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Heart-Histories and Life-Pictures

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Title: Heart-Histories and Life-Pictures

Author: T. S. Arthur


        
Release date: October 1, 2003 [eBook #4595]
                Most recently updated: December 28, 2020

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Charles Aldarondo.  HTML version by Al Haines.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HEART-HISTORIES AND LIFE-PICTURES ***




Produced by Charles Aldarondo.  HTML version by Al Haines.









HEART-HISTORIES AND LIFE-PICTURES.


BY

T. S. ARTHUR.



NEW YORK:

1853.






INTRODUCTION.


So interested are we all in our every-day pursuits; so given up,
body and mind, to the attainment of our own ends; so absorbed by our
own hopes, joys, fears and disappointments, that we think rarely, if
at all, of the heart-histories of others--of the bright and sombre
life-pictures their eyes may look upon. And yet, every heart has its
history: how sad and painful many of these histories are, let the
dreamy eyes, the sober faces, the subdued, often mournful tones, of
many that daily cross our paths, testify. An occasional remembrance
of these things will cause a more kindly feeling towards others; and
this will do us good, in withdrawing our minds from too exclusive
thoughts of self.

Whatever tends to awaken our sympathies towards others, to interest
us in humanity, is, therefore, an individual benefit as well as a
common good. In all that we have written, we have endeavored to
create this sympathy and awaken this interest; and so direct has
ever been our purpose, that we have given less thought to those
elegancies of style on which a literary reputation is often founded,
than to the truthfulness of our many life-pictures. In the
preparation of this volume, the same end has been kept in view, and
its chief merit will be found, we trust, in its power to do good.

T. S. A.

PHILADELPHIA, December, 1852.




CONTENTS.

  THE BOOK OF MEMORY,
  THE BRILLIANT AND THE COMMON-PLACE,
  JENNY LAWSON,
  SHADOWS,
  THE THANKLESS OFFICE,
  GOING TO THE SPRINGS,
  THE WIFE,
  NOT GREAT BUT HAPPY,
  THE MARRIED SISTERS,
  GOOD-HEARTED PEOPLE,
  SLOW AND SURE,
  THE SCHOOL GIRL,
  UNREDEEMED PLEDGES,
  DON'T MENTION IT,
  THE HEIRESS,





THE BOOK OF MEMORY.




CHAPTER I.


"THERE is a book of record in your mind, Edwin," said an old man to
his young friend, "a book of record, in which every act of your life
is noted down. Each morning a blank page is turned, on which the
day's history is written in lines that cannot be effaced. This book
of record is your memory; and, according to what it bears, will your
future life be happy or miserable. An act done, is done forever;
for, the time in which it is done, in passing, passes to return no
more. The history is written and sealed up. Nothing can ever blot it
out. You may repent of evil, and put away the purpose of evil from
your heart; but you cannot, by any repentance, bring back the time
that is gone, nor alter the writing on the page of memory. Ah! my
young friend, if I could only erase some pages in the book of my
memory, that almost daily open themselves before the eyes of my
mind, how thankful I would be! But this I cannot do. There are acts
of my life for which repentance only avails as a process of
purification and preparation for a better state in the future; it in
no way repairs wrong done to others. Keep the pages of your memory
free from blots, Edwin. Guard the hand writing there as you value
your best and highest interests!"

Edwin Florence listened, but only half comprehended what was said by
his aged friend. An hour afterwards he was sitting by the side of a
maiden, her hand in his, and her eyes looking tenderly upon his
face. She was not beautiful in the sense that the world regards
beauty. Yet, no one could be with her an hour without perceiving the
higher and truer beauty of a pure and lovely spirit. It was this
real beauty of character which had attracted Edwin Florence; and the
young girl's heart had gone forth to meet the tender of affection
with an impulse of gladness.

"You love me, Edith?" said Edwin, in a low voice, as he bent nearer,
and touched her pure forehead with his lips.

"As my life," replied the maiden, and her eyes were full of love as
she spoke.

Again the young man kissed her.

In low voices, leaning towards each other until the breath of each
was warm on the other's cheek, they sat conversing for a long time.
Then they separated; and both were happy. How sweet were the
maiden's dreams that night, for, in every picture that wandering
fancy drew, was the image of her lover!

Daily thus they met for a long time. Then there was a change in
Edwin Florence. His visits were less frequent, and when he met the
young girl, whose very life was bound up in his, his manner had in
it a reserve that chilled her heart as if an icy hand had been laid
upon it. She asked for no explanation of the change; but, as he grew
colder, she shrunk more and more into herself, like a flower folding
its withering leaves when touched by autumn's frosty fingers.

One day he called on Edith. He was not as cold as he had been, but
he was, from some cause, evidently embarrassed.

"Edith," said he, taking her hand--it was weeks since he had touched
her hand except in meeting and parting--"I need not say how highly I
regard you. How tenderly I love you, even as I could love a pure and
gentle sister. But--"

He paused, for he saw that Edith's face had become very pale; and
that she rather gasped for air than breathed.

"Are you sick?" he asked, in a voice of anxiety.

Edith was recovering herself.

"No," she replied, faintly.

A deep silence, lasting for the space of nearly half a minute,
followed. By this time the maiden, through a forced effort, had
regained the command of her feelings. Perceiving this, Edwin
resumed--

"As I said, Edith, I love you as I could love a pure and gentle
sister. Will you accept this love? Will you be to me a friend--a
sister?"

Again there passed upon the countenance of Edith a deadly pallor;
while her lips quivered, and her eyes had a strange expression. This
soon passed away, and again something of its former repose was in
her face. At the first few words of Florence, Edith withdrew the
hand he had taken. He now sought it again, but she avoided the
contact.

"You do not answer me, Edith," said the young man.

"Do you wish an answer?" This was uttered in a scarcely audible
voice.

"I do, Edith," was the earnest reply. "Let there be no separation
between us. You are to me what you have ever been, a dearly prized
friend. I never meet you that my heart does not know an impulse for
good--I never think of you but--"

"Let us be as strangers!" said Edith, rising abruptly. And turning
away, she fled from the room.

Slowly did the young man leave the apartment in which they were
sitting, and without seeing any member of the family, departed from
the house. There was a record on his memory that time would have no
power to efface. It was engraved too deeply for the dust of years to
obliterate. As he went, musing away, the pale face of Edith was
before him; and the anguish of her voice, as she said, "Let us be as
strangers," was in his ears. He tried not to see the one, nor hear
the other. But that was impossible. They had impressed themselves
into the very substance of his mind.

Edwin Florence had an engagement for that very evening. It was with
one of the most brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating women he had
ever met. A few months before, she had crossed his path, and from
that time he was changed towards Edith. Her name was Catharine
Linmore. The earnest attentions of Florence pleased her, and as she
let the pleasure she felt be seen, she was not long in winning his
heart entirely from his first love. In this, she was innocent; for
she knew nothing of the former state of his affections towards
Edith.

After parting with Edith, Edwin had no heart to fulfill his
engagement with Miss Linmore. He could think of nothing but the
maiden he had so cruelly deserted; and more than half repented of
what he had done. When the hour for the appointment came, his mind
struggled awhile in the effort to obtain a consent to go, and then
decided against meeting, at least on that occasion, the woman whose
charms had led him to do so great a wrong to a loving and confiding
heart. No excuse but that of indisposition could be made, under the
circumstances; and, attempting to screen himself, in his own
estimation, from falsehood, he assumed, in his own thoughts, a
mental indisposition, while, in the billet he dispatched, he gave
the idea of bodily indisposition. The night that followed was,
perhaps, the most unhappy one the young man had ever spent. Days
passed, and he heard nothing from Edith. He could not call to see
her, for she had interdicted that. Henceforth they must be as
strangers. The effect produced by his words had been far more
painful than was anticipated; and he felt troubled when he thought
about what might be their ultimate effects.

On the fifth day, as the young man was walking with Catharine
Linmore, he came suddenly face to face with Edith. There was a
change in her that startled him. She looked at him, in passing, but
gave no signs of recognition.

"Wasn't that Miss Walter?" inquired the companion of Edwin, in a
tone of surprise.

"Yes," replied Florence.

"What's the matter with her? Has she been sick? How dreadful she
looks!"

"I never saw her look so bad," remarked the young man. As they
walked along, Miss Linmore kept alluding to Edith, whose changed
appearance had excited her sympathies.

"I've met her only a few times," said she, "but I have seen enough
of her to give me a most exalted opinion of her character. Some one
called her very plain; but I have not thought so. There is something
so good about her, that you cannot be with her long without
perceiving a real beauty in the play of her countenance."

"No one can know her well, without loving her for the goodness of
which you have just spoken," said Edwin.

"You are intimate with her?"

"Yes. She has been long to me as a sister." There was a roughness in
the voice of Florence as he said this.

"She passed without recognizing you," said Miss Linmore.

"So I observed."

"And yet I noticed that she looked you in the face, though with a
cold, stony, absent look. It is strange! What can have happened to
her?"

"I have observed a change in her for some time past," Florence
ventured to say; "but nothing like this. There is something wrong."

When the time to part, with his companion came, Edwin Florence felt
a sense of relief. Weeks now passed without his seeing or hearing
any thing from Edith. During the time he met Miss Linmore
frequently; and encouraged to approach, he at length ventured to
speak to her of what was in his heart. The young lady heard with
pleasure, and, though she did not accept the offered hand, by no
means repulsed the ardent suitor. She had not thought of marriage,
she said, and asked a short time for reflection.

Edwin saw enough in her manner to satisfy him that the result would
be in his favor. This would have made him supremely happy, could he
have blotted out all recollection of Edith and his conduct towards
her. But, that was impossible. Her form and face, as he had last
seen them, were almost constantly before his eyes. As he walked the
streets, he feared lest he should meet her; and never felt pleasant
in any company until certain that she was not there.

A few days after Mr. Florence had made an offer of his hand to Miss
Linmore, and at a time when she was about making a favorable
decision, that young lady happened to hear some allusion made to
Edith Walter, in a tone that attracted her attention. She
immediately asked some questions in regard to her, when one of the
persons conversing said--

"Why, don't you know about Edith?"

"I know that there is a great change in her. But the reason of it I
have not heard."

"Indeed! I thought it was pretty well known that her affections had
been trifled with."

"Who could trifle with the affections of so sweet, so good a girl,"
said Miss Linmore, indignantly. "The man who could turn from her,
has no true appreciation of what is really excellent and exalted in
woman's character. I have seen her only a few times; but, often
enough to make me estimate her as one among the loveliest of our
sex."

"Edwin Florence is the man," was replied. "He won her heart, and
then turned from her; leaving the waters of affection that had
flowed at his touch to lose themselves in the sands at his feet.
There must be something base in the heart of a man who could trifle
thus with such a woman."

It required a strong effort on the part of Miss Linmore to conceal
the instant turbulence of feeling that succeeded so unexpected a
declaration. But she had, naturally, great self-control, and this
came to her aid.

"Edwin Florence!" said she, after a brief silence, speaking in a
tone of surprise.

"Yes, he is the man. Ah, me! What a ruin has been wrought! I never
saw such a change in any one as Edith exhibits. The very inspiration
of her life is gone. The love she bore towards Florence seems to
have been almost the mainspring of her existence; for in touching
that the whole circle of motion has grown feeble, and will, I fear,
soon cease for ever."

"Dreadful! The falsehood of her lover has broken her heart."

"I fear that it is even so."

"Is she ill? I have not seen her for a long time," said Miss
Linmore.

"Not ill, as one sick of a bodily disease; but drooping about as one
whose spirits are broken, and who finds no sustaining arm to lean
upon. When you meet her, she strives to be cheerful, and appear into
rested. But the effort deceives no one."

"Why did Mr. Florence act towards her as he has done?" asked Miss
Linmore.

"A handsomer face and more brilliant exterior were the attractions,
I am told."

The young lady asked no more questions. Those who observed her
closely, saw the warm tints that made beautiful her cheeks grow
fainter and fainter, until they had almost entirely faded. Soon
after, she retired from the company.

In the ardor of his pursuit of a new object of affection, Edwin
Florence scarcely thought of the old one. The image of Edith was
hidden by the interposing form of Miss Linmore. The suspense
occasioned by a wish for time to consider the offer he had made,
grew more and more painful the longer it was continued. On the
possession of the lovely girl as his wife, depended, so he felt, his
future happiness. Were she to decline his offer he would be
wretched. In this state of mind, he called one day upon Miss
Linmore, hoping and fearing, yet resolved to know his fate. The
moment he entered her presence he observed a change. She did not
smile; and there was something chilling in the steady glance of her
large dark eyes.

"Have I offended you?" he asked, as she declined taking his offered
hand.

"Yes," was the firm reply, while the young lady assumed a dignified
air.

"In what?" asked Florence.

"In proving false to her in whose ears you first breathed words of
affection."

The young man started as if stung by a serpent.

"The man," resumed Miss Linmore, "who has been false to Edith
Walter, never can be true to me. I wouldn't have the affection that
could turn from one like her. I hold it to be light as the
thistle-down. Go! heal the heart you have almost broken, if,
perchance, it be not yet too late. As for me, think of me as if we
had all our lives been strangers--such, henceforth, we must ever
remain."

And saying this, Catharine Linmore turned from the rebuked and
astonished young man, and left the room. He immediately retired.




CHAPTER II.


EVENING, with its passionless influences, was stealing softly down,
and leaving on all things its hues of quiet and repose. The heart of
nature was beating with calm and even pulses. Not so the heart of
Edwin Florence. It had a wilder throb; and the face of nature was
not reflected in the mirror of his feelings, He was alone in his
room, where he had been during the few hours that had elapsed since
his interview with Miss Linmore. In those few hours, Memory had
turned over many leaves of the Book of his Life. He would fain have
averted his eyes from the pages, but he could not. The record was
before him, and he had read it. And, as he read, the eyes of Edith
looked into his own; at first they were loving and tender, as of
old; and then, they were full of tears. Her hand lay, now,
confidingly in his; and now it was slowly withdrawn. She sat by his
side, and leaned upon him--his lips were upon her lips; his cheek
touching her cheek; their breaths were mingling. Another moment and
he had turned from her coldly, and she was drooping towards the
earth like a tender vine bereft of the support to which it had held
by its clinging tendrils. Ah! If he could only have shut out these
images! If he could have erased the record so that Memory could not
read it! How eagerly would he have drunk of Lethe's waters, could he
have found the fabled stream!

More than all this. The rebuke of Miss Linmore almost maddened him.
In turning from Edith, he had let his heart go out towards the other
with a passionate devotion. Pride in her beauty and brilliant
accomplishments had filled his regard with a selfishness that could
ill bear the shock of a sudden repulse. Sleepless was the night that
followed; and when the morning, long looked for, broke at last, it
brought no light for his darkened spirit. Yet he had grown calmer,
and a gentle feeling pervaded his bosom. Thrown off by Miss Linmore,
his thoughts now turned by a natural impulse, as the needle, long
held by opposing attraction, turns to its polar point, again towards
Edith Walter. As he thought of her longer and longer, tenderer
emotions began to tremble in his heart. The beauty of her character
was again seen; and his better nature bowed before it once more in a
genuine worship.

"How have I been infatuated! What syren spell has been on me!" Such
were the words that fell from his lips, marking the change in his
feelings.

Days went by, and still the change went on, until the old affection
had come back; the old tender, true affection. But, he had turned
from its object--basely turned away. A more glaring light had
dazzled his eyes so that he could see, for a time, no beauty, no
attraction, in his first love. Could he turn to her again? Would she
receive him? Would she let him dip healing leaves in the waters he
had dashed with bitterness? His heart trembled as he asked these
questions, for there was no confident answer.

At last Edwin Florence resolved that he would see Edith once more,
and seek to repair the wrong done both to her and to himself. It was
three months after his rejection by Miss Linmore when he came to
this resolution. And then, some weeks elapsed before he could force
himself to act upon it. In all that time he had not met the young
girl, nor had he once heard of her. To the house of her aunt, where
she resided, Florence took his way one evening in early autumn, his
heart disturbed by many conflicting emotions. His love for Edith had
come back in full force; and his spirit was longing for the old
communion.

"Can I see Miss Walter!" he asked, on arriving at her place of
residence.

"Walk in," returned the servant who had answered his summons.

Florence entered the little parlor where he had spent so many
never-to-be-forgotten hours with Edith--hours unspeakably happy in
passing, but, in remembrance, burdened with pain--and looking around
on each familiar object with strange emotions. Soon a light step was
heard descending the stairs, and moving along the passage. The door
opened, and Edith--no, her aunt--entered. The young man had risen in
the breathlessness of expectation.

"Mr. Florence," said the aunt, coldly. He extended his hand; but she
did not take it.

"How is Edith?" was half stammered.

"She is sinking rapidly," replied the aunt.

Edwin staggered back into a chair.

"Is she ill?" he inquired, with a quivering lip.

"Ill! She is dying!" There was something of indignation in the way
this was said.

"Dying!" The young man clasped his hands together with a gesture of
despair.

"How long has she been sick?" he next ventured to ask.

"For months she has been dying daily," said the aunt. There was a
meaning in her tones that the young man fully comprehended. He had
not dreamed of this.

"Can I see her?"

The aunt shook her head, as she answered,

"Let her spirit depart in peace."

"I will not disturb, but calm her spirit," said the young man,
earnestly. "Oh, let me see her, that I may call her back to life!"

"It is too late," replied the aunt. "The oil is exhausted, and light
is just departing."

Edwin started to his feet, exclaiming passionately--"Let me see her!
Let me see her!"

"To see her thus, would be to blow the breath that would extinguish
the flickering light," said the aunt. "Go home, young man! It is too
late! Do not seek to agitate the waters long troubled by your hand,
but now subsiding into calmness. Let her spirit depart in peace."

