with skill which would not have disgraced a demon, set about his fiendish work—for most cogent reasons of his own disguising his name under that of Belmont, while his worthy coadjutor assumed that of Jervis.

Feigning to be charmed with the locality of this little town, they made known their intention of passing several weeks in its vicinity. But why enter into the details of a plot such as should call down the avenging bolt of heaven. Suffice it, alas! to say, that sin and villainy triumphed, and as pure a child as ever the finger of God rested upon, was enticed from her home, from her poor old doting grandparents.

Under a solemn promise of marriage the unfortunate Effie eloped with her base betrayer.

Upon reaching Philadelphia, the form of marriage was gone through with by a convenient priest, and the sacrifice of innocence completed. For some months, but for the memory of the aged couple, in the silent shades of her native valley, she was as happy as a young confiding wife could be in the love, nay, adoration of her husband. The lodgings Crayford rented were in an obscure part of the city, and furnished most meagerly for the taste of one accustomed to fashionable display, yet Effie, who had never seen any thing more grand than the parson’s parlor at home, thought even a queen could not be more sumptuously lodged, and she was very sure could not be more happy.

Poor, poor Effie!

This devotion on the part of Crayford continued while his humor lasted—no longer; nor did one gleam of pity for the unfortunate girl lead him to wear the mask only as long as suited his own pleasure. The heart sickens to dwell upon the anguish of poor Effie, thus abandoned by one for whom she had sacrificed all—one so friendless, so forlorn, so young and so beautiful.

The woman with whom she lodged allowed her to remain under her roof until she had stripped her of the little she possessed—of her clothing, and the few ornaments Crayford had given her; then, when no more was to be gained, she thrust her forth into the streets to die, or live by a fate worse than death!

Alas! that in a world so fair as this, such things really are, needing no aid from fancy to portray their atrociousness.

All day did the poor girl wander through the busy crowd, gazing piteously into the faces of the multitude, and if by chance one more kindly than others bent an eye upon her, she would ask them for Belmont. But no one could tell her aught. And then night came—dark, desolate night. On, from street to street passed the unfortunate, shrinking from the rude stare, and still ruder speech of brutes calling themselves men; no one offering a shelter to the houseless wanderer, and even her own sex meeting her appeals with coarse, unfeeling laughter.

Blame her not, that suddenly yielding to the despair of her young heart, she sought in death relief.

It was near the hour of midnight when she found herself upon one of the wharves. Dark and cold stretched the river before her; dark and cold was to her the world she was leaving. For a moment she paused, and gazed despairingly around her; tears trickled down her pallid cheeks, for she felt she was young to die; and she wept still more when she thought upon her aged grandparents, who would never know her sad fate. Then arose before her, floating as it were upon the heaving mass of waters, on which her eyes were fixed, that peaceful valley, with the green hills sweeping around it, and the rustic dwellings of her playmates and friends looking out upon her beseechingly from their pleasant shades as she stood there in her loneliness; and as a far-off symphony of sweet sounds came floating by, the glad voices which Nature had sang to her in childhood. Poor Effie Day! what pleasant memories were crowded into those few brief moments.

“Belmont!” she shrieked, suddenly starting from that far-off dream, “Belmont, may God forgive you the deed I am about to do!”

Then falling on her knees, she clasped her trembling hands, murmuring a prayer for pardon and mercy. Now casting one long, shuddering look upon the cold, dark river, she was about to plunge therein, when a strong arm was thrown around her, and she was forcibly drawn back several feet from the verge on which she had stood poised.

“Wretched girl, what would you do!” said a voice in her ear.

She heard no more, for a faintness came over her, and but for the arm still around her, she would have fallen insensible to the ground. When she recovered, she found herself upon a bed in a small, neat apartment. A woman of mild countenance was leaning over her, chafing her hands and temples, and at the foot of the bed stood a gentleman dressed in deep mourning, with his full, dark eyes fixed upon her with pity and kindness.