Florence sunk again into his chair, and, hiding his face with his
hands, sat for some moments in a state of a mental paralysis.

In the chamber above lay the pale, almost pulseless form of Edith. A
young girl, who had been as her sister for many years, sat holding
her thin white hand. The face of the invalid was turned to the wall.
Her eyes were closed; and she breathed so quietly that the motions
of respiration could hardly be seen. Nearly ten minutes had elapsed
from the time a servant whispered to the aunt that there was some
one in the parlor, when Edith turned, and said to her companion, in
a low, calm voice--

"Mr. Florence has come."

The girl started, and a flush of surprise went over her face.

"He is in the parlor now. Won't you ask him to come up?" added the
dying maiden, still speaking with the utmost composure.

Her friend stood surprised and hesitating for some moments, and then
turning away, glided from the chamber. She found the aunt and Mr.
Florence in the passage below, the latter pleading with the former
for the privilege of seeing Edith, which was resolutely denied.

"Edith wants to see Mr. Florence," said the girl, as she joined
them.

"Who told her that he was here?" quickly asked the aunt.

"No one. I did not know it myself."

"Her heart told her that I was here," exclaimed Mr. Florence--and,
as he spoke, he glided past the aunt, and, with hurried steps,
ascended to the chamber where the dying one lay. The eyes of Edith
were turned towards the door as he entered; but no sign of emotion
passed over her countenance. Overcome by his feelings, at the sight
of the shadowy remnant of one so loved and so wronged, the young man
sunk into a chair by her side, as nerveless as a child; and, as his
lips were pressed upon her lips and cheeks, her face was wet with
his tears.

Coming in quickly after, the aunt took firmly hold of his arm and
sought to draw him away, but, in a steady voice, the invalid said--

"No--no. I was waiting for him. I have expected him for days. I knew
he would come; and he is here now."

All was silence for many minutes; and during this time Edwin
Florence sat with his face covered, struggling to command his
feelings. At a motion from the dying girl, the aunt and friend
retired, and she was alone with the lover who had been false to his
vows. As the door closed behind them, Edwin looked up. He had grown
calm. With a voice of inexpressible tenderness, he said--

"Live for me, Edith."

"Not here," was answered. "The silver chord will soon be loosened
and the golden bowl broken."

"Oh, say not that! Let me call you back to life. Turn to me again as
I have turned to you with my whole heart. The world is still
beautiful; and in it we will be happy together."

"No, Edwin," replied the dying maiden. "The history of my days here
is written, and the angel is about sealing the record. I am going
where the heart will never feel the touch of sorrow. I wished to see
you once more before I died; and you are here. I have, once more,
felt your breath upon my cheek; once more held your hand in mine.
For this my heart is grateful. You had become the sun of my life,
and when your face was turned away, the flower that spread itself
joyfully in the light, drooped and faded. And now, the light has
come back again; but it cannot warm into freshness and beauty the
withered blossom."

"Oh, my Edith! Say not so! Live for me! I have no thoughts, no
affection that is not for you. The drooping flower will lift itself
again in the sunshine when the clouds have passed away."

As the young man said this, Edith raised herself up suddenly, and,
with a fond gesture, flung herself forward upon his bosom. For a few
moments her form quivered in his arms. Then all became still, and he
felt her lying heavier and heavier against him. In a little while he
was conscious that he clasped to his heart only the earthly
semblance of one who had passed away forever.

Replacing the light and faded form of her who, a little while
before, had been in the vigor of health, upon the bed, Edwin gazed
upon the sunken features for a few moments, and then, leaving a last
kiss upon her cold lips, hurried aware.

Another page in his Book of Life was written, There was another
record there from which memory, in after life, could read. And such
a record! What would he not have given to erase that page!

When the body of Edith Walter was borne to its last resting-place,
Florence was among the mourners. After looking his last look upon
the coffin that contained the body, he went away, sadder in heart
than he had ever been in his life. He was not only a prey to
sadness, but to painful self-accusation. In his perfidy lay the
cause of her death. He had broken the heart that confided in him,
and only repented of his error when it was too late to repair the
ruin.

As to what was thought or said of him by others, Edwin Florence
cared but little. There was enough of pain in his own
self-consciousness. He withdrew himself from the social circle, and,
for several years, lived a kind of hermit-life in the midst of
society. But, he was far from being happy in his solitude; for
Memory was with him, and almost daily, from the Book of his Life,
read to him some darkly written page.

One day, it was three years from the time he parted with Edith in
the chamber of death, and when he was beginning to rise in a measure
above the depressing influences attendant upon that event,--he
received an invitation to make one of a social party on the next
evening. The desire to go back again in society had been gaining
strength with him for some time; and, as it had gained strength,
reason had pointed out the error of his voluntary seclusion as
unavailing to alter the past.

"The past is past," he said to himself, as he mused with the
invitation in his hand. "I cannot recall it--I cannot change it. If
repentance can in any way atone for error, surely I have made
atonement; for my repentance has been long and sincere. If Edith can
see my heart, her spirit must be satisfied. Even she could not wish
for this living burial. It is better for me to mingle in society as
of old."

Acting on this view, Florence made one on the next evening, in a
social party. He felt strangely, for his mind was invaded by old
influences, and touched by old impressions. He saw, in many a light
and airy form, as it glanced before him, the image of one long since
passed away; and heard, in the voices that filled the rooms, many a
tone that it seemed must have come from the lips of Edith. How busy
was Memory again with the past. In vain he sought to shut out the
images that arose in his mind. The page was open before him, and
what was impressed thereon he could not but see and read.

This passed, in some degree, away as the evening progressed, and he
came nearer, so to speak, to some of those who made up the happy
company. Among those present was a young lady from a neighboring
city, who attracted much attention both from her manners and person.
She fixed the eyes of Mr. Florence soon after he entered the room,
and, half unconsciously to himself, his observation was frequently
directed towards her.

"Who is that lady?" he asked of a friend, an hour after his arrival.

"Her name is Miss Welden. She is from Albany."

"She has a very interesting face," said Florence.

"And quite as interesting a mind. Miss Weldon is a charming girl."

Not long after, the two were thrown near together, when an
introduction took place. The conversation of the young lady
interested Florence, and in her society he passed half an hour most
pleasantly. While talking with more than usual animation, in lifting
his eyes he saw that some one on, the opposite side of the room was
observing him attentively. For the moment this did not produce any
effect. But, in looking up again, he saw the same eyes upon him, and
felt their expression as unpleasant. He now, for the first time,
became aware that the aunt of Edith Walter was present. She it was
who had been regarding him so attentively. From that instant his
heart sunk in his bosom. Memory's magic mirror was before him, and
in it he saw pictured the whole scene of that last meeting with
Edith.

A little while afterward, and Edwin Florence was missed from the
pleasant company. Where was he? Alone in the solitude of his own
chamber, with his thoughts upon the past. Again he had been reading
over those pages of his Book of Life in which was written the
history of his intimacy with and desertion of Edith; and the record
seemed as fresh as if made but the day before. It was in vain that
he sought to close or avert his eyes. There seemed a spell upon him;
and he could only look and read.

"Fatal error!" he murmured to himself, as he struggled to free
himself from his thraldom to the past. "Fatal error! How a single
act will curse a man through life. Oh! if I could but extinguish the
whole of this memory! If I could wipe out the hand-writing. Sorrow,
repentance, is of no avail. The past is gone for ever. Why then
should I thus continue to be unhappy over what I cannot alter? It
avails nothing to Edith. She is happy--far happier than if she had
remained on this troublesome earth."

But, even while he uttered these words, there came into his mind
such a realizing sense of what the poor girl must have suffered,
when she found her love thrown back upon her, crushing her heart by
its weight, that he bowed his head upon his bosom and in bitter
self-upbraidings passed the hours until midnight, when sleep locked
up his senses, and calmed the turbulence of his feelings.




CHAPTER III.


MONTHS elapsed before Edwin Florence ventured again into company.

"Why will you shut yourself up after this fashion?" said an
acquaintance to him one day. "It isn't just to your friends. I've
heard half a dozen persons asking for you lately. This hermit life
you are leading is, let me tell you, a very foolish life."

The friend who thus spoke knew nothing of the young man's heart
history.

"No one really misses me," said Florence, in reply.

"In that you are mistaken," returned the friend. "You are missed. I
have heard one young lady, at least, ask for you of late, more than
a dozen times."

"Indeed! A _young_ lady?"

"Yes; and a very beautiful young lady at that."

"In whose eyes can I have found such favor?"

"You have met Miss Clara Weldon?"

"Only once."

"But once!"

"That is all."

"Then it must be a case of love at first sight--at least on the
lady's part--for Miss Weldon has asked for you, to my knowledge, not
less than a dozen times."

"I am certainly flattered at the interest she takes in me."

"Well you may be. I know more than one young man who would sacrifice
a good deal to find equal favor in her eyes. Now see what you have
lost by this hiding of your countenance. And you are not the only
loser."

Florence, who was more pleased at what he heard than he would like
to have acknowledged, promised to come forth from his hiding place
and meet the world in a better spirit. And he did so; being really
drawn back into the social circle by the attraction of Miss Weldon.
At his second meeting with this young lady he was still more charmed
with her than at first; and she was equally well pleased with him. A
few more interviews, and both their hearts were deeply interested.

Now there came a new cause of disquietude to Edwin; or, it might be
said, the old cause renewed. The going out of his affections towards
Miss Weldon revived the whole memory of the past; and, for a time he
found it almost impossible to thrust it from his mind. While sitting
by her side and listening to her voice, the tones of Edith would be
in his ears; and, often, when he looked into her face he would see
only the fading countenance of her who had passed away. This was the
first state, and it was exceedingly painful while it lasted. But, it
gradually changed into one more pleasant, yet not entirely free from
the unwelcome intrusion of the past.

The oftener Florence and Miss Weldon met, the more strongly were
their hearts drawn toward each other; and, at length, the former was
encouraged to make an offer of his hand. In coming to this
resolutions, it was not without passing through a painful conflict.
As his mind dwelt upon the subject, there was a reproduction of old
states. Most vividly did he recall the time when he breathed into
the ears of Edith vows to which he had proved faithless. He had, it
is true, returned to his first allegiance. He had laid his heart
again at her feet; but, to how little purpose! While in this state
of agitation, the young man resolved, more than once, to abandon his
suit for the hand of Miss Weldon, and shrink back again into the
seclusion from which he had come forth. But, his affection for the
lovely girl was too genuine to admit of this. When he thought of
giving her up, his mind was still more deeply disturbed.

"Oh, that I could forget!" he exclaimed, while this struggle was in
progress. "Of what avail is this turning over of the leaves of a
long passed history? I erred--sadly erred! But repentance is now too
late. Why, then should my whole existence be cursed for a single
error? Ah, me! thou not satisfied, departed one? Is it, indeed, from
the presence of thy spirit that I am troubled? My heart sinks at the
thought. But no, no! Thou wert too good to visit pain upon any; much
less upon one who, thou false to thee, thou didst so tenderly love."

But, upon this state there came a natural re-action. A peaceful calm
succeeded the storm. Memory deposited her records in the mind's
dimly lighted chambers. To the present was restored its better
influences.

"I am free again," was the almost audible utterance, of the young
man, so strong was his sense of relief.

An offer of marriage was then made to Miss Weldon. Her heart
trembled with joy when she received it. But confiding implicitly in
her uncle, who had been for the space of ten years her friend and
guardian, she could not give an affirmative reply until his approval
was gained. She, therefore, asked time for reflection and
consultation with her friend.

Far different from what Florence had expected, was the reception of
his offer. To him, Miss Weldon seemed instantly to grow cold and
reserved. Vividly was now recalled his rejection by Miss Linmore, as
well as the ground of her rejection.

"Is this to be gone over again?" he sighed to himself, when alone
once more, "Is that one false step never to be forgotten nor
forgiven? Am I to be followed, through life, by this shadow of
evil?"

To no other cause than this could the mind of Florence attribute the
apparent change and hesitation in Clara Weldon.

Immediately on receiving an offer of marriage, Miss Weldon returned
to Albany. Before leaving, she dropped Florence a note, to the
effect, that he should hear from her in a few days. A week passed,
but the promised word came not. It was, now plain that the friends
of the young lady had been making inquiries about him, and were in
possession of certain facts in his life, which, if known, would
almost certainly blast his hopes of favor in her eyes. While in this
state of uncertainty, he met the aunt of Edith, and the way she
looked at him, satisfied his mind that his conjectures were true. A
little while after a friend remarked to him casually--

"I saw Colonel Richards in town to-day."

"Colonel Richards! Miss Weldon's uncle?"

"Yes. Have you seen him?"

"No. I have not the pleasure of an acquaintance."

"Indeed! I thought you knew him. I heard him mention your name this
morning."

"My name!"

"Yes."

"What had he to say of me?"

"Let me think. Oh! He asked me if I knew you."

"Well?"

"I said that I did, of course and that you were a pretty clever
fellow; though you had been a sad boy in your time."

The face of Florence instantly reddened.

"Why, what's the matter? Oh I understand now! That little niece of
his is one of your flames. But come! Don't take it so to heart. Your
chances are one in ten, I have no doubt. By the way, I haven't seen
Clara for a week. What has become of her? Gone back to Albany, I
suppose. I hope you haven't frightened her with an offer. By the
way, let me whisper a word of comfort in your ear. I heard her say
that she didn't believe in any thing but first love; and, as you are
known to have had half a dozen sweethearts, more or less, and to
have broken the hearts of two or three young ladies, the probability
is, that you won't be able to add her to tie number of your lady
loves."

All this was mere jesting; but the words, though uttered in jest,
fell upon the ears of Edwin Florence with all the force of truth.

"Guilty, on your own acknowledgment," said the friend, seeing the
effect of his words. "Better always to act fairly in these matters
of the heart, Florence. If we sow the wind, we will be pretty sure
to reap the whirlwind. But come; let me take you down to the
Tremont, and introduce you to Colonel Richards. I know he will be
glad to make your acquaintance, and will, most probably, give you an
invitation to go home with him and spend a week. You can then make
all fair with his pretty niece."

"I have no wish to make his acquaintance just at this time,"
returned Florence; "nor do I suppose he cares about making mine,
particularly after the high opinion you gave him of my character."

"Nonsense, Edwin! You don't suppose I said that to him. Can't you
take a joke?"

"Oh, yes; I can take a joke."

"Take that as one, then. Colonel Richards did ask for you, however;
and said that he would like to meet you. He was serious. So come
along, and let me introduce you."

"No; I would prefer not meeting with him at this time."

"You are a strange individual."

The young men parted; Florence to feel more disquieted than ever.
Colonel Richards had been inquiring about him, and, in prosecuting
his inquiries, would, most likely, find some one inclined to relate
the story of Edith Walter. What was more natural? That story once in
the ears of Clara, and he felt that she must turn from him with a
feeling of repulsion.

Three or four days longer he was in suspense. He heard of Col.
Richards from several quarters, and, in each case when he was
mentioned, he was alluded to as making inquiries about him.

"I hear that the beautiful Miss Weldon is to be married," was said
to Florence at a time when he was almost mad with the excitement of
suspense.

"Ah!" he replied, with forced calmness, "I hope she will be
successful in securing a good husband."

"So do I; for she is indeed a sweet girl. I was more than half
inclined to fall in love with her myself; and would leave done so,
if I had believed there was any chance for me."

"Who is the favored one?" asked Florence.

"I have not been able to find out. She received three or four
offers, and went back to Albany to consider them and make her
election. This she has done, I hear; and already, the happy
recipient of her favor is rejoicing over his good fortune. May they
live a thousand years to be happy with each other!"

Here was another drop of bitterness in the cup that was at the lips
of Edwin Florence. He went to his office immediately, and, setting
down, wrote thus to Clara:

"I do not wrongly interpret, I presume, a silence continued far
beyond the time agreed upon when we parted. You have rejected my
suit. Well, be it so; and may you be happy with him who has found
favor in your eyes. I do not think he can love you more sincerely
than I do, or be more devoted to your happiness than I should have
been. It would have relieved the pain I cannot but feel, if you had
deemed my offer worthy a frank refusal. But, to feel that one I have
so truly loved does not think me even deserving of this attention,
is humiliating in the extreme. But, I will not upbraid you.
Farewell! May you be happy."

Sealing Up his epistle, the young man, scarcely pausing even for
hurried reflection, threw it into the post office. This done, he
sunk into a gloomy state of mind, in which mortification and
disappointment struggled alternately for the predominance.

Only a few hours elapsed after the adoption of this hasty course,
before doubts of its propriety began to steal across his mind. It
was possible, it occurred to him, that he might have acted too
precipitately. There might be reasons for the silence of Miss Weldon
entirely separate from those he had been too ready to assume; and,
if so, how strange would his letter appear. It was too late now to
recall the act, for already the mail that bore his letter was half
way from New York to Albany. A restless night succeeded to this day.
Early on the next morning he received a letter. It was in these
words--


"MY DEAR MR. FLORENCE:--I have been very ill, and to-day am able to
sit up just long enough to write a line or two. My uncle was in New
York some days ago, but did not meet with you. Will you not come up
and see me?

"Ever Yours, CLARA WELDON."


Florence was on board the next boat that left New York for Albany.
The letter of Clara was, of course, written before the receipt of
his hasty epistle. What troubled him now was the effect of this
epistle on her mind. He had not only wrongly interpreted her
silence, but had assumed the acceptance of another lover as
confidently as if he knew to an certainty that such was the case.
This was a serious matter and might result in the very thing he had
been so ready to assume--the rejection of his suit.

Arriving at length, in Albany, Mr. Florence sought out the residence
of Miss Weldon.

"Is Colonel Richards at home?" he inquired.

On being answered in the affirmative he sent up his name, with a
request to see him. The colonel made his appearance in short time.
He was a tall, thoughtful looking man, and bowed with a dignified
air as he came into the room.

"How is Miss Weldon?" asked Florence, with an eagerness he could not
restrain.

"Not so well this morning," replied the guardian. "She had a bad
night."

"No wonder," thought the young man, "after receiving that letter."

"She has been sleeping, however since daylight," added Colonel
Richards, "and that is much in her favor."

"She received my letter, I presume," said Florence, in a hesitating
voice.

"A letter came for her yesterday," was replied; "but as she was more
indisposed than usual, we did not give it to her."

"It is as well," said the young man, experiencing a sense of relief.

An hour afterwards he was permitted to enter the chamber, where she
lay supported by pillows. One glance at her face dispelled from his
mind every lingering doubt. He had suffered from imaginary fears,
awakened by the whispers of a troubled conscience.




CHAPTER IV.


IN a few days Clara was well enough to leave her room, and was soon
entirely recovered from her sudden illness. That little matter of
the heart had been settled within three minutes of their meeting,
and they were now as happy as lovers usually are under such
favorable circumstances.

When Edwin Florence went back to New York, it was with a sense of
interior pleasure more perfect than he had experienced for years;
and this would have remained, could he have shut out the past; or,
so much of it as came like an unwelcome intruder. But, alas! this
was not to be. Even while he was bending, in spirit, over the
beautiful image of his last beloved, there would come between his
eyes and that image a pale sad face, in which reproof was stronger
than affection, It was all in vain that he sought to turn from that
face. For a time it would remain present, and then fade slowly away,
leaving his heart oppressed.

"Is it to be ever thus!" he would exclaim, in these seasons of
darkness. "Will nothing satisfy this accusing spirit? Edith! Dear
Edith! Art thou not among the blessed ones? Is not thy heart happy
beyond mortal conception? Then why come to me thus with those
tearful eyes, that shadowy face, those looks of reproof? Have I not
suffered enough for purification! Am I never to be forgiven?"

And then, with an effort, he would turn his eyes from the page laid
open by Memory, and seek to forget what was written there. But it
seemed as if every thing conspired to freshen his remembrance of the
past, the nearer the time approached, when by a marriage union with
one truly beloved, he was to weaken the bonds it had thrown around
him. The marriage of Miss Linmore took place a few weeks after his
engagement with Clara, and as an intimate friend led her to the
altar, he could not decline making one of the number that graced the
nuptial festivities. In meeting the young bride, he endeavored to
push from his mind all thoughts of their former relations. But she
had not done this, and her thought determined his. Her mind recurred
to the former time, the moment he came into her presence, and, of
necessity his went back also. They met, therefore, with a certain
reserve, that was to him most unpleasant, particularly as it stirred
a hundred sleeping memories.

By a strong effort, Florence was able to conceal from other eyes
much of what he felt. In doing this, a certain over action was the
consequence; and he was gayer than usual. Several times he
endeavored to be lightly familiar with the bride; but, in every
instance that he approached her, he perceived a kind of instinctive
shrinking; and, if she was in a laughing mood, when he drew near she
became serious and reserved. All this was too plain to be mistaken;
and like the repeated strokes of a hammer upon glowing iron,
gradually bent his feelings from the buoyant form they had been
endeavoring to assume. The effect was not wholly to be resisted.
More than an hour before the happy assemblage broke up, Florence was
not to be found in the brilliantly lighted rooms. Unable longer to
conceal what he felt, he had retired.

For many days after this, the young man felt sober. "Why haven't you
called to see me?" asked the friend who had married Miss Linmore, a
week or two after the celebration of the nuptials.

Florence excused himself as best he could, and promised to call in a
few days. Two weeks went by without the fulfillment of his promise.

"No doubt, we shall see you next week," said the friend, meeting him
one day about this time; "though I am not so sure we will receive
your visits then."

"Why not?"

"A certain young lady with whom, I believe, you have some
acquaintance, is to spend a short time with us."

"Who?" asked Florence, quickly.

"A young lady from Albany."

"Miss Weldon?"

"The same."

"I was not aware that she was on terms of intimacy with your wife."

"She's an old friend of mine; and, in that sense a friend of
Kate's."

"Then they have not met."

"Oh, yes; frequently. And are warmly attached. We look for a
pleasant visit. But, of course, we shall not expect to see you. That
is understood."

"I rather think you will; that is, if your wife will admit me on
friendly terms."

"Why do you say that?" inquired the friend, appearing a little
surprised.

"I thought, on the night of your wedding, that she felt my presence
as unwelcome to her."

"And is this the reason why you have not called to see us."

"I frankly own that it is."

"Edwin! I am surprised at you. It is all a piece of imagination.
What could have put such a thing into your head?"

"It may have been all imagination. But I couldn't help feelings as I
did. However, you may expect to see me, and that, too, before Miss
Weldon's arrival."

"If you don't present yourself before, I am not so sure that we will
let you come afterwards," said the friend, smiling.

On the next evening the young man called. Mrs. Hartley, the bride of
his friend, endeavored to forget the past, and to receive him with
all the external signs of forgetfulness. But, in this she did not
fully succeed, and, of course, the visit of Florence was painfully
embarrassing, at least, to himself. From that time until the arrival
of Miss Weldon, he felt concerned and unhappy. That Mrs. Hartley
would fully communicate or covertly hint to Clara certain events of
his former life, he had too much reason to fear; and, were this
done, he felt that all his fond hopes would be scattered to the
winds. In due time, Miss Weldon arrived. In meeting her, Florence
was conscious of a feeling of embarrassment, never before
experienced in her presence. He understood clearly why this was so.
At each successive visit his embarrassment increased; and, the more
so, from the fact that he perceived a change in Clara ere she had
been in the city a week. As to the cause of this change, he had no
doubts. It was evident that Mrs. Hartley had communicated certain
matters touching his previous history.

Thus it went on day after day, for two or three weeks, by which time
the lovers met under the influence of a most chilling constraint.
Both were exceedingly unhappy.

One day, in calling as usual, Mr. Florence was surprised to learn
that Clara had gone back to Albany.

"She said, nothing of this last night," remarked the young man to
Mrs. Hartley.

"Her resolution was taken after you went away," was replied.

"And you, no doubt, advised the step," said Mr. Florence, with
ill-concealed bitterness.

"Why do you say that?" was quickly asked.

"How can I draw any other inference?" said the young man, looking at
her with knit brows.

"Explain yourself, Mr. Florence!"

"Do my words need explanation?"

"Undoubtedly! For, I cannot understand them."

"There are events in my past life--I will not say how bitterly
repented--of which only you could have informed her."

"What events?" calmly asked the lady.

"Why lacerate my feelings by such a question?" said Florence, while
a shadow of pain flitted over his face, as Memory presented a record
of the past.

"I ask it with no such intention. I only wish to understand you,"
replied Mrs. Hartley. "You have brought against me a vague
accusation. I wish it distinct, that I may affirm or deny it."

"Edith Walter," said Edwin Florence, in a low, unsteady voice, after
he had been silent for nearly a minute.

Mrs. Hartley looked earnestly into his face. Every muscle was
quivering.

"What of her?" she inquired, in tones quite as low as those in which
the young man had spoken.

"You know the history."

"Well?"

"And, regardless of my suffering and repentance, made known to Clara
the blasting secret."

"No! By my hopes of heaven, no!" quickly exclaimed Mrs. Hartley.

"No?" A quiver ran through the young man's frame.

"No, Mr. Florence! That rested as silently in my own bosom as in
yours."

"Who, then, informed her?"

"No one."

"Has she not heard of it?"

"No."

"Why, then, did she change towards me?"

"You changed, first, towards her."

"Me!"

"Yes. From the day of her arrival in New York, she perceived in you
a certain coldness and reserve, that increased with each repeated
interview."

"Oh, no!"

"It is true. I saw it myself."

Florence clasped his hands together, and bent his eyes in doubt and
wonder upon the floor.

"Did she complain of coldness and change in me?" he inquired.

"Yes, often. And returned, last night, to leave you free, doubting
not that you had ceased to love her."

"Ceased to love her! While this sad work has been going on, I have
loved her with the agony of one who is about losing earth's most
precious thing. Oh! write to her for me, and explain all. How
strange has been my infatuation. Will you write for me?"

"Yes."

"Say that my heart has not turned from her an instant. That her
imagined coldness has made me of all men most wretched."

"I will do so. But why not write yourself?"

"It will be better to come from you. Ask her to return. I would
rather meet her here than in her uncle's house. Urge her to come
back."

Mrs. Hartley promised to do so, according to the wish of Mr.
Florence. Two days passed, and there was no answer. On the morning
of the third day, the young man, in a state of agitation from
suspense called at the house of his friend. After sending up his
name, he sat anxiously awaiting the appearance of Mrs. Hartley. The
door at length opened, and, to his surprise and joy, Clara entered.
She came forward with a smile upon her face, extending her hand as
she did so. Edwin sprang to meet her, and catching her hand, pressed
it eagerly to his lips.

"Strange that we should have so erred in regard to each other," said
Clara, as they sat communing tenderly. "I trust no such error will
come in the future to which I look forward with so many pleasing
hopes."

"Heaven forbid!" replied the young man, seriously.

"But we are in a world of error. Ah! if we could only pass through
life without a mistake. If the heavy weight of repentance did not
lie so often and so long upon our hearts--this would be a far
pleasanter world than it is."

"Do not look so serious," remarked Clara, as she bent forward and
gazed affectionately into the young man's face. "To err is human. No
one here is perfect. How often, for hours, have I mourned over
errors; yet grief was of no avail, except to make my future more
guarded."

"And that was much gained," said Florence, breathing deeply with a
sense of relief. "If we cannot recall and correct the past, we can
at least be more guarded in the future. This is the effect of my own
experience. Ah! if we properly considered the action of our present
upon the future, how guarded would we be. All actions are in the
present, and the moment they are done the present becomes the past,
over which Memory presides. What is past is fixed. Nothing can
change it. The record is in marble, to be seen in all future time."

The serious character of the interview soon changed, and the young
lovers forgot every thing in the joy of their reconciliation.
Nothing arose to mar their intercourse until the appointed time for
the nuptial ceremonies arrived, when they were united in holy
wedlock. But, Edwin Florence did not pass on to this time without
another visit from the rebuking Angel of the past. He was not
permitted to take the hand of Clara in his, and utter the words that
bound him to her forever, without a visit from the one whose heart
he had broken years before. She came to him in the dark and silent
midnight, as he tossed sleeplessly upon his bed, and stood and
looked at him with her pale face and despairing eyes, until he was
driven almost to madness. She was with him when the light of morning
dawned; she moved by his side as he went forth to meet and claim his
betrothed; and was near him, invisible to all eyes but his own, when
he stood at the altar ready to give utterance to the solemn words
that bound him to his bride. And not until these words were said,
did the vision fade away.

No wonder the face of the bridegroom wore a solemn aspect as he
presented himself to the minister, and breathed the vows of eternal
fidelity to the living, while before him, as distinct as if in
bodily form, was the presence of one long since sleeping ill her
grave, who had gone down to her shadowy resting place through his
infidelity.

From this time there was a thicker veil drawn over the past. The
memory of that one event grew less and less distinct; though it was
not obliterated, for nothing that is written in the Book of Life is
ever blotted out. There were reasons, even in long years after his
marriage, when the record stood suddenly before him, as if written
in words of light; and he would turn from it with a feeling of pain.

Thus it is that our present blesses or curses our future. Every act
of our lives affects the coming time for good or evil. We make our
own destiny, and make it always in the present. The past is gone,
the future is yet to come. The present only is ours, and, according
to what we do in the present, will be the records of the past and
its influence on the future. They are only wise who wisely regard
their actions in the present.




THE BRILLIANT AND THE COMMONPLACE.


DAY after day I worked at my life-task, and worked in an earnest
spirit. Not much did I seem to accomplish; yet the little that was
done had on it the impress of good. Still, I was dissatisfied,
because my gifts were less dazzling than those of which many around
me could boast. When I thought of the brilliant ones sparkling in
the firmament of literature, and filling the eyes of admiring
thousands, something like the evil spirit of envy came into my heart
and threw a shadow upon my feelings. I was troubled because I had
not their gifts. I wished to shine with a stronger light. To dazzle,
as well as to warm and vivify.

Not long ago, there came among us one whom nature had richly
endowed. His mind possessed exceeding brilliancy. Flashes of
thought, like lightning from summer cloud, were ever filling the air
around him. There was a stateliness in the movement of his
intellect, and an evidence of power, that oppressed you at times
with wonder.

Around him gathered the lesser lights in the hemisphere of thought,
and veiled their feeble rays beneath his excessive brightness. He
seemed conscious of his superior gifts and displayed them more like
a giant beating the air to excite wonder, than putting forth his
strength to accomplish a good and noble work. Still, I was oppressed
and paralyzed by the sphere of his presence. I felt puny and weak
beside him, and unhappy because I was not gifted with equal power.

It so happened that a work of mine, upon which the maker's name was
not stamped--work done with a purpose of good--was spoken of and
praised by one who did not know me as the handicraftsman.

"It is tame, dull, and commonplace," said the brilliant one, in a
tone of contempt; and there were many present to agree with him.

Like the strokes of a hammer upon my heart, came these words of
condemnation. "Tame, dull, and commonplace!" And was it, indeed, so?
Yes; I felt that what he uttered was true. That my powers were
exceedingly limited, and my gifts few. Oh, what would I not have
then given for brilliant endowments like those possessed by him from
whom had fallen the words of condemnation?

"You will admit," said one--I thought it strange at the time that
there should be even one to speak a word in favor of my poor
performance--"that it will do good?"

"Good!" was answered, in a tone slightly touched by contempt. "Oh,
yes; it will do good!" and the brilliant one tossed his head.
"Anybody can do good!"

I went home with a perturbed spirit. I had work to do; but I could
not do it. I sat down and tried to forget what I had heard. I tried
to think about the tasks that were before me. "Tame, dull, and
commonplace!" Into no other form would my thoughts come.

Exhausted, at last, by this inward struggle, I threw myself upon my
bed, and soon passed into the land of dreams.

Dream-land! Thou art thought by many to be _only_ a land of fantasy
and of shadows. But it is not so. Dreams, for the most part, _are_
fantastic; but all are not so. Nearer are we to the world of
spirits, in sleep; and, at times, angels come to us with lessons of
wisdom, darkly veiled under similitude, or written in characters of
light.

I passed into dream-land; but my thoughts went on in the same
current. "Tame, dull, and commonplace!" I felt the condemnation more
strongly than before.

I was out in the open air, and around me were mountains, trees,
green fields, and running waters; and above all bent the sky in its
azure beauty. The sun was just unveiling his face in the east, and
his rays were lighting up the dew-gems on a thousand blades of
grass, and making the leaves glitter as if studded with diamonds.

"How calm and beautiful!" said a voice near me. I turned, and one
whose days were in the "sear and yellow leaf," stood by my side.

"But all is tame and commonplace," I answered. "We have this over
and over again, day after day, month after month, and year after
year. Give me something brilliant and startling, if it be in the
fiery comet or the rushing storm. I am sick of the commonplace!"

"And yet to the commonplace the world is indebted for every great
work and great blessing. For everything good, and true, and
beautiful!"

I looked earnestly into the face of the old man. He went on.

"The truly good and great is the useful; for in that is the Divine
image. Softly and unobtrusively has the dew fallen, as it falls
night after night. Silently it distilled, while the vagrant meteors
threw their lines of dazzling light across the sky, and men looked
up at them in wonder and admiration. And now the soft grass, the
green leaves, and the sweet flowers, that drooped beneath the
fervent heat of yesterday, are fresh again and full of beauty, ready
to receive the light and warmth of the risen sun, and expand with, a
new vigor. All this may be tame, and commonplace; but is it not a
great and a good work that has been going on?

"The tiller of the soil is going forth again to his work. Do not
turn your eyes from him, and let a feeling of impatience stir in
your heart because he is not a soldier rushing to battle, or a
brilliant orator holding thousands enchained by the power of a
fervid eloquence that is born not so much of good desires for his
fellow-men as from the heat of his own self-love. Day after day, as
now, patient, and hopeful, the husbandman enters upon the work that
lies before him, and, hand in hand with God's blessed sunshine,
dews, and rain, a loving and earnest co-laborer, brings forth from
earth's treasure-house of blessings good gifts for his fellow-men.
Is all this commonplace? How great and good is the commonplace!"

I turned to answer the old man, but he was gone. I was standing on a
high mountain, and beneath me, as far as the eye could reach, were
stretched broad and richly cultivated fields; and from a hundred
farm-houses went up the curling smoke from the fires of industry.
Fields were waving with golden grain, and trees bending with their
treasures of fruit. Suddenly, the bright sun was veiled in clouds,
that came whirling up from the horizon in dark and broken masses,
and throwing a deep shadow over the landscape just before bathed in
light. Calmly had I surveyed the peaceful scene spread out before
me. I was charmed with its quiet beauty. But now, stronger emotions
stirred within me.

"Oh, this is sublime!" I murmured, as I gazed upon the cloudy hosts
moving across the heavens in battle array.

A gleam of lightning sprang forth from a dark cavern in the sky, and
then, far off, rattled and jarred the echoing thunder. Next came the
rushing and roaring wind, bending the giant-limbed oaks as if they
were but wands of willow, and tearing up lesser trees as a child
tears up from its roots a weed or flower.

In this war of elements I stood, with my head bared, and clinging to
a rock, mad with a strange and wild delight.