“Poor child!” she heard the woman say, just as she opened her eyes; “I’ll warrant some of those gay gallants have broken her heart! Bless her, she is coming to—there, there darling, how does thee feel now?”

But ere poor Effie could reply, the gentleman placed his finger on his lips, as if to caution her from speaking, then preparing some soothing anodyne, he bade the woman administer it as quickly as possible, and promising to be back at an early hour in the morning, took leave.

When the morning came, however, the unfortunate girl was raving in all the delirium of fever, which for weeks baffled medical skill. Youth at length triumphed over disease, and she was once more able to leave her bed. During this time she had made known at intervals, her sad history to the good woman of the house, and the benevolent stranger who had snatched her from a watery grave.

Every where the latter sought to discover the perfidious Belmont, and on pursuing his inquiries for the grandparents of the wretched girl, he learned that grief at the desertion of their child, had broken the old people’s hearts; first the father, then the mother, had been borne to their long homes. A distant relative had seized upon the little homestead, and already a flaunting sign usurped the head of good old Penn, which for more than half a century had smiled benignly down upon travelers.

Effie begged to remain with Mrs. Wing, who kept a small thread and needle store in —— Lane, near the river; and the kind woman felt so much pity for her lonely, unprotected situation, that she readily granted her request. She was soon able to assist in the labors of the shop, and to make herself in many ways useful. Of the kind stranger she saw but little, but from Mrs. Wing she learned that he had generously defrayed all the expenses of her illness. He came but seldom, but when he did, he spoke to her so kindly, encouraged her with so much gentleness, soothing her sorrows, and leading her mind to that Higher source where alone she might look for comfort, that Effie regarded him in the light of a superior being.

Thus months rolled on, and no tidings of Belmont reached Effie. One morning, as she stood arranging a few fancy articles upon the broad window-seat in a manner which might display their beauty to the best advantage, she threw up the sash for a moment to inhale the fine breeze which came sweeping up from the river. The day was lovely. The gentle undulating surface of the Delaware, cleft by a hundred flashing oars, with the keels of many noble vessels buried in her sparkling tide, their white sails swelling to the breeze, stretched before her in beauty, while above, cloudless and serene was the blue vault of heaven.

A pleasure yacht had just neared the wharf, and from it a party of gentlemen sprung to land, and with rather boisterous mirth, crossed the street directly opposite where Effie still stood at the window. Suddenly her eyes rested upon one of that gay group, and for a moment it seemed as if breath and motion were suspended in the intensity of her gaze. She could not be mistaken—she knew she was not—it was Belmont, her husband; and scarcely knowing what she did, she rushed to the door, and with a wild scream of joy, threw herself upon the breast of Crayford.

“Ho, ho, Crayford, you are in luck, my boy!” shouted one of the party; “by Jove she’s an angel!”

Overwhelmed with confusion, and taken by surprise at the sudden appearance of one whom he had hoped never to see more, Crayford for half a minute stood irresolute, then struggling to disengage himself from her embrace, he exclaimed angrily,

“Off, woman—none of your tricks with me; off, I say!”

Casting roughly aside those tender arms which clung to him so despairingly, poor Effie would have fallen to the ground but for another of the party, who, seizing her just as she was sinking, cried with mock pathos,

“Here, pretty one, the fellow is a monster; here, I will take care of you—come, kiss me!”

But Effie sprung from his arms, and clasping the knees of Crayford as she saw the heartless wretch moving on,

“Belmont, my husband!” she cried, in tones of piercing anguish, “do not, O, do not leave me again; no, you will not be so cruel—take me with you!”

“That’s cool, by heavens!—ha! ha! ha!” shouted Crayford, with infernal daring, “you are crazy, child! I am not your Belmont; perhaps this is he—or this,” pointing from one to the other of his companions.