"Brilliant! Sublime! Grand beyond the power of descriptions," I said,
as the storm deepened in intensity.

"An hour like this is worth all the commonplace, dull events of a
lifetime."

There came a stunning crash in the midst of a dazzling glare. For
some moments I was blinded. When sight was restored, I saw, below
me, the flames curling upward from a dwelling upon which the fierce
lightning had fallen.

"What majesty! what awful sublimity!" said I, aloud. I thought not
of the pain, and terror, and death that reigned in the human
habitation upon which the bolt of destruction had fallen, but of the
sublime power displayed in the strife of the elements.

There was another change. I no longer stood on the mountain, with
the lightning and tempest around me; but was in the valley below,
down upon which the storm had swept with devastating fury. Fields of
grain were level with the earth; houses destroyed; and the trophies
of industry marred in a hundred ways.

"How sublime are the works of the tempest!" said a voice near me. I
turned, and the old man was again at my side.

But I did not respond to his words.

"What majesty! What awful sublimity and power!" continued the old
man. "But," he added, in a changed voice, "there is a higher power
in the gentle rain than lies in the rushing tempest. The power to
destroy is an evil power, and has bounds beyond which it cannot go.
But the gentle rain that falls noiselessly to the earth, is the
power of restoration and recreation. See!"

I looked, and a mall lay upon the ground apparently lifeless. He had
been struck down by the lightning. His pale face was upturned to the
sky, and the rain shaken free from the cloudy skirts of the retiring
storm, was falling upon it. I continued to gaze upon the force of
the prostrate man, until there came into it a flush of life. Then
his limbs quivered; he threw his arms about. A groan issued from his
constricted chest. In a little while, he arose.

"Which is best? Which is most to be loved and admired?" said the old
Man. "The wild, fierce, brilliant tempest, or the quiet rain that
restores the image of life and beauty which the tempest has
destroyed? See! The gentle breezes are beginning to move over the
fields, and, hand in hand with the uplifting sunlight, to raise the
rain that has been trodden beneath the crushing heel of the tempest,
whose false sublimity you so much admired. There is nothing
startling and brilliant in this work; but it is a good and a great
work, and it will go on silently and efficiently until not a trace
of the desolating storm can be found. In the still atmosphere,
unseen, but all-potent, lies a power ever busy in the work of
creating and restoring; or, in other words, in the commonplace work
of doing good. Which office would you like best to assume--which is
the most noble--the office of the destroyer or the restorer?"

I lifted my eyes again, and saw men busily engaged in blotting out
the traces of the storm, and in restoring all to its former use and
beauty.

Builders were at work upon the house which had been struck by
lightning, and men engaged in repairing fences, barns, and other
objects upon which had been spent the fury of the excited elements.
Soon every vestige of the destroyer was gone.

"Commonplace work, that of nailing on boards and shingles," said the
old man; "of repairing broken fences; of filling up the deep
foot-prints of the passing storm; but is it not a noble work? Yes;
for it is ennobled by its end. Far nobler than the work of the
brilliant tempest, which moved but to destroy."

The scene changed once more. I was back again from the land of
dreams and similitudes. It was midnight, and the moon was shining in
a cloudless sky. I arose, and going to the window, sat and looked
forth, musing upon my dream. All was hushed as if I were out in the
fields, instead of in the heart of a populous city. Soon came the
sound of footsteps, heavy and measured, and the watchman passed on
his round of duty. An humble man was he, forced by necessity into
his position, and rarely thought of and little regarded by the many.
There was nothing brilliant about him to attract the eye and extort
admiration. The man and his calling were commonplace. He passed on;
and, as his form left my eye, the thought of him passed from my
mind. Not long after, unheralded by the sound of footsteps, came one
with a stealthy, crouching air; pausing now, and listening; and now
looking warily from side to side. It was plain that he was on no
errand of good to his fellowmen. He, too, passed on, and was lost to
my vision.

Many minutes went by, and I still remained at the window, musing
upon the subject of my dream, when I was startled by a cry of terror
issuing from a house not far away. It was the cry of a woman.
Obeying the instinct of my feelings, I ran into the street and made
my way hurriedly towards the spot from which the cry came.

"Help! help! murder!" shrieked a woman from the open window.

I tried the street door of the house, but it was fastened. I threw
myself against it with all my strength, and it yielded to the
concussion. As I entered the dark passage, I found myself suddenly
grappled by a strong man, who threw me down and held me by the
throat. I struggled to free myself, but in vain. His grip tightened.
In a few moments I would have been lifeless. But, just at the
instant when consciousness was about leaving me, the guardian of the
night appeared. With a single stroke of his heavy mace, he laid the
midnight robber and assassin senseless upon the floor.

How instantly was that humble watchman ennobled in my eyes! How high
and important was his use in society! I looked at him from a new
standpoint, and saw him in a new relation.

"Commonplace!" said I, on regaining my own room in my own house,
panting from the excitement and danger to which I had been
subjected. "Commonplace! Thank God for the commonplace and the
useful!"

Again I passed into the land of dreams, where I found myself walking
in a pleasant way, pondering the theme which had taken such entire
possession of my thoughts. As I moved along, I met the gifted one
who had called my work dull and commonplace; that work was a simple
picture of human life; drawn for the purpose of inspiring the reader
with trust in God and love towards his fellow-man. He addressed me
with the air of one who felt that he was superior, and led off the
conversation by a brilliant display of words that half concealed,
instead of making clear, his ideas. Though I perceived this, I was
yet affected with admiration. My eyes were dazzled as by a glare of
light.

"Yes, yes," I sighed to myself; "I am dull, tame, and commonplace
beside these children of genius. How poor and mean is the work that
comes from my hands!"

"Not so!" said my companion. I turned to look at him; but the gifted
being stood not by my side. In his place was the ancient one who had
before spoken to me in the voice of wisdom.

"Not so!" he continued. "Nothing that is useful is poor and mean.
Look up! In the fruit of our labor is the proof of its quality."

I was in the midst of a small company, and the gifted being whose
powers I had envied was there, the centre of attraction and the
observed of all observers. He read to those assembled from a book;
and what he read flashed with a brightness that was dazzling. All
listened in the most rapt attention, and, by the power of what the
gifted one read, soared now, in thought, among the stars, spread
their wings among the swift-moving tempest, or descended into the
unknown depths of the earth. As for myself, my mind seemed endowed
with new faculties, and to rise almost into the power of the
infinite.

"Glorious! Divine! Godlike!" Such were the admiring words that fell
from the lips of all.

And then the company dispersed. As we went forth from the room in
which we had assembled, we met numbers who were needy, and sick, and
suffering; mourners, who sighed for kind words from the comforter:
little children, who had none to love and care for them; the faint
and weary, who needed kind hands to help them on their toilsome
journey. But no human sympathies were stirring in our hearts. We had
been raised, by the power of the genius we so much admired, far
above the world and its commonplace sympathies. The wings of our
spirits were still beating the air, far away in the upper regions of
transcendant thought.

Another change came. I saw a woman reading from the same book from
which the gifted one had read. Ever and anon she paused, and gave
utterance to words of admiration.

"Beautiful! beautiful!" fell, ever and anon, from her lips; and she
would lift her eyes, and muse upon what she was reading. As she sat
thus, a little child entered the room. He was crying.

"Mother! mother!" said the child, "I want--"

But the mother's thoughts were far above the regions of the
commonplace. Her mind was in a world of ideal beauty. Disturbed by
the interruption, a slight frown contracted on her beautiful brows
as she arose and took her child by the arm to thrust it from the
room.

A slight shudder went through my frame as I marked the touching
distress that overspread the countenance of the child as it looked
up into its mother's face and saw nothing there but an angry frown.

"Every thought is born of affection," said the old man, as this
scene faded away, "and has in it the quality of the life that gave
it birth; and when that thought is reproduced in the mind of
another, it awakens its appropriate affection. If there had been a
true love of his neighbor in the mind of the gifted one when he
wrote the book from which the mother read, and if his purpose had
been to inspire with human emotions--and none but these are
God-like--the souls of men, his work would have filled the heart of
that mother with a deeper love of her child, instead of freezing in
her bosom the surface of love's celestial fountain. To have
hearkened to the grief of that dear child, and to have ministered to
its comfort, would have been a commonplace act, but, how truly noble
and divine! And now, look again, and let what passes before you give
strength to your wavering spirits."

I lifted my eyes, and saw a man reading, and I knew that he read
that work of mine which the gifted one had condemned as dull, and
tame, and commonplace. And, moreover, I knew that he was in trouble
so deep as to be almost hopeless of the future, and just ready to
give up his life-struggle, and let his hands fall listless and
despairing by his side. Around him were gathered his wife and his
little ones, and they were looking to him, but in vain, for the help
they needed.

As the man read, I saw a light come suddenly into his face. He
paused, and seemed musing for a time; and his eyes gleamed quickly
upwards, and as his lips parted, these words came forth: "Yes, yes;
it must be so. God is merciful as he is wise, and will not forsake
his creatures. He tries us in the fires of adversity but to consume
the evil of our hearts. I will trust him, and again go forth, with
my eyes turned confidingly upwards." And the man went forth in the
spirit of confidence in Heaven, inspired by what I had written.

"Look again," said the one by my side.

I looked, and saw the same man in the midst of a smiling family. His
countenance was full of life and happiness, for his trust had not
been in vain. As I had written, so he had found it. God is good, and
lets no one feel the fires of adversity longer than is necessary for
his purification from evil.

"Look again!" came like tones of music to my ear.

I looked, and saw one lying upon a bed. By the lines upon his brow,
and the compression of his lips, it was evident that he was in
bodily suffering. A book lay near him; it was written by the gifted
one, and was full of bright thoughts and beautiful images. He took
it, and tried to forget his pain in these thoughts and images. But
in this he did not succeed, and soon laid it aside with a groan of
anguish. Then there was handed to him my poor and commonplace work;
and he opened the pages and began to read. I soon perceived that an
interest was awakened in his mind. Gradually the contraction of his
brow grew less severe, and, in a little while, he had forgotten his
pain.

"I will be more patient," said he, in a calm voice, after he had
read for a long time with a deep interest. "There are many with pain
worse than mine to bear, who have none of the comforts and blessings
so freely scattered along my way through life."

And then he gave directions to have relief sent to one and another
whom he now remembered to be in need.

"It is a good work that prompts to good in others," said the old
man. "What if it be dull and tame--commonplace to the few--it is a
good gift to the world, and thousands will bless the giver. Look
again!"

An angry mother, impatient and fretted by the conduct of a froward
child, had driven her boy from her presence, when, if she had
controlled her own feelings, she might have drawn him to her side
and subdued him by the power of affection. She was unhappy, and her
boy had received an injury.

The mother was alone. Before her was a table covered with books, and
she took up one to read. I knew the volume; it was written by one
whose genius had a deep power of fascination. Soon the mother became
lost in its exciting pages, and remained buried in them for hours.
At length, after turning the last page, she closed the book; and
then came the thought of her wayward boy. But, her feelings toward
him had undergone no change; she was still angry, because of his
disobedience.

Another book lay upon the table; a book of no pretensions, and
written with the simple purpose of doing good. It was commonplace,
because it dealt with things in the common life around us. The
mother took this up, opened to the title-page, turned a few leaves,
and then laid it down again; sat thoughtful for some moments, and
then sighed. Again she lifted the book, opened it, and commenced
reading. In a little while she was all attention, and ere long I saw
a tear stealing forth upon her cheeks. Suddenly she closed the book,
evincing strong emotion as she did so, and, rising up, went from the
room. Ascending to a chamber above, she entered, and there found the
boy at play. He looked towards her, and, remembering her anger, a
shadow flitted across his face. But his mother smiled and looked
kindly towards him. Instantly the boy dropped his playthings, and
sprung to her side. She stooped and kissed him.

"Oh, mother! I do love you, and I will try to be good!"

Blinding tears came to my eyes, and I saw this scene no longer. I
was out among the works of nature, and my instructor was by my side.

"Despise not again the humble and the commonplace," said he, "for
upon these rest the happiness and well-being of the world. Few can
enter into and appreciate the startling and the brilliant, but
thousands and tens of thousands can feel and love the commonplace
that comes to their daily wants, and inspires them with a mutual
sympathy. Go on in your work. Think it rot low and mean to speak
humble, yet true and fitting words for the humble; to lift up the
bowed and grieving spirit; to pour the oil and wine of consolation
for the poor and afflicted. It is a great and a good work--the very
work in which God's angels delight. Yea, in doing this work, you are
brought nearer in spirit to Him who is goodness and greatness
itself, for all his acts are done with the end of blessing his
creatures."

There was another change. I was awake. It was broad daylight, and
the sun had come in and awakened me with a kiss. Again I resumed my
work, content to meet the common want in my labors, and let the more
gifted and brilliant ones around me enjoy the honors and fame that
gathered in cloudy incense around them.

It is better to be loved by the many, than admired by the few.




JENNY LAWSON.



CHAPTER I.


MARK CLIFFORD had come up from New York to spend a few weeks with
his maternal grandfather, Mr. Lofton, who lived almost alone on his
beautiful estate a few miles from the Hudson, amid the rich valleys
of Orange county. Mr. Lofton belonged to one of the oldest families
in the country, and retained a large portion of that aristocratic
pride for which they were distinguished. The marriage of his
daughter to Mr. Clifford, a merchant of New York, had been strongly
opposed on the ground that the alliance was degrading--Mr. Clifford
not being able to boast of an ancestor who was anything more than an
honest man and a useful citizen. A closer acquaintance with his
son-in-law, after the marriage took place, reconciled Mr. Lofton in
a good measure to the union; for he found Mr. Clifford to be a man
of fine intelligence, gentlemanly feeling, and withal, tenderly
attached to his daughter. The marriage was a happy one--and this is
rarely the case when the external and selfish desire to make a good
family connection is regarded above the mental and moral qualities
on which a true union only can be based.

A few years previous to the time at which our story opens, Mrs.
Clifford died, leaving one son and two daughters. Mark, the oldest
of the children, was in his seventeenth year at the time the sad
bereavement occurred--the girls were quite young. He had always been
an active boy--ever disposed to get beyond the judicious restraints
which his parents wisely sought to throw around him. After his
mother's death, he attained a wider liberty. He was still at college
when this melancholy event occurred, and continued there for two
years; but no longer in correspondence with, and therefore not under
the influence of one whose love for him sought ever to hold him back
from evil, his natural temperament led him into the indulgence of a
liberty that too often went beyond the bounds of propriety.

On leaving college Mr. Clifford conferred with his son touching the
profession he wished to adopt, and to his surprise found him bent on
entering the navy. All efforts to discourage the idea were of no
avail. The young man was for the navy and nothing else. Yielding at
last to the desire of his son, Mr. Clifford entered the usual form
of application at the Navy Yard in Washington, but, at the same
time, in a private letter to the Secretary, intimated his wish that
the application might not be favorably considered.

Time passed on, but Mark did not receive the anxiously looked for
appointment. Many reasons were conjectured by the young man, who, at
last, resolved on pushing through his application, if personal
efforts could be of any avail. To this end, he repaired to the seat
of government, and waited on the Secretary. In his interviews with
this functionary, some expressions were dropped that caused a
suspicion of the truth to pass through his mind. A series of rapidly
recurring questions addressed to the Secretary were answered in a
way that fully confirmed this suspicion. The effect of this upon the
excitable and impulsive young man will appear as our story
progresses.

It was while Mark's application was pending, and a short time before
his visit to Washington, that he came up to Fairview, the residence
of his grandfather. Mark had always been a favorite with the old
gentleman, who rather encouraged his desire to enter the navy.

"The boy will distinguish himself," Mr. Lofton would say, as he
thought over the matter. And the idea of distinction in the army or
navy, was grateful to his aristocratic feelings. "There is some of
the right blood in his veins for all."

One afternoon, some two or three days after the young man came up to
Fairview, he was returning from a ramble in the woods with his gun,
when he met a beautiful young girl, simply attired, and bearing on
her head a light bundle of grain which she had gleaned in a
neighboring field. She was tripping lightly along, singing as gaily
as a bird, when she came suddenly upon the young man, over whose
face there passed an instant glow of admiration. Mark bowed and
smiled, the maiden dropped a bashful courtesy, and then each passed
on; but neither to forget the other. When Mark turned, after a few
steps, to gaze after the sweet wild flower he had met so
unexpectedly, he saw the face again, for she had turned also. He did
not go home on that evening, until he had seen the lovely being who
glanced before him in her native beauty, enter a neat little cottage
that stood half a mile from Fairview, nearly hidden by vines, and
overshadowed by two tall sycamores.

On the next morning Mark took his way toward the cottage with his
gun. As he drew near, the sweet voice he had heard on the day before
was warbling tenderly an old song his mother had sung when he was
but a child; and with the air and words so well remembered, came a
gentleness of feeling, and a love of what was pure and innocent,
such as he had not experienced for many years. In this state of mind
he entered the little porch, and stood listening for several minutes
to the voice that still flung itself plaintively or joyfully upon
the air, according to the sentiment breathed in the words that were
clothed in music; then as the voice became silent, he rapped gently
at the door, which, in a few moments, was opened by the one whose
attractions had drawn him thither.

A warm color mantled the young girl's face as her eyes fell upon so
unexpected a visitor. She remembered him as the young man she had
met on the evening before; about whom she had dreamed all night, and
thought much since the early morning. Mark bowed, and, as an excuse
for calling, asked if her mother were at home.

"My mother died when I was but a child," replied the girl, shrinking
back a step or two; for Mark was gazing earnestly into her face.

"Ah! Then you are living with your--your--"

"Mrs. Lee has been a mother to me since then," said she, dropping
her eyes to the floor.