The look of wo with which the poor girl received this cruel speech, did not escape their notice, and, hardened as they were, they were moved to pity, and the rude jests died on their lips.

Effie rose from her knees, and tottering a step forward, placed her trembling hand upon the outstretched arm of Crayford. With an oath he spurned her from him, when in his path there suddenly arose one whose cold, searching glance, struck terror to his guilty soul.

“Crayford, I know you!” exclaimed the stranger. “This, then, is your infernal work; ay, tremble, thou base destroyer of innocence. Away, I say, ere I am tempted to do a deed shall shame my manhood!”

Livid with rage, Crayford drew a dirk from his bosom, and rushed suddenly upon the stranger; but in an instant it was wrenched from his hand, then seizing the wretch by the collar, as he would a dog, he hurled him off the curb-stone, and with such force, as sent him half across the street, and then lifting tenderly the form of the fainting girl in his arms, bore her into the house.

The reader will, of course, infer that Crayford and the stranger had met before. They had; nor was this the first dark deed to which the latter knew Crayford might lay claim.

To draw our long digression to a close, suffice it to say, that it was the unfortunate Effie Day whom Florence had met while walking with Crayford, and that the gentleman whom she had pointed out to him in the picture gallery, was no other than the stranger of whom we have just spoken, and whose appearance had so perceptibly agitated her companion.

——

CHAPTER V.

We will now return to Florence, whom we left in a state of such cruel suspense, and it would be difficult to say, perhaps, which of the two at the moment she hoped to find the most sincere—Crayford or the unknown.

She felt she had gone too far to recede, and that it had now become her duty to probe this enigma thoroughly. Her confidence in Crayford was too much impaired for her to receive him again into her presence so long as such doubts hung around his character. “I will obey the instructions of this unknown Mentor,” said she, “it cannot be that he is false; no, to this Mrs. Belmont, then, will I go, and go alone.”

Ordering a carriage, therefore, and directing the driver to No. 7 —— Lane, she set forth upon an errand which, for a young, unprotected female, was certainly rather hazardous. Of its locality she had no knowledge; and when she found herself gradually approaching the opposite side of the city from her own residence, passing through narrow streets, and at every turning drawing nearer to the river, she would have felt more apprehension but for the words of the unknown: “Fear not,” urged the note, “one will be near you who will protect you with his life.” These words reassured her, for she had so long accustomed herself to regard him in the light of her protector and friend, that even now, when her doubts almost distracted her, she still gave herself up to the pleasing thought that he was near, and no danger could befall her.

“This is No. 7 —— Lane,” said the coachman, reining in his horses before the thread and needle store of Mrs. Wing, “whom shall I ask for?”

“Never mind, I will go in myself,” answered Florence.

Mrs. Wing was sitting in a little back room, but seeing a lady enter the shop, arose and came forward to the counter.

“Is there a Mrs. Belmont lodges here?” inquired Florence.

“There is a young woman of that name in my employ, friend—would thee like to see her? If thee does, thee can go to her room—she has been very ill.”

Florence bowing assent, the good woman led the way up a narrow staircase, and opened the door of a neat little chamber, saying, as she motioned Florence to go in,

“Here is a young woman to see thee, Effie,” then immediately withdrew.

Near the bed, in a large easy-chair, propped up by pillows, sat poor Effie Day. Not a tinge of the rose, once blooming so freshly there, could be traced on that pale cheek, and of the same marble hue were her lips and brow. These, contrasted by her jet-black hair, and eyes so large and brilliant, imparted a strange ghastliness to her appearance. At the first glance Florence recognized her as the young woman whom Crayford had pointed out to her as a fortune-teller.

This at once opened a new channel for thought, and supposing, therefore, that she had been directed thither for the purpose of consulting her art, she said, half timidly approaching her,

“Can you tell my fortune for me?”