"Then I will see the good woman who has taken your mother's place."
Mark stepped in as he spoke, and took a chair in the neat little
sitting room into which the door opened.

"She has gone over to Mr. Lofton's," said the girl, in reply, "and
won't be back for an hour."

"Has she, indeed? Then you know Mr. Lofton?"

"Oh, yes. We know him very well. He owns our little cottage."

"Does he! No doubt you find him a good landlord."

"He's a kind man," said the girl, earnestly.

"He is, as I have good reason to know," remarked the young man. "Mr.
Lofton is my grandfather."

The girl seemed much surprised at this avowal, and appeared less at
ease than before.

"And now, having told you who I am," said Mark, "I think I may be
bold enough to ask your name."

"My name is Jenny Lawson," replied the girl.

"A pretty name, that--Jenny--I always liked the sound of it. My
mother's name was Jenny. Did you ever see my mother? But don't
tremble so! Sit down, and tell your fluttering heart to be still."

Jenny sunk into a chair, her bosom heaving, and the crimson flush
still glowing on her cheeks, while Mark gazed into her face with
undisguised admiration.

"Who would have thought," said he to himself, "that so sweet a wild
flower grew in this out of the way place."

"Did you ever see my mother, Jenny?" asked the young man, after she
was a little composed.

"Mrs. Clifford?"

"Yes."

"Often."

"Then we will be friends from this moment, Jenny. If you knew my
mother then, you must have loved her. She has been dead now over
three years."

There was a shade of sadness in the young man's voice as he said
this.

"When did you see her last?" he resumed.

"The summer before she died she came up from New York and spent two
or three weeks here. I saw her then, almost every day."

"And you loved my mother? Say you did!"

The young man spoke with a rising emotion that he could not
restrain.

"Every body loved her," replied Jenny, simply and earnestly.

For a few moments Mark concealed his face with his hands, to hide
the signs of feeling that were playing over it; then looking up
again, he said--

"Jenny, because you knew my mother and loved her, we must be
friends. It was a great loss to me when she died. The greatest loss
I ever had, or, it may be, ever will have. I have been worse since
then. Ah me! If she had only lived!"

Again Mark covered his face with his hands, and, this time, he could
not keep the dimness from his eyes.

It was a strange sight to Jenny to see the young man thus moved. Her
innocent heart was drawn toward him with a pitying interest, and she
yearned to speak words of comfort, but knew not what to say.

After Mark grew composed again, he asked Jenny a great many
questions touching her knowledge of his mother; and listened with
deep interest and emotion to many little incidents of Jenny's
intercourse with her, which were related with all the artlessness
and force of truth. In the midst of this singular interview, Mrs.
Lee came in and surprised the young couple, who, forgetting all
reserve, were conversing with an interest in their manner, the
ground of which she might well misunderstand. Jenny started and
looked confused, but, quickly recovering herself, introduced Mark as
the grandson of Mr. Lofton.

The old lady did not respond to this with the cordiality that either
of the young folks had expected. No, not by any means. A flush of
angry suspicion came into her face, and she said to Jenny as she
handed her the bonnet she hurriedly removed--

"Here--take this into the other room and put it away."

The moment Jenny retired, Mrs. Lee turned to Mark, and after looking
at him somewhat sternly for a moment, surprised him with this
speech--

"If I ever find you here again, young man, I'll complain to your
grandfather."

"Will you, indeed!" returned Mark, elevating his person, and looking
at the old lady with flashing eyes. "And pray, what will you say to
the old gentleman?"

"Fine doings, indeed, for the likes o' you to come creeping into a
decent woman's house when she is away!" resumed Mrs. Lee. "Jenny's
not the kind you're looking after, let me tell you. What would your
poor dear mother, who is in heaven, God bless her! think, if she
knew of this?"

The respectful and even affectionate reference to his mother,
softened the feelings of Mark, who was growing very angry.

"Good morning, old lady," said he, as he turned away; "you don't
know what you're talking about!" and springing from the door, he
hurried off with rapid steps. On reaching a wood that lay at some
distance off, Mark sought a retired spot, near where a quiet stream
went stealing noiselessly along amid its alder and willow-fringed
banks, and sitting down upon a grassy spot, gave himself up to
meditation. Little inclined was he now for sport. The birds sung in
the trees above him, fluttered from branch to branch, and even
dipped their wings in the calm waters of the stream, but he heeded
them not. He had other thoughts. Greatly had old Mrs. Lee, in the
blindness of her suddenly aroused fears, wronged the young man. If
the sphere of innocence that was around the beautiful girl had not
been all powerful to subdue evil thoughts and passions in his
breast, the reference to his mother would have been effectual to
that end.

For half an hour had Mark remained seated alone, busy, with thoughts
and feelings of a less wandering and adventurous character than
usually occupied his mind, when, to his surprise, he saw Jenny
Lawson advancing along a path that led through a portion of the
woods, with a basket on her arm. She did not observe him until she
had approached within some fifteen or twenty paces; when he arose to
his feet, and she, seeing him, stopped suddenly, and looked pale and
alarmed.

"I am glad to meet you again, Jenny," said Mark, going quickly
toward her, and taking her hand, which she yielded without
resistance. "Don't be frightened. Mrs. Lee did me wrong. Heaven
knows I would not hurt a hair of your head! Come and sit down with
me in this quiet place, and let us talk about my mother. You say you
knew her and loved her. Let her memory make us friends."

Mark's voice trembled with feeling. There was something about the
girl that made the thought of his mother a holier and tenderer
thing. He had loved his mother intensely, and since her death, had
felt her loss as the saddest calamity that had, or possibly ever
could, befall him. Afloat on the stormy sea of human life, he had
seemed like a mariner without helm or compass. Strangely enough,
since meeting with Jenny at the cottage a little while before, the
thought of her appeared to bring his mother nearer to him; and when,
so unexpectedly, he saw her approaching him in the woods, he felt
momentarily, that it was his mother's spirit guiding her thither.

Urged by so strong an appeal, Jenny suffered herself to be led to
the retired spot where Mark had been reclining, half wondering, half
fearful--yet impelled by a certain feeling that she could not well
resist. In fact, each exercised a power over the other, a power not
arising from any determination of will, but from a certain spiritual
affinity that neither comprehended. Some have called this "destiny,"
but it has a better name.

"Jenny," said Mark, after they were seated--he still retained her
hand in his, and felt it tremble--"tell me something about my
mother. It will do me good to hear of her from your lips."

The girl tried to make some answer, but found no utterance. Her lips
trembled so that she could not speak. But she grew more composed
after a time, and then in reply to many questions of Mark, related
incident after incident, in which his mother's goodness of character
stood prominent. The young man listened intently, sometimes with his
eyes upon the ground, and sometimes gazing admiringly into the sweet
face of the young speaker.

Time passed more rapidly than either Mark or Jenny imagined. For
full an hour had they been engaged in earnest conversation, when
both were painfully surprised by the appearance of Mrs. Lee, who had
sent Jenny on an errand, and expected her early return. A suspicion
that she might encounter young Clifford having flashed through the
old woman's mind, she had come forth to learn if possible the cause
of Jenny's long absence. To her grief and anger, she discovered them
sitting together engaged in earnest conversation.

"Now, Mark Clifford!" she exclaimed as she advanced, "this is too
bad! And Jenny, you weak and foolish girl! are you madly bent on
seeking the fowler's snare? Child! child! is it thus you repay me
for my love and care over you!"

Both Mark and Jenny started to their feet, the face of the former
flushed with instant anger, and that of the other pale from alarm.

"Come!" and Mrs. Lee caught hold of Jenny's arm and drew her away.
As they moved off, the former, glancing back at Mark, and shaking
her finger towards him, said--

"I'll see your grandfather, young man!"

Fretted by this second disturbance of an interview with Jenny, and
angry at an unjust imputation of motive, Mark dashed into the woods,
with his gun in his hand, and walked rapidly, but aimlessly, for
nearly an hour, when he found himself at the summit of a high
mountain, from which, far down and away towards the east, he could
see the silvery Hudson winding along like a vein of silver. Here,
wearied with his walk, and faint in spirit from over excitement, he
sat down to rest and to compose his thoughts. Scarcely intelligible
to himself were his feelings. The meeting with Jenny, and the effect
upon him, were things that he did not clearly understand. Her
influence over him was a mystery. In fact, what had passed so
hurriedly, was to him more like a dream than a reality.

No further idea of sport entered the mind of the young man on that
day. He remained until after the sun had passed the meridian in this
retired place, and then went slowly back, passing the cottage of
Mrs. Lee on his return. He did not see Jenny as he had hoped. On
meeting Mr. Lofton, Mark became aware of a change in the old man's
feelings towards him, and he guessed at once rightly as to the
cause. If he had experienced any doubts, they would have been
quickly removed.

"Mark!" said the old gentleman, sternly, almost the moment the
grandson came into his presence, "I wish you to go back to New York
to-morrow. I presume I need hardly explain my reason for this wish,
when I tell you that I have just had a visit from old Mrs. Lee."

The fiery spirit of Mark was stung into madness by this further
reaction on him in a matter that involved nothing of criminal
intent. Impulsive in his feelings, and quick to act from them, he
replied with a calmness and even sadness in his voice that Mr.
Lofton did not expect--the calmness was from a strong effort: the
sadness expressed his real feelings:

"I will not trouble you with my presence an hour longer. If evil
arise from this trampling of good impulse out of my heart, the sin
rest on your own head. I never was and never can be patient under a
false judgment. Farewell, grandfather! We may never meet again. If
you hear of evil befalling me, think of it as having some connection
with this hour."

With these words Mark turned away and left the house. The old man,
in grief and alarm at the effect of his words, called after him, but
he heeded him not.

"Run after him, and tell him to come back," he cried to a servant
who stood near and had listened to what had passed between them. The
order was obeyed, but it was of no avail. Mark returned a bitter
answer to the message he brought him, and continued on his way. As
he was hurrying along, suddenly he encountered Jenny. It was strange
that he should meet her so often. There was something in it more
than accident, and he felt that it was so.

"God bless you, Jenny!" he exclaimed with much feeling, catching
hold of her hand and kissing it. "We may never meet again. They
thought I meant you harm, and have driven me away. But, Heaven knows
how little of evil purpose was in my heart! Farewell! Sometimes,
when you are kneeling to say your nightly prayers, think of me, and
breathe my name in your petitions. I will need the prayers of the
innocent. Farewell!"

And under the impulse of the moment, Mark bent forward and pressed
his lips fervently upon her pure forehead; then, springing away,
left her bewildered and in tears.

Mark hurried on towards the nearest landing place on the river, some
three miles distant, which he reached just as a steamboat was
passing. Waving his handkerchief, as a signal, the boat rounded to,
and touching at the rude pier, took him on board. He arrived in New
York that evening, and on the next morning started for Washington to
see after his application for a midshipman's appointment in the
navy. It was on this occasion that the young man became aware of the
secret influence of his father against the application which had
been made. His mind, already feverishly excited, lost its balance
under this new disturbing cause.

"He will repent of this!" said he, bitterly, as he left the room of
the Secretary of the Navy, "and repent it until the day of his
death. Make a fixture of me in a counting room! Shut me up in a
lawyer's office! Lock me down in a medicine chest! Mark Clifford
never will submit! If I cannot enter the service in one way I will
in another."

Without pausing to weigh the consequences of his act, Mark, in a
spirit of revenge towards his father, went, while the fever was on
him, to the Navy Yard, and there entered the United States service
as a common sailor, under the name of Edward James. On the day
following, the ship on board of which he had enlisted was gliding
down the Potomac, and, in a week after, left Hampton Roads and went
to sea.

From Norfolk, Mr. Clifford received a brief note written by his son,
upbraiding him for having defeated the application to the
department, and avowing the fact that he had gone to sea in the
government service, as a common sailor.



CHAPTER II.


IT was impossible for such passionate interviews, brief though they
were, to take place without leaving on the heart of a simple minded
girl like Jenny Lawson, a deep impression. New impulses were given
to her feelings, and a new direction to her thoughts. Nature told
her that Mark Clifford loved her; and nothing but his cold disavowal
of the fact could possibly have affected this belief. He had met
her, it was true, only three or four times; but their interviews
during these meetings had been of a character to leave no ordinary
effect behind. So long as her eyes, dimmed by overflowing tears,
could follow Mark's retiring form, she gazed eagerly after him; and
when he was at length hidden from her view, she sat down to pour out
her heart in passionate weeping.

Old Mrs. Lee, while she tenderly loved the sweet flower that had
grown up under her care, was not, in all things, a wise and discreet
woman; nor deeply versed in the workings of the human heart.

Rumor of Mark's wildness had found its way to the neighborhood of
Fairview, and made an unfavorable impression. Mrs. Lee firmly
believed that he was moving with swift feet in the way to
destruction, and rolling evil under his tongue as a sweet morsel.
When she heard of his arrival at his grandfather's, a fear came upon
her lest he should cast his eyes upon Jenny. No wonder that she met
the young man with such a quick repulse, when, to her alarm, she
found that he had invaded her home, and was already charming the ear
of the innocent child she so tenderly loved and cared for. To find
them sitting alone in the woods, only a little while afterwards,
almost maddened her; and so soon as she took Jenny home, she hurried
over to Mr. Lofton, and in a confused, exaggerated, and intemperate
manner, complained of the conduct of Mark.

"Together alone in the woods!" exclaimed the old gentleman, greatly
excited. "What does the girl mean?"

"What does he mean, thus to entice away my innocent child?" said
Mrs. Lee, equally excited. "Oh, Mr. Lofton! for goodness' sake, send
him back to New York! If he remain here a day longer, all may be
lost! Jenny is bewitched with him. She cried as if her heart would
break when I took her back home, and said that I had done wrong to
Mark in what I had said to him."

"Weak and foolish child! How little does she know of the world--how
little of the subtle human heart! Yes--yes, Mrs. Lee, Mark shall go
back at once. He shall not remain here a day longer to breathe his
blighting breath on so sweet a flower. Jenny is too good a girl to
be exposed to such an influence."

The mind of Mr. Lofton remained excited for hours after this
interview; and when Mark appeared, he met him as has already been
seen. The manner in which the young man received the angry words of
his grandfather, was a little different from what had been
anticipated. Mr. Lofton expected some explanation by which he could
understand more clearly what was in the young man's thoughts. When,
therefore, Mark abruptly turned from him with such strange language
on his tongue, Mr. Lofton's anger cooled, and he felt that he had
suffered himself to be misled by a hasty judgment. That no evil had
been in the young man's mind he was sure. It was this change that
had prompted him to make an effort to recall him. But, the effort
was fruitless.

On Jenny's return home, after her last interview with Mark, she
found a servant there with a summons from Mr. Lofton. With much
reluctance she repaired to the mansion house. On meeting with the
old gentleman he received her in a kind but subdued manner; but, as
for Jenny herself, she stood in his presence weeping and trembling.

"Jenny," said Mr. Lofton, after the girl had grown more composed,
"when did you first meet my grandson?"

Jenny mentioned the accidental meeting on the day before, and the
call at the cottage in the morning.

"And you saw him first only yesterday?"

"Yes."

"What did he say when he called this morning?"

"He asked for my mother."

"Your mother?"

"Yes. I told him that my mother was dead, and that I lived with Mrs.
Lee. He then wanted to see her; but I said that she had gone over to
your house."

"What did he say then?"

"He spoke of you, and said you were a good man, and that we no doubt
found you a good landlord. I had mentioned that you owned our
cottage."

Mr. Lofton appeared affected at this.

"What then?" he continued.

"He told me who he was, and then asked me my name. When I told him
that it was Jenny, he said, it was a good name, and that he always
liked the sound of it, for his mother's name was Jenny. Then he
asked me, if I had known his mother, and when I said yes, he wanted
to know if I loved her. I said yes--for you know we all loved her.
Then he covered his face with his hands, and I saw the tears coming
through his fingers. 'Because you know my mother, and loved her,
Jenny,' said he, 'we will be friends.' Afterwards he asked me a
great many questions about her, and listened with the tears in his
eyes, when I told him of many things she had said and done the last
time she was up here. We were talking together about his mother,
when Mrs. Lee came in. She spoke cross to him, and threatened to
complain to you, if he came there any more. He went away angry. But
I'm sure he meant nothing wrong, sir. How could he and talk as he
did about his mother in heaven?"

"But, how came you to meet him, in the woods, Jenny?" said Mr.
Lofton. "Did he tell you that he would wait there for you?"

"Oh, no, sir. The meeting was accidental. I was sent over to Mrs.
Jasper's on an errand, and, in passing through the woods, saw him
sitting alone and looking very unhappy. I was frightened; but he
told me that he wouldn't hurt a hair of my head. Then he made me sit
down upon the grass beside him, and talk to him about his mother. He
asked me a great many questions, and I told him all that I could
remember about her. Sometimes the tears would steal over his cheeks;
and sometimes he would say--'Ah! if my mother had not died. Her
death was a great loss to me, Jenny--a great loss--and I have been
worse for it.'"

"And was this all you talked about, Jenny," asked Mr. Lofton, who
was much, affected by the artless narrative of the girl.

"It was all about his mother," replied Jenny. "He said that I not
only bore her name, but that I looked like her, and that it seemed
to him, while with me, that she was present."

"He said that, did he!" Mr. Lofton spoke more earnestly, and looked
intently upon Jenny's face. "Yes--yes--it is so. She does look like
dear Jenny," he murmured to himself. "I never saw this before. Dear
boy! We have done him wrong. These hasty conclusions--ah, me! To how
much evil do they lead!"

"And you were talking thus, when Mrs. Lee found you?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did she say?"

"I can hardly tell what she said, I was so frightened. But I know
she spoke angrily to him and to me, and threatened to see you."

Mr. Lofton sighed deeply, then added, as if the remark were casual--

"And that is the last you have seen of him."

"No, sir; I met him a little while ago, as he was hurrying away from
your house."

"You did!" Mr. Lofton started at Jenny's unexpected reply.

"Yes, sir."

"Did he speak to you?"

"Yes; he stopped and caught hold of my hand, saying, 'God bless you,
Jenny! We may never meet again. They have driven me away, because
they thought I meant to harm you.' But he said nothing wrong was in
his heart, and asked me to pray for him, as he would need my
prayers."

At this part of her narrative, Jenny wept bitterly, and her
auditor's eyes became dim also.

Satisfied that Jenny's story was true in every particular, Mr.
Lofton spoke kindly to her and sent her home.

A week after Mark Clifford left Fairview, word came that he had
enlisted in the United States' service and gone to sea as a common
sailor; accompanying this intelligence was an indignant avowal of
his father that he would have nothing more to do with him. To old
Mr. Lofton this was a serious blow. In Mark he had hoped to see
realized some of his ambitious desires. His daughter Jenny had been
happy in her marriage, but the union never gave him much
satisfaction. She was to have been the wife of one more
distinguished than a mere plodding money-making merchant.

Painful was the shock that accompanied the prostration of old Mr.
Lofton's ambitious hopes touching his grandson, of whom he had
always been exceedingly fond. To him he had intended leaving the
bulk of his property when he died. But now anger and resentment
arose in his mind against him as unworthy such a preference, and in
the warmth of a moment's impulse, he corrected his will and cut him
off with a dollar. This was no sooner done than better emotions
stirred in the old man's bosom, and he regretted the hasty act; but
pride of consistency prevented his recalling it.

From that time old Mr. Lofton broke down rapidly. In six months he
seemed to have added ten years to his life. During that period no
news had come from Mark; who was not only angry with both his father
and grandfather, but felt that in doing what he had done, he had
offended them beyond the hope of forgiveness. He, therefore, having
taken a rash step, moved on in the way he had chosen, in a spirit of
recklessness and defiance. The ties of blood which had bound him to
his home were broken; the world was all before him, and he must make
his way in it alone. The life of a common sailor in a government
ship he found to be something different from what he had imagined,
when, acting under a momentary excitement, he was so mad as to
enlist in the service. Unused to work or ready obedience, he soon
discovered that his life was to be one not only of bodily toil,
pushed sometimes to the extreme of fatigue, but one of the most
perfect subordination to the will of others, under pain of corporeal
punishment. The first insolent word of authority passed to him by a
new fledged midshipman, his junior by at least three years, stung
him so deeply that it was only by a most violent effort that he
could master the impulse that prompted him to seize and throw him
overboard. He did not regret this successful effort at self-control,
when, a few hours afterwards, he was compelled to witness the
punishment of the cat inflicted on a sailor for the offence of
insolence to an officer. The sight of the poor man, writhing under
tile brutality of the lash, made an impression on him that nothing
could efface. It absorbed his mind and brought it into a healthier
state of reflection than it had yet been.

"I have placed myself in this position by a rash act," he said to
himself, as he turned, sick at heart, away from the painful and
disgusting sight. "And all rebellion against the authority around me
will but make plainer my own weakness. I have degraded myself; but
there is a lower degradation still, and that I must avoid. Drag me
to the gangway, and I am lost!"

Strict obedience and submission was from that time self-compelled on
the part of Mark Clifford. It was not without a strong effort,
however, that he kept down the fiery spirit within him. A word of
insolent command--and certain of the young midshipmen on board could
not speak to a senior even if he were old as their father, except in
a tone of insult--would send the blood boiling through his veins.

It was only by the narrowest chances that Mark escaped punishment
during the first six months of the cruise, which was in the Pacific.
If he succeeded in bridling his tongue, and restraining his hands
from violence he could not hide the indignant flash of his eyes, nor
school the muscles of his face into submission. They revealed the
wild spirit of rebellion that was in his heart. Intelligent
promptness in duty saved him.

This was seen by his superior officers, and it was so much in his
favor when complaints came from the petty tyrants of the ship who
sometimes shrunk from the fierce glance that in a moment of
struggling passion would be cast upon them. After a trying ordeal of
six months, he was favored by one of the officers who saw deeper
than the rest; and gathered from him a few hints as to his true
character. In pitying him, he made use of his influence to save him
from some of the worst consequences of his position.

Jenny Lawson was a changed girl after her brief meeting with Mark
Clifford. Before, she had been as light hearted and gay as a bird.
But, her voice was no longer heard pouring forth the sweet melodies
born of a happy heart. Much of her time she sought to be alone; and
when alone, she usually sat in a state of dreamy absent-mindedness.
As for her thoughts, they were most of the time on Clifford. His
hand had stirred the waters of affection in her gentle bosom; and
they knew no rest. Mr. Lofton frequently sent for her to come over
to the mansion house. He never spoke to her of Mark; nor did she
mention his name--though both thought of him whenever they were
together. The oftener Mr. Lofton saw Jenny, and the more he was with
her, the more did she remind him of his own lost child--his Jenny,
the mother of Mark--now in heaven. The incident of meeting with
young Clifford had helped to develop Jenny's character, and give it
a stronger type than otherwise would have been the case. Thus, she
became to Mr. Lofton companionable; and, ere a year had elapsed from
the time Mark went away, Mrs. Lee, having passed to her account, she
was taken into his house, and he had her constantly with him. As he
continued to fail, he leaned upon the affectionate girl more and
more heavily; and was never contented when she was away from him.

It would be difficult to represent clearly Jenny's state of feeling
during this period. A simple minded, innocent, true-hearted girl, in
whose bosom scarce beat a single selfish impulse, she found herself
suddenly approached by one in station far above her, in a way that
left her heart unguarded. He had stooped to her, and leaned upon
her, and she, obeying an impulse of her nature, had stood firmer to
support him as he leaned. Their tender, confiding, and delightful
intercourse, continued only for a brief season, and was then rudely
broken in upon; forced separation was followed by painful
consequences to the young man. When Jenny thought of how Mark had
been driven away on her account, she felt that in order to save him
from the evils that must be impending over him, she would devote
even her life in his service. But, what could she do? This desire to
serve him had also another origin. A deep feeling of love had been
awakened; and, though she felt it to be hopeless, she kept the flame
brightly burning.

Intense feelings produced more active thoughts, and the mind of
Jenny took a higher development. A constant association with Mr.
Lofton, who required her to read to him sometimes for hours each
day, filled her thoughts with higher ideas than any she had known,
and gradually widened the sphere of her intelligence. Thus she grew
more and more companionable to the old man, who, in turn, perceiving
that her mind was expanding, took pains to give it a right
direction, so far as external knowledge were concerned.

Soon after Mark went to sea, Jenny took pains to inform herself
accurately as to the position and duties of a common sailor on board
of a United States' vessel. She was more troubled about Mark after
this, for she understood how unfitted he was for the hard service he
entered upon so blindly.

One day, it was over a year from the time that Mark left Fairview,
Mr. Lofton sent for Jenny, and, on her coming into his room, handed
her a sealed letter, but without making any remark. On it was
superscribed her name; and it bore, besides, the word "Ship" in red
printed letters, "Valparaiso," also, was written upon it. Jenny
looked at the letter wonderingly, for a moment or two, and then,
with her heart throbbing wildly, left the room. On breaking the
seal, she found the letter to be from Mark. It was as follows:


"U. S. SHIP ----, Valparaiso, September 4, 18--,

"MY GENTLE FRIEND.--A year has passed since our brief meeting and
unhappy parting. I do not think you have forgotten me in that time;
you may be sure I have not forgotten you. The memory of one about
whom we conversed, alone would keep your image green in my thoughts.
Of the rash step I took you have no doubt heard. In anger at unjust
treatment both from my father and grandfather, I was weak enough to
enter the United States' service as a sailor. Having committed this
folly, and being unwilling to humble myself, and appeal to friends
who had wronged me for their interest to get me released, I have
looked the hardship and degradation before me in the face, and
sought to encounter it manfully. The ordeal has been thus far most
severe, and I have yet two years of trial before me. As I am where I
am by my own act, I will not complain, and yet, I have felt it hard
to be cut off from all the sympathy and kind interest of my
friends--to have no word from home--to feel that none cares for me.
I know that I have offended both my father and grandfather past
forgiveness, and my mind is made up to seek for no reconciliation
with them. I cannot stoop to that. I have too much of the blood of
the Loftons in my veins.

"But why write this to you, Jenny? You will hardly understand how
such feelings can govern any heart--your own is so gentle and
innocent in all of its impulses. I have other things to say to you!
Since our meeting I have never ceased to think of you! I need no
picture of your face, for I see it ever before me as distinctly as
if sketched by the painter's art. I sometimes ask myself
wonderingly, how it is that you, a simple country maiden, could, in
one or two brief meetings, have made so strong an impression upon
me? But, you bore my mother's name, and your face was like her dear
face. Moreover, the beauty of goodness was in your countenance, and
a sphere of innocence around you; and I had not strayed so far from
virtue's paths as to be insensible to these. Since we parted, Jenny,
you have seemed ever present with me, as an angel of peace and
protection. In the moment when passion was about overmastering me,
you stood by my side, and I seemed to hear your voice speaking to
the rising storm, and hushing all into calmness. When my feet have
been ready to step aside, you instantly approached and pointed to
the better way. Last night I had a dream, and it is because of that
dream that I now write to you. I have often felt like writing
before; now I write because I cannot help it. I am moved to do so by
something that I cannot resist.

"Yesterday I had a difficulty with an officer who has shewn a
disposition to domineer over me ever since the cruise commenced. He
complained to the commander, who has, in more than one instance
shown me kindness. The commander said that I must make certain
concessions to the officer, which I felt as humiliating; that good
discipline required this, and that unless I did so, he would be
reluctantly compelled to order me to the gangway. Thus far I had
avoided punishment by a strict obedience to duty. No lash had ever
touched me. That degradation I felt would be my ruin; and in fear of
the result I bore much, rather than give any petty officer the power
to have me punished. 'Let me sleep over it, Captain,' said I, so
earnestly, that my request was granted.

"Troubled dreams haunted me as I lay in my hammock that night. At
last I seemed to be afloat on the wide ocean, on a single plank,
tossing about with the hot sun shining fiercely upon me, and
monsters of the great deep gathering around, eager for their prey. I
was weak, faint, and despairing. In vain did my eyes sweep the
horizon, there was neither vessel nor land in sight. At length the
sun went down, and the darkness drew nearer and nearer. Then I could
see nothing but the stars shining above me. In this moment, when
hope seemed about leaving my heart forever, a light came suddenly
around me. On looking up I saw a boat approaching. In the bow stood
my mother, and you sat guiding the helm! She took my hand, and I
stepped into the boat with a thrill of joy at my deliverance. As I
did so, she kissed me, looked tenderly towards you, and faded from
my sight. Then I awoke.

"The effect of all this was to subdue my haughty spirit. As soon as
an opportunity offered, I made every desired concession for my
fault, and was forgiven. And now I am writing to you, I feel as if
there was something in that dream, Jenny. Ah! Shall I ever see your
face again? Heaven only knows!

"I send this letter to you in care of my grandfather. I know that he
will not retain it or seek to know its contents. Unless he should
ask after me, do not speak to him or any one of what I have written
to you. Farewell! Do not forget me in your prayers.

"MARK CLIFFORD."


The effect of this letter upon Jenny, was to interest her intensely.
The swell of emotion went deeper, and the activity of her mind took
a still higher character. It was plain to her, when she next came
into Mr. Lofton's presence, that his thoughts had been busy about
the letter she had received. But he asked her no questions, and,
faithful to the expressed wish of Mark, she made no reference to the
subject whatever.

One part of Jenny's service to the failing old man, had been to read
to him daily from the newspapers. This made her familiar with what
was passing in the world, gave her food for thought, and helped her
to develop and strengthen her mind. Often had she pored over the
papers for some news of Mark, but never having heard the name of the
vessel in which he had gone to sea, she had possessed no clue to
find what she sought for. But now, whenever a paper was opened, her
first search was for naval intelligence.

With what a throb of interest did she one day, about a week after
Mark's letter came to hand, read an announcement that the ship ----
had been ordered home, and might be expected to arrive daily at
Norfolk.

A woman thinks quickly to a conclusion; or, rather, arrives there by
a process quicker than thought; especially where her conclusions are
to affect a beloved object. In an hour after Jenny had read the fact
just stated, she said to Mr. Lofton, who had now come to be much
attached to her--

"Will you grant me a favor?"

"Ask what you will, my child," replied Mr. Lofton, with more than
usual affection in his tones.

"Let me have fifty dollars."

"Certainly. I know you will use it for a good purpose."

Two days after this Jenny was in Washington. She made the journey
alone, but without timidity or fear. Her purpose made her
self-possessed and courageous. On arriving at the seat of
government, Jenny inquired for the Secretary of the Navy. When she
arrived at the Department over which he presided, and obtained an
interview, she said to him, as soon as she could compose herself--

"The ship ---- has been ordered home from the Pacific?"

"She arrived at Norfolk last night, and is now hourly expected at
the Navy Yard," replied the Secretary.

At this intelligence, Jenny was so much affected that it was some
time before she could trust herself to speak.

"You have a brother on board?" said the Secretary.

"There is a young man on board," replied Jenny, in a tremulous
voice, "for whose discharge I have come to ask."

The Secretary looked grave.

"At whose instance do you come?" he inquired.

"Solely at my own."

"Who is the young man?"

"Do you know Marshal Lofton?"

"I do, by reputation, well. He belongs to a distinguished family in
New York, to which the country owes much for service rendered in
trying times."

"The discharge I ask, is for his grandson."

"Young Clifford, do you mean?" The Secretary looked surprised as he
spoke. "He is not in the service."

"He is on board the ship ---- as a common sailor."

"Impossible!"

"It is too true. In a moment of angry disappointment he took the
rash step. And, since then, no communication has passed between him
and his friends."

The Secretary turned to the table near which he was sitting, and,
after writing a few lines on a piece of paper, rung a small
hand-bell for the messenger, who came in immediately.

"Take this to Mr J----, and bring me an answer immediately."

The messenger left the room, and the Secretary said to Jenny--

"Wait a moment or two, if you please."

In a little while the messenger came back and handed the Secretary a
memorandum from the clerk to whom he had sent for information.

"There is no such person as Clifford on board the ship ----, nor, in
fact, in the service as a common sailor," said the Secretary,
addressing Jenny, after glancing at the memorandum he had received.

"Oh, yes, there is; there must be," exclaimed the now agitated girl.
"I received a letter from him at Valparaiso, dated on board of this
ship. And, besides, he wrote home to his father, at the time he
sailed, declaring what he had done."

"Strange. His name doesn't appear in the Department as attached to
the service. Hark! There's a gun. It announces, in all probability,
the arrival of the ship ---- at the Navy Yard."

Jenny instantly became pale.

"Perhaps," suggested the Secretary, "your best way will be to take a
carriage and drive down, at once, to the Navy Yard. Shall I direct
the messenger to call a carriage for you?"

"I will thank you to do so," replied Jenny, faintly.

The carriage was soon at the door. Jenny was much agitated when she
arrived at the Navy Yard. To her question as to whether the ship
---- had arrived, she was pointed to a large vessel which lay moored
at the dock. How she mounted its side she hardly knew; but, in what
seemed scarcely an instant of time, she was standing on the deck. To
an officer who met her, as she stepped on board, she asked for Mark
Clifford.

"What is he? A sailor or marine?"

"A sailor."

"There is no such person on board, I believe," said the officer.

Poor Jenny staggered back a few paces, while a deadly paleness
overspread her face. As she leaned against the side of the vessel
for support, a young man, dressed as a sailor, ascended from the
lower deck. Their eyes met, and both sprung towards each other.

"Jenny! Jenny! is it you!" fell passionately from his lips, as he
caught her in his arms, and kissed her fervently. "Bless you! Bless
you, Jenny! This is more than I had hoped for," he added, as he
gazed fondly into her beautiful young face.

"They said you were not here," murmured Jenny, "and my heart was in
despair."

"You asked for Mark Clifford?"

"Yes."

"I am not known in the service by that name. I entered it as Edward
James."

This meeting, occurring as it did, with many spectators around, and
they of the ruder class, was so earnest and tender, yet with all, so
mutually respectful and decorous, that even the rough sailors were
touched by the manner and sentiment of the interview; and mole than
one eye grew dim.

Not long did Jenny linger on the deck of the ----. Now that she had
found Mark, her next thought was to secure his discharge.



CHAPTER III.


IT was little more than half an hour after the Secretary of the Navy
parted with Jenny, ere she entered his office again; but now with
her beautiful face flushed and eager.

"I have found him!" she exclaimed; "I knew he was on board this
ship!"

The Secretary's interest had been awakened by the former brief
interview with Jenny, and when she came in with the announcement, he
was not only affected with pleasure, but his feelings were touched
by her manner. "How is it, then," he inquired, "that his name is not
to be found in the list of her crew?"

"He entered the service under the name of Edward James."

"Ah! that explains it."

"And now, sir," said Jenny, in a voice so earnest and appealing,
that her auditor felt like granting her desire without a moment's
reflection: "I have come to entreat you to give me his release."

"On what ground do you make this request?" inquired the Secretary,
gazing into the sweet young face of Jenny, with a feeling of respect
blended with admiration.

"On the ground of humanity," was the simple yet earnestly spoken
reply.

"How can you put it on that ground?"

"A young man of his education and abilities can serve society better
in another position."

"But he has chosen the place he is in."