Poor Effie, too, had recognized the lovely girl whom she had seen walking with him she still believed to be her husband, and looking up with a sad earnestness of expression, made answer,

“Your fortune! O, my beautiful young lady, may it never be so wretched as mine!” Then noticing the evident perturbation of Florence’s manner, she continued, “Can I serve you in any way?”

“I was sent to you for the purpose, as I suppose, of having my fortune told,” answered Florence.

“There is some mistake,” replied Effie, a half smile flitting over her pale face, “I am not a fortune-teller.”

“But I thought—I understood—that is—Mr. Crayford told me you were. Did I not meet you one day in Chestnut street?” asked Florence.

A faint color tinged the cheek of Effie, and her beautiful eyes drooped low as she answered,

“You did—too well do I remember it—you looking so happy, and I so sad! Yes, I saw you point me out to Belmont.”

“Belmont! I know no such person,” said Florence, “it was Mr. Crayford who was with me—it was Mr. Crayford who told me you were a fortune-teller.”

“Did he—did he tell you so?” said Effie, bursting into tears, “for, alas! young lady, it was Belmont—it was my husband you were walking with!”

“Your husband!” cried Florence, aghast.

“Yes, my husband. Dear young lady, think not I am mistaken—would that I were! I saw those eyes, so full of love, fixed on your blushing face—heard the soft tones of his voice as he bent low to address you. Yes, I saw all—heard all; and then, ah then!” cried Effie, with a shudder, and raising her tearful eyes to heaven, “what a look he cast upon me! But did he—did Belmont send you to me?” she eagerly demanded.

“No, he did not—it was another who directed me here. And now, my poor girl,” said Florence, drawing her chair close to Effie, and kindly taking her hand, “I see that you have been cruelly treated—will you then tell me your history—will you tell me of Crayford, or Belmont, for I now see they are one and the same.”

“Do you love him?” asked Effie, sadly.

“No, I do not love him, nor is it probable we shall ever meet again,” replied Florence.

“But he has sought your love—and yet you love him not—how strange! I love him! O, would to God I did not!” and here the poor girl sobbed aloud, while Florence, overcome by emotion, threw her arms around the unfortunate, and resting her head on her bosom, mingled tears with hers.

When both were a little more calm, Florence again urged her to reveal her sorrows, which Effie did in language so simple and earnest as carried conviction to the mind of her listener, who shuddered as the fearful abyss in which she had been so nearly lost, thus opened before her.

“And do you know the name of the person who has been so kind to you?” asked Florence, referring to the preserver of Effie.

“I know not,” answered Effie, “neither does Mrs. Wing, but to me, dear young lady, he has been an angel of goodness!”

“Strange!” thought Florence, “this benevolent stranger can surely be no other than my unknown friend. He is, then, all I first imagined him—kind, noble, disinterested—and yet I have doubted him; how am I reproved! but for him, my own fate might, perhaps, have resembled that of the unfortunate girl before me!”

While lost in these reflections, she was suddenly startled by a slight scream from Effie, who, grasping her arm tightly, said, while her pale face crimsoned, and her bosom heaved tumultuously,

“Hark! his voice—it is his voice!”

“Whose voice—what is the matter?” demanded Florence.

“Do you not know,” continued Effie, as half rising she bent her little head, and raised her finger in an attitude of deep attention, “Do you not know Belmont’s voice? Ah, I see now very well you do not love him.”

“Belmont! good heavens, what shall I do!” exclaimed Florence, starting up, “is there no way for me to escape—not for worlds would I have him find me here!”

“Go in there,” said Effie, pointing to a small door; “but you will be obliged to remain there—there is no other way.”

“Then I must, of course, hear all you say,” said Florence, shrinking instinctively from thus intruding upon the young girl’s privacy. Effie looked up confidently and answered,

“It is well; if this meeting is to restore me my happiness, you will rejoice with me; if it plunge me in still greater wo, then, dear lady, it is better for you to know it!”