"Not deliberately. In a moment of disappointment and blind passion
he took a false step. Severely has he suffered for this act. Let it
not be prolonged, lest it destroy him. One of his spirit can
scarcely pass through so severe an ordeal without fainting."

"Does Mr. Lofton, his grandfather, desire what you ask?"

"Mr. Lofton is a proud man. He entertained high hopes for Mark, who
has, in this act, so bitterly disappointed them, that he has not
been known to utter his name since the news of his enlistment was
received."

"And his father?"

Jenny shook her head, sighing--

"I don't know anything about him. He was angry, and, I believe, cast
him off."

"And you, then, are his only advocate?"

Jenny's eyes dropped to the floor, and a deeper tinge overspread her
countenance.

"What is your relation to him, and to his friends?" asked the
Secretary, his manner becoming more serious.

It was some moments before Jenny replied. Then she said, in a more
subdued voice:

"I am living with Mr. Lofton. But--"

She hesitated, and then became silent and embarrassed.

"Does Mr. Lofton know of your journey to Washington?"

Jenny shook her head.

"Where did you tell him you were going?"

"I said nothing to him, but came away the moment I heard the ship
was expected to arrive at Norfolk."

"Suppose I release him from the service?"

"I will persuade him to go back with me to Fairview, and then I know
that all will be forgiven between him and his grandfather. You don't
know how Mr. Lofton has failed since Mark went away," added Jenny in
a tone meant to reach the feelings of her auditor.

"He looks many years older. Ah, sir, if you would only grant my
request!"

"Will the young man return to his family! Have you spoken to him
about it?"

"No; I wished not to create hopes that might fail. But give me his
release, and I will have a claim on him."

"And you will require him to go home in acknowledgment of that
claim."

"I will not leave him till he goes back," said Jenny.

"Is he not satisfied in the service?"

"How could he be satisfied with it?" Jenny spoke with a quick
impulse, and with something like rebuke in her voice. "No! It is
crushing out his very life. Think of your own son in such a
position!"

There was something in this appeal, and in the way it was uttered,
that decided the Secretary's mind. A man of acute observation, and
humane feelings, he not only understood pretty clearly the relation
that Jenny bore to Mark and his family, but sympathised with the
young man and resolved to grant the maiden's request. Leaving her
for a few minutes, he went into an adjoining room. When he returned,
he had a sealed letter in his hand directed to the commander of the
ship ----.

"This will procure his dismissal from the service," said he, as he
reached it towards Jenny.

"May heaven reward you!" fell from the lips of the young girl, as
she received the letter. Then, with the tears glistening in her
eyes, she hurriedly left the apartment.

While old Mr. Lofton was yet wondering what Jenny could want with
fifty dollars, a servant came and told him that she had just heard
from a neighbor who came up a little while before from the landing,
that he had seen Jenny go on board of a steamboat that was on its
way to New York.

"It can't be so," quickly answered Mr. Lofton.

"Mr. Jones said, positively, that it was her."

"Tell Henry to go to Mr. Jones and ask him, as a favor, to step over
and see me."

In due time Mr. Jones came.

"Are you certain that you saw Jenny Lawson go on board the steamboat
for New York to-day?" asked Mr. Lofton, when the neighbor appeared.

"Oh, yes, sir; it was her," replied the man.

"Did you speak to her?"

"I was going to, but she hurried past me without looking in my
face."

"Had she anything with her?"

"There was a small bundle in her hand."

"Strange--strange--very strange," murmured the old man to himself.
"What does it mean? Where can she have gone?"

"Did she say nothing about going away?"

"Nothing--nothing!"

Mr. Lofton's eyes fell to the floor, and he sat thinking for some
moments.

"Mr. Jones," said he, at length, "can you go to New York for me?"

"I suppose so," replied Mr. Jones.

"When will the morning boat from Albany pass here?"

"In about two hours."

"Then get yourself ready, if you please, and come over to me. I do
not like this of Jenny, and must find out where she has gone."

Mr. Jones promised to do as was desired, and went to make all
necessary preparations. Before he returned, a domestic brought Mr.
Lofton a sealed note bearing his address, which she had found in
Jenny's chamber. It was as follows:

"Do not be alarmed at my telling you that, when you receive this, I
will be on a journey of two or three hundred miles in extent, and
may not return for weeks. Believe me, that my purpose is a good one.
I hope to be back much sooner than I have said. When I do get home,
I know you will approve of what I have done. My errand is one of
Mercy.

"Humbly and faithfully yours, JENNY."

It was some time before Mr. Lofton's mind grew calm and clear, after
reading this note. That Jenny's absence was, in some way, connected
with Mark, was a thought that soon presented itself. But, in what
way, he could not make out; for he had never heard the name of the
ship in which his grandson sailed, and knew nothing of her expected
arrival home.

By the time Mr. Jones appeared, ready to start on the proposed
mission to New York, Mr. Lofton had made up his mind not to attempt
to follow Jenny, but to wait for some word from her. Not until this
sudden separation took place did Mr. Lofton understand how necessary
to his happiness the affectionate girl had become. So troubled was
he at her absence, and so anxious for her safety, that when night
came he found himself unable to sleep. In thinking about the dangers
that would gather around one so ignorant of the world, his
imagination magnified the trials and temptations to which, alone as
she was, she would be exposed. Such thoughts kept him tossing
anxiously upon his pillow, or restlessly pacing the chamber floor
until day dawn. Then, from over-excitement and loss of rest, he was
seriously indisposed--so much so, that his physician had to be
called in during the day. He found him with a good deal of fever,
and deemed it necessary to resort to depletion, as well as to the
application of other remedies to allay the over-action of his vital
system. These prostrated him at once--so much so, that he was unable
to sit up. Before night he was so seriously ill that the physician
had to be sent for again. The fever had returned with great
violence, and the pressure on his brain was so great that he had
become slightly delirious.

During the second night, this active stage of the disease continued;
but all the worst symptoms subsided towards morning. Daylight found
him sleeping quietly, with a cool moist skin, and a low, regular
pulse. Towards mid-day he awoke; but the anxiety that came with
thought brought back many of the unfavorable symptoms, and he was
worse again towards evening. On the third day he was again better,
but so weak as to be unable to sit up.

How greatly did old Mr. Lofton miss the gentle girl, who had become
almost as dear to him as a child, during this brief illness, brought
on by her strange absence. No hand could smooth his pillow like
hers. No presence could supply her place by his side. He was
companionless, now that she was away; and his heart reached vainly
around for something to lean upon for support.

On the fourth day he was better, and sat up a little. But his
anxiety for Jenny was increasing. Where could she be? He read her
brief letter over and over again.

"May not return for weeks," he said, as he held the letter in his
hand. "Where can she have gone? Foolish child! Why did she not
consult with me? I would have advised her for the best."

Late on the afternoon of that day, Jenny, in company with Mark, the
latter in the dress of a seaman in the United States service, passed
from a steamboat at the landing near Fairview, and took their way
towards the mansion of Mr. Lofton. They had not proceeded far,
before the young man began to linger, while Jenny showed every
disposition to press on rapidly. At length Mark stopped.

"Jenny," said he, while a cloud settled on his face, "you've had
your own way up to this moment. I've been passive in your hands. But
I can't go on with you any further."

"Don't say that," returned Jenny, her voice almost imploring in its
tones. And in the earnestness of her desire to bring Mark back to
his grandfather, she seized one of his hands, and, by a gentle
force, drew him a few paces in the direction they had been going.
But he resisted that force, and they stood still again.

"I don't think I can go back, Jenny," said Mark, in a subdued voice:
"I have some pride left, much as has been crushed out of me during
the period of my absence, and this rises higher and higher in my
heart the nearer I approach my grandfather. How can I meet him!"

"Only come into his presence, Mark," urged Jenny, speaking tenderly
and familiarly. She had addressed him as Mr. Clifford, but he had
forbidden that, saying--

"To you my name is Mark--let none other pass your lips!"

"Only come into his presence. You need not speak to him, nor look
towards him. This is all I ask."

"But, the humiliation of going back after my resentment of his
former treatment," said Mark. "I can bear anything but this bending
of my pride--this humbling of myself to others."

"Don't think of yourself, Mark," replied Jenny. "Think of your
grandfather, on whom your absence has wrought so sad a change. Think
of what he must have suffered to break down so in less than two
years. In pity to him, then, come back. Be guided by me, Mark, and I
will lead you right. Think of that strange dream!"

At this appeal, Mark moved quickly forward by the side of the
beautiful girl, who had so improved in every way--mind and body
having developed wonderfully since he parted with her--that he was
filled all the while by wonder, respect and admiration. He moved by
her side as if influenced by a spell that subdued his own will.

In silence they walked along, side by side, the pressure of thought
and feeling on each mind being so strong as to take away the desire
to speak, until the old mansion house of Mr. Lofton appeared in
view. Here Mark stopped again; but the tenderly uttered "Come," and
the tearful glance of Jenny, effectually controlled the promptings
of an unbroken will. Together, in a few minutes afterwards, they
approached the house and entered.

"Where is Mr. Lofton?" asked Jenny of a servant who met them in the
great hall.

"He's been very ill," replied the servant.

"Ill!" Jenny became pale.

"Yes, very ill. But he is better now."

"Where is he?"

"In his own chamber."

For a moment Jenny hesitated whether to go up alone, or in company
with Mark. She would have preferred going alone; but fearing that,
if she parted even thus briefly from Mark, her strong influence over
him, by means of which she had brought him, almost as a struggling
prisoner, thus far, would be weakened, and be tempted to turn from
the house, she resolved to venture upon the experiment of entering
Mr. Lofton's sick chamber, in company with his grandson.

"Is he sitting up?" she asked of the servant.

"He's been sitting up a good deal to-day, but is lying down now."

"He's much better?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Come," said Jenny, turning to Mark, and moving towards the
stairway. Mark followed passively. On entering the chamber of Mr.
Lofton, they found him sleeping.

Both silently approached, and looked upon his venerable face,
composed in deep slumber. Tears came to the eyes of Mark as he gazed
at the countenance of his grandfather, and his heart became soft as
the heart of a child. While they yet stood looking at him, his lips
moved, and he uttered both their names. Then he seemed disturbed,
and moaned, as if in pain.

"Grandfather!" said Mark, taking the old man's hand, and bending
over him.

Quickly his eyes opened. For a few moments he gazed earnestly upon
Mark, and then tightened his hand upon that of the young man, closed
his eyes again, and murmured in a voice that deeply touched the
returning wanderer--

"My poor boy! My poor boy! Why did you do so? Why did you break my
heart? But, God be thanked, you are back again! God be thanked!"

"Jenny!" said the old man, quickly, as he felt her take his other
hand and press it to her lips. "And it was for this you left me!
Dear child, I forgive you!"

As he spoke, he drew her hand over towards the one that grasped that
of Mark, and uniting them together, murmured--

"If you love each other, it is all right. My blessing shall go with
you."

How mild and delicious was the thrill that ran through each of the
hearts of his auditors. This was more than they expected. Mark
tightly grasped the hand that was placed within his own, and that
hand gave back an answering pressure. Thus was the past reconciled
with the present; while a vista was opened toward a bright future.

Little more than a year has passed since this joyful event took
place. Mark Clifford, with the entire approval of his grandfather,
who furnished a handsome capital for the purpose, entered, during
the time, into the mercantile house of his father as a partner, and
is now actively engaged in business, well sobered by his severe
experience. He has taken a lovely bride, who is the charm of all
circles into which she is introduced; and her name is Jenny. But few
who meet her dream that she once grew, a beautiful wild flower, near
the banks of the Hudson.

Old Mr. Lofton could not be separated from Jenny; and, as he could
not separate her from her husband, he has removed to the city, where
he has an elegant residence, in which her voice is the music and her
smiles the ever present sunshine.




SHADOWS.


A HAPPY-HEARTED child was Madeline Henry, for the glad sunshine ever
lay upon the threshold of her early home. Her father, a cheerful,
unselfish man, left the world and its business cares behind him when
he placed his hand upon the door of entrance to his household
treasures. Like other men, he had his anxieties, his hopes and
losses, his disappointments and troubles; but he wisely and humanely
strove to banish these from his thoughts, when he entered the
home-sanctuary, lest his presence should bring a shadow instead of
sunshine.

Madeline was just twenty years of age, when, as the wife of Edward
Leslie, she left this warm down-covered nest, and was borne to a new
and more elegant home.

Mr. Leslie was her senior by eight or nine years. He began his
business life at the age of twenty-two, as partner in a well
established mercantile house, and, as he was able to place ten
thousand dollars in the concern, his position, in the matter of
profits, was good from the beginning. Yet, for all this,
notwithstanding more than one loving-hearted girl, in whose eyes he
might have found favor, crossed his path, he resolutely turned his
thoughts away, lest the fascination should be too strong for him. He
resolved not to marry until he felt able to maintain a certain style
of living.

Thus were the heart's impulses checked; thus were the first tender
leaves of affection frozen in the cold breath of mere calculation.
He wronged himself in this; yet, in his worldliness and ignorance,
did he feel proud of being above, what he called, the weaknesses of
other men.

It was but natural that Mr. Leslie should become, in a measure,
reserved towards others. Should assume a statelier step, and more
set forms of speech. Should repress, more and more, his heart's
impulses.

In Leslie, the love of money was strong; yet there was in his
character a firmly laid basis of integrity. Though shrewd in his
dealings, he never stooped to a system of overreaching. He was not
long, therefore, in establishing a good reputation among business
men. In social circles, where he occasionally appeared, almost as a
matter of course he became an object of interest.

Observation, as it regards character, is, by far, too superficial.
With most persons, merely what strikes the eye is sufficient ground
for an opinion; and this opinion is freely and positively expressed.
Thus, a good reputation comes, as a natural consequence, to a man
who lives in the practice of most of the apparent social virtues,
while he may possess no real kindness of heart, may be selfish to an
extreme degree.

Thus it was with Mr. Leslie. He was generally regarded as a model of
a man; and when he, at length, approached Madeline Henry as a lover,
the friends of the young lady regarded her as particularly
fortunate.

As for Madeline, she rather shrunk, at first, from his advances.
There was a coldness in his sphere that chilled her; a rigid
propriety of speech and action that inspired too much respect and
deference. Gradually, however, love for the maiden, (if by such a
term it might be called) fused his hard exterior, and his manner
became so softened, gentle and affectionate, that she yielded up to
him a most precious treasure--the love of her young and trusting
heart.

Just twenty years old, as we have said, was Madeline when she
passed, as the bride of Mr. Leslie, from the warm home-nest in which
she had reposed so happily, to become the mistress of an elegant
mansion. Though in age a woman, she was, in many things, but a child
in feelings. Tenderly cared for and petted by her father, her spirit
had been, in a measure, sustained by love as an aliment.

One like Madeline is not fit to be the wife of such a man as Edward
Leslie. For him, a cold, calculating woman of the world were a
better companion. One who has her own selfish ends to gain; and who
can find, in fashion, gaiety, or personal indulgence, full
compensation for a husband's love.

Madeline was scarcely the bride of a week, ere shadows began to fall
upon her heart; and the form that interposed itself between her and
the sunlight, was the form of her husband. As a daughter, love had
ever gone forth in lavish expression. This had been encouraged by
all the associations of home. But, from the beginning of her wedded
life, she felt the manner of her husband like the weight of a hand
on her bosom, repressing her heart's outgushing impulses.

It was on the fifth evening of their marriage, about the early
twilight hour, and Madeline, alone, almost for the first time since
morning, sat awaiting the return of her husband. Full of pleasant
thoughts was her mind, and warm with love her heart. A few hours of
separation from Edward had made her impatient to meet him again.
When, at length, she heard him enter, she sprang to meet him, and,
with an exclamation of delight, threw her arms about his neck.

There was a cold dignity in the way this act was received by Edward
Leslie, that chilled the feelings of his wife. Quickly disengaging
her arms, she assumed a more guarded exterior; yet, trying all the
while, to be cheerful in manner. We say "trying;" for a shadow had
fallen on her young heart--and, to seem cheerful was from an effort.
They sat down, side by side, in the pensive twilight close to the
windows, through which came fragrant airs; and Madeline laid her
hand upon that of her husband. Checked in the first gush of
feelings, she now remained silent, yet with her yearning spirit
intently listening for words of tenderness and endearment.

"I have been greatly vexed to-day."

These were the very words he uttered. How chilly they fell upon the
ears of his expectant wife.

"What has happened?" she asked, in a voice of concern.

"Oh, nothing in reality more than usual. Men in business are exposed
to a thousand annoyances. If all the world were honest, trade would
be pleasant enough. But you have to watch every one you deal with as
closely as if he were a rogue. A man, whom I had confided in and
befriended, tried to overreach me today, and it has hurt me a good
deal. I couldn't have believed it of him."

Nothing more was said on either side for several minutes. Leslie,
absorbed in thoughts of business, so far forgot the presence of his
wife, as to withdraw the hand upon which her's was laid. How
palpable to her was the coldness of his heart! She felt it as an
atmosphere around him.

After tea, Leslie remarked, as he arose from the table, that he
wished to see a friend on some matter of business; but would be home
early. Not even a kiss did he leave with Madeline to cheer her
during his absence. His selfish dignity could not stoop to such
childishness.

The young bride passed the evening with no companionship but her
tears. When Leslie came home, and looked upon her sober face, he was
not struck with its aspect as being unusual. It did not enter his
imagination that she could be otherwise than happy. Was she not
_his_ wife? And had she not, around her, every thing to make the
heart satisfied? He verily believed that she had. He spoke to her
kindly, yet, as she felt, indifferently, while her heart was pining
for words of warm affection.

This was the first shadow that fell, darkly, across the young wife's
path. For hours after her husband's senses were locked in slumber,
she lay wakeful and weeping. He understood not, if he remarked the
fact, why her cheeks had less color and her eyes less brightness on
the morning that succeeded to this, on Madeline's part, never
forgotten evening.

We need not present a scene from the sixth, the seventh, or even the
twentieth day of Madeline's married life. All moved on with a kind
of even tenor. Order--we might almost say, mercantile order--reigned
throughout the household. And yet, shadows were filling more and
more heavily over the young wife's feelings. To be loved, was an
element of her existence--to be loved with expression. But,
expressive fondness was not one of the cold, dignified Mr. Leslie's
weaknesses. He loved Madeline--as much as he was capable of loving
anything out of himself. And he had given her the highest possible
evidence of this love, by making her his wife.--What more could she
ask? It never occurred to his unsentimental thought, that words and
acts of endearment were absolutely essential to her happiness. That
her world of interest was a world of affections, and that without
his companionship in this world, her heart would feel an aching
void.

Who will wonder that, as weeks and months went by, shadows were more
apparent on the sunny face of Madeline? Yet, such shadows, when they
became visible to casual eyes, did excite wonder. What was there to
break the play of sunshine on her countenance?

"The more some people have, the more dissatisfied they are,"
remarked one superficial observer to another, in reply to some
communication touching Mrs. Leslie's want of spirits.

"Yes," was answered. "Nothing but _real_ trouble ever brings such
persons to their senses."

Ah! Is not heart-trouble the most real of all with which we are
visited? There comes to it, so rarely, a balm of healing. To those
external evils which merely affect the personal comfort, the mind
quickly accommodates itself. We may find happiness in either
prosperity or adversity. But, what true happiness is there for a
loving heart, if, from the only source of reciprocation, there is
but an imperfect response? A strong mind may accommodate itself, in
the exercise of a firm religious philosophy, to even these
circumstances, and like the wisely discriminating bee, extract honey
from even the most unpromising flower. But, it is hard--nay, almost
impossible--for one like Madeline, reared as she was in so warm an
atmosphere of love, to fall back upon and find a sustaining power,
in such a philosophy. Her spirit first must droop. There must be a
passing through the fire, with painful purification. Alas! How many
perish in the ordeal!--How many gentle, loving ones, unequally
mated, die, daily, around us; moving on to the grave, so far as the
world knows, by the way of some fatal bodily ailment; yet, in truth,
failing by a heart-sickness that has dried up the fountains of life.

And so it was with the wife of Edward Leslie. Greatly her husband
wondered at the shadows which fell, more and more heavily, on
Madeline--wondered as time wore on, at the paleness of her
cheeks--the sadness which, often, she could not repress when he was
by; the variableness of her spirits--all tending to destroy the
balance of her nervous system, and, finally, ending in confirmed
ill-health, that demanded, imperiously, the diversion of his
thoughts from business and worldly schemes to the means of
prolonging her life.

Alas! What a sad picture to look upon, would it be, were we to
sketch, even in outline, the passing events of the ten years that
preceded this conviction on the part of Mr. Leslie. To Madeline, his
cold, hard, impatient, and, too frequently, cruel re-actions upon
what he thought her unreasonable, captious, dissatisfied states of
mind, having no ground but in her imagination, were heavy
heart-strokes--or, as a discordant hand dashed among her
life-chords, putting them forever out of tune. Oh! The wretchedness,
struggling with patience and concealment, of those weary years. The
days and days, during which her husband maintained towards her a
moody silence, that it seemed would kill her. And yet, so far as the
world went, Mr. Leslie was among the best of husbands. How little
does the world, so called, look beneath the surface of things!

With the weakness of failing health, came, to Madeline, the loss of
mental energy. She had less and less self-control. A brooding
melancholy settled upon her feelings; and she often spent days in
her chamber, refusing to see any one except members of her own
family, and weeping if she were spoken to.

"You will die, Madeline. You will kill yourself!" said her husband,
repeating, one day, the form of speech so often used when he found
his wife in these states of abandonment. He spoke with more than his
usual tenderness, for, to his unimaginative mind had come a quickly
passing, but vivid realization, of what he would lose if she were
taken from him.

"The loss will scarcely be felt," was her murmured answer.

"Your children will, at least, feel it," said Mr. Leslie, in a more
captious and meaning tone than, upon reflection, he would have used.
He felt her words as expressing indifference for himself, and his
quick retort involved, palpably, the same impression in regard to
his wife.

Madeline answered not farther, but her husband's words were not
forgotten--"My children will feel my loss." This thought became so
present to her mind, that none other could, for a space, come into
manifest perception. The mother's heart began quickening into life a
sense of the mother's duty. Thus it was, when her oldest
child--named for herself, and with as loving and dependent a
nature--opened the chamber door, and coming up to her father, made
some request that he did not approve. To the mother's mind, her
desire was one that ought to have been granted; and, she felt, in an
instant, that the manner, as well as the fact of the father's
denial, were both unkind, and that Madeline's heart would be almost
broken. She did not err in this. The child went sobbing from the
room.

How distinctly came before the mind of Mrs. Leslie a picture of the
past. She was, for a time, back in her father's house; and she felt,
for a time, the ever-present, considerate, loving kindness of one
who had made all sunshine in that early home. Slowly came back the
mind of Mrs. Leslie to the present, and she said to herself, not
passively, like one borne on the current of a down-rushing stream,
but resolutely, as one with a purpose to struggle--to suffer, and
yet be strong--

"Yes; my children will feel my loss. I could pass away and be at
rest. I could lie me down and sleep sweetly in the grave. But, is
all my work done? Can I leave these little ones to his tender mer--"

She checked herself in the mental utterance of this sentiment, which
referred to her husband. But, the feeling was in her heart; and it
inspired her with a new purpose. Her thought, turned from herself,
and fixed, with a yearning love upon her children, gave to the blood
a quicker motion through the veins, and to her mind a new activity.
She could no longer remain passive, as she had been for hours,
brooding over her own unhappy state, but arose and left her chamber.
In another room she found her unhappy child, who had gone off to
brood alone over her disappointment, and to weep where none could
see her.

"Madeline, dear!" said the mother, in a loving, sympathetic voice.

Instantly the child flung herself into her arms, and laid her face,
sobbing, upon her bosom.

Gently, yet wisely--for there came, in that moment, to Mrs. Leslie,
a clear perception of all her duty--did the mother seek to soften
Madeline's disappointment, and to inspire her with fortitude to
bear. Beyond her own expectation came success in this effort. The
reason she invented or imagined, for the father's refusal, satisfied
the child; and soon the clouded brow was lit up by the heart's
sunshine.

From that hour, Mrs. Leslie was changed. From that hour, a new
purpose filled her heart. She could not leave her children, nor
could she take them with her if she passed away; and so, she
resolved to live for them, to forget her own suffering, in the
tenderness of maternal care. The mother had risen superior to the
unhappy, unappreciated wife.

All marked the change; yet in none did it awaken more surprise than
in Mr. Leslie. He never fully understood its meaning; and, no
wonder, for he had never understood her from the beginning. He was
too cold and selfish to be able fully to appreciate her character or
relation to him as a wife.

Yet, for all this change--though the long drooping form of Mrs.
Leslie regained something of its erectness, and her exhausted system
a degree of tension--the shadow passed not from her heart or brow;
nor did her cheeks grow warm again with the glow of health. The
delight of her life had failed; and now, she lived only for the
children whom God had given her.

A man of Mr. Leslie's stamp of character too rarely grows wiser in
the true sense. Himself the centre of his world, it is but seldom
that he is able to think enough out of himself to scan the effect of
his daily actions upon others. If collisions take place, he thinks
only of the pain he feels, not of the pain he gives. He is ever
censuring; but rarely takes blame. During the earlier portions of
his married life, Mr. Leslie's mind had chafed a good deal at what
seemed to him Madeline's unreasonable and unwomanly conduct; the
soreness of this was felt even after the change in her exterior that
we have noticed, and he often indulged in the habit of mentally
writing bitter things against her. He had well nigh broken her
heart; and was yet impatient because she gave signs indicative of
pain.

And so, as years wore on, the distance grew wider instead of
becoming less and less. The husband had many things to draw him
forth into the busy world, where he established various interests,
and sought pleasure in their pursuits, while the wife, seldom seen
abroad, buried herself at home, and gave her very life for her
children.

But, even maternal love could not feed for very many years the flame
of her life. The oil was too nearly exhausted when that new supply
came. For a time, the light burned clearly; then it began to fail,
and ere the mother's tasks were half done, it went out in darkness.

How heavy the shadows which then fell upon the household and upon
the heart of Edward Leslie! As he stood, alone, in the chamber of
death, with his eyes fixed upon the pale, wasted countenance, no
more to quicken with life, and felt on his neck the clinging arms
that were thrown around it a few moments before the last sigh of
mortality was breathed; and still heard the eager, "Kiss me, Edward,
once, before I die!"--a new light broke upon him,--and he was
suddenly stung by sharp and self-reproaching thoughts. Had he not
killed her, and, by the slowest and most agonizing process by which
murder can be committed? There was in his mind a startling
perception that such was the awful crime of which he had been
guilty.

Yes, there were shadows on the heart of Edward Leslie; shadows that
never entirely passed away.




THE THANKLESS OFFICE.


"AN object of real charity," said Andrew Lyon to his wife, as a poor
woman withdrew from the room in which they were seated.

"If ever there was a worthy object, she is one," returned Mrs. Lyon.
"A widow, with health so feeble that even ordinary exertion is too
much for her; yet obliged to support, with the labor of her own
hands, not only herself, but three young children. I do not wonder
that she is behind with her rent."

"Nor I," said Mr. Lyon in a voice of sympathy. "How much did she say
was due to her landlord?"

"Ten dollars."

"She will not be able to pay it."

"I fear not. How can she? I give her all my extra sewing, and have
obtained work for her from several ladies; but, with her best
efforts she can barely obtain food and decent clothing for herself
and babes."

"Does it not seem hard," remarked Mr. Lyon, "that one like Mrs.
Arnold, who is so earnest in her efforts to take care of herself and
family, should not receive a helping hand from some one of the many
who could help her without feeling the effort? If I didn't find it
so hard to make both ends meet, I would pay off her arrears of rent
for her, and feel happy in so doing."

"Ah!" exclaimed the kind-hearted wife, "how much I wish that we were
able to do this. But we are not."

"I'll tell you what we can do," said Mr. Lyon, in a cheerful
voice--"or, rather what I can do. It will be a very light matter
for, say ten persons, to give a dollar a-piece, in order to relieve
Mrs. Arnold from her present trouble. There are plenty who would
cheerfully contribute for this good purpose; all that is wanted is
some one to take upon himself the business of making the
collections. That task shall be mine."

"How glad, James, to hear you say so," smilingly replied Mrs. Lyon.
"Oh! what a relief it will be to poor Mrs. Arnold. It will make her
heart as light as a feather. That rent has troubled her sadly. Old
Links, her landlord, has been worrying her about it a good deal,
and, only a week ago, threatened to put her things in the street if
she didn't pay up."

"I should have thought of this before," remarked Andrew Lyon. "There
are hundreds of people who are willing enough to give if they were
only certain in regard to the object. Here is one worthy enough in
every way. Be it my business to present her claims to benevolent
consideration. Let me see. To whom shall I go? There are Jones, and
Green, and Tompkins. I can get a dollar from each of them. That will
be three dollars--and one from myself, will make four. Who else is
there? Oh! Malcolm! I'm sure of a dollar from him; and, also, from
Smith, Todd, and Perry."

Confident in the success of his benevolent scheme, Mr. Lyon started
forth, early on the very next day, for the purpose of obtaining, by
subscription, the poor widow's rent. The first person he called on
was Malcolm.

"Ah, friend Lyon," said Malcolm, smiling blandly. "Good morning!
What can I do for you to-day?"

"Nothing for me, but something for a poor widow, who is behind with
her rent," replied Andrew Lyon. "I want just one dollar from you,
and as much more from some eight or nine as benevolent as yourself."

At the words "poor widow," the countenance of Malcolm fell, and when
his visiter ceased, he replied in a changed and husky voice,
clearing his throat two or three times as he spoke,

"Are you sure she is deserving, Mr. Lyon?" The man's manner had
become exceedingly grave.

"None more so," was the prompt answer. "She is in poor health, and
has three children to support with the product of her needle. If any
one needs assistance it is Mrs. Arnold."

"Oh! ah! The widow of Jacob Arnold."

"The same," replied Andrew Lyon.

Malcolm's face did not brighten with a feeling of heart-warm
benevolence. But, he turned slowly away, and opening his
money-drawer, _very slowly_, toyed with his fingers amid its
contents. At length he took therefrom a dollar bill, and said, as he
presented it to Lyon,--sighing involuntarily as he did so--

"I suppose I must do my part. But, we are called upon so often."

The ardor of Andrew Lyon's benevolent feelings suddenly cooled at
this unexpected reception. He had entered upon his work under the
glow of a pure enthusiasm; anticipating a hearty response the moment
his errand was made known.

"I thank you in the widow's name," said he, as he took the dollar.
When he turned from Mr. Malcolm's store, it was with a pressure on
his feelings, as if he had asked the coldly-given favor for himself.

It was not without an effort that Lyon compelled himself to call
upon Mr. Green, considered the "next best man" on his list. But he
entered his place of business with far less confidence than he had
felt when calling upon Malcolm. His story told, Green without a word
or smile, drew two half dollars from his pocket, and presented them.

"Thank you," said Lyon.

"Welcome," returned Green.

Oppressed with a feeling of embarrassment, Lyon stood for a few
moments. Then bowing, he said--

"Good morning."

"Good morning," was coldly and formally responded.

And thus the alms-seeker and alms-giver parted.

"Better be at his shop, attending to his work," muttered Green to
himself, as his visitor retired. "Men ain't very apt to get along
too well in the world who spend their time in begging for every
object of charity that happens to turn up. And there are plenty of
such, dear knows. He's got a dollar out of me; may it do him, or the
poor widow he talked so glibly about, much good."

Cold water had been poured upon the feelings of Andrew Lyon. He had
raised two dollars for the poor widow, but, at what a sacrifice for
one so sensitive as himself. Instead of keeping on in his work of
benevolence, he went to his shop, and entered upon the day's
employment. How disappointed he felt;--and this disappointment was
mingled with a certain sense of humiliation, as if he had been
asking alms for himself.

"Catch me at this work again!" he said, half aloud, as his thoughts
dwelt upon what had so recently occurred. "But this is not right,"
he added, quickly. "It is a weakness in me to feel so. Poor Mrs.
Arnold must be relieved; and it is my duty to see that she gets
relief. I had no thought of a reception like this. People can talk
of benevolence; but putting the hand in the pocket is another affair
altogether. I never dreamed that such men as Malcolm and Green could
be insensible to an appeal like the one I made."

"I've got two dollars towards paying Mrs. Arnold's rent," he said to
himself, in a more cheerful tone, sometime afterwards; "and it will
go hard if I don't raise the whole amount for her. All are not like
Green and Malcolm. Jones is a kind-hearted man, and will instantly
respond to the call of humanity. I'll go and see him."

So, off Andrew Lyon started to see this individual.

"I've come begging, Mr. Jones," said he, on meeting him. And he
spoke in a frank, pleasant manner.

"Then you've come to the wrong shop; that's all I have to say," was
the blunt answer.

"Don't say that, Mr. Jones. Hear my story, first."

"I do say it, and I'm in earnest," returned Jones. "I feel as poor
as Job's turkey, to-day."

"I only want a dollar to help a poor widow pay her rent," said Lyon.

"Oh, hang all the poor widows! If that's your game, you'll get
nothing here. I've got my hands full to pay my own rent. A nice time
I'd have in handing out a dollar to every poor widow in town to help
pay her rent! No, no, my friend, you can't get anything here."

"Just as you feel about it," said Andrew Lyon. "There's no
compulsion in the matter."

"No, I presume not," was rather coldly replied.

Lyon returned to his shop, still more disheartened than before. He
had undertaken a thankless office.

Nearly two hours elapsed before his resolution to persevere in the
good work he had begun came back with sufficient force to prompt to
another effort. Then he dropped in upon his neighbor Tompkins, to
whom he made known his errand.

"Why, yes, I suppose I must do something in a case like this," said
Tompkins, with the tone and air of a man who was cornered. "But,
there are so many calls for charity, that we are naturally enough
led to hold on pretty tightly to our purse strings. Poor woman! I
feel sorry for her. How much do you want?"

"I am trying to get ten persons, including myself, to give a dollar
each."

"Well, here's my dollar." And Tompkins forced a smile to his face as
he handed over his contribution--but the smile did not conceal an
expression which said very plainly--

"I hope you will not trouble me again in this way."

"You may be sure I will not," muttered Lyon, as he went away. He
fully understood the meaning of the expression.

Only one more application did the kind-hearted man make. It was
successful; but, there was something in the manner of the individual
who gave his dollar, that Lyon felt as a rebuke.

"And so poor Mrs. Arnold did not get the whole of her arrears of
rent paid off," says some one who has felt an interest in her favor.

Oh, yes she did. Mr. Lyon begged five dollars, and added five more
from his own slender purse. But, he cannot be induced again to
undertake the thankless office of seeking relief from the benevolent
for a fellow creature in need. He has learned that a great many who
refuse alms on the plea that the object presented is not worthy, are
but little more inclined to charitable deeds, when on this point
there is no question.

How many who read this can sympathise with Andrew Lyon. Few men who
have hearts to feel for others but have been impelled, at some time
in their lives, to seek aid for a fellow-creature in need. That
their office was a thankless one, they have too soon become aware.
Even those who responded to their call most liberally