Florence had no time to reply, for now a man’s step was heard quickly ascending the stairs. Springing into the little room adjoining, she closed the door, and panting with agitation, awaited the result. Again the words of the unknown recurred to her, “Fear not! one will be near you, who will protect you with his life.”

Scarcely had Florence withdrawn, when the other door was opened, and a man wearing a cloak, with his hat drawn far down over his face, entered, then closing it, and carefully turning the key, he advanced toward Effie, who had risen, and stood clinging to the easy-chair to support her trembling limbs.

“You are surprised to see me, I suppose, child,” said he, throwing off his cloak and hat, and revealing the form and features of Crayford.

“My dear husband, do we then meet again!” cried Effie, feebly extending her arms, as she sunk back into the chair.

Crayford folded his arms across his breast, and throwing himself carelessly upon a seat, said,

“I have come to settle matters with you, that’s all. What the d——l are you doing here!”

“Don’t speak so cruelly to me—don’t, Belmont!” cried poor Effie, bursting into tears. “O, if you knew the anguish I have endured since you left me; if you knew, that, driven to despair, I even sought to take my own life, you would pity me! If you knew how I have watched for you—sought for you—how I have waited for you, you would at least have compassion on me!”

“You’re a fool!” exclaimed Crayford, brutally. “Why I thought you would have learned better by this time; but since you have not, why you must not be in my way, that’s all. Now listen to me; you must go out of the city—and look you, on condition that you will never come back again, I will give you a thousand dollars; come, that’s generous, now—most men would let you go to the —— before they would do as much for you. The fact is, child, I am going to be married, and to a beautiful, rich lady.”

“Married!” shrieked Effie, starting to her feet, and catching his arm, “married—am I not your wife?”

“Ha! ha! ha!—come, that’s a good one; not exactly, child, you are only my wife, pour passer le temps, as the French say. No, that was all a hoax—you are free, and with a thousand dollars to buy you a husband! Now is not that better?” said Crayford, chucking her under the chin.

Effie did not reply. It needed not—those eyes, more eloquent than words, fastened upon his guilty countenance, told plainly a villain’s work of wo wrought in her young, trusting heart. Crayford, hardened as he was, quailed under their reproach.

At length she spoke, but there was an unnatural calmness in her voice,

“Who is the lady you will marry?” she said.

“Well, I will tell you—and, by the way, you came near ruining my prospects there. She saw you in Chestnut street one day, as we were walking, and you looked so —— queer at me, that, faith, I were put to my trumps, and mumbled over something about your being a crazy fortune-teller—was not that well done?”

“It was well done,” answered Effie, in the same tone; “but her name—tell me her name.”

“Her name is May—a young, pretty widow; though, on my soul, Effie—why I declare, now I look at you, you are almost as handsome as ever; if it was not for her money, she might look further for a husband. But come, I am in a hurry; I want you to sign this paper, pledging yourself to leave the city never to return, upon which condition I also pledge myself to give you a thousand dollars—will you sign it?”

“I will,” answered Effie; “but I require a witness.”

“A witness—nonsense! well, bring up the old woman, then.”

“It is not necessary—here is one,” said Effie, advancing with a firm step to the inner door, and throwing it wide.

“Severe in youthful beauty,” Florence came forth.

Had a thunderbolt suddenly fallen from heaven, Crayford could not have been more paralyzed. Florence paused upon the threshold.

“Go!” said she, waving her hand, “go, Mr. Crayford, this innocent girl is under my protection. I have heard all—I know all—begone, sir!”

And, incapable of uttering one word, the guilty wretch, awed by the majesty of virtue, stole away as a fiend from the presence of an angel.

The over-tasked firmness of poor Effie now gave way; and piteous it was to witness the agony of her grief and shame.

“Poor, unhappy child!” cried Florence, taking her to her bosom, and tenderly soothing her, “you have been basely, cruelly dealt with! Heavens! I shudder when I think what my fate might have been but for this discovery!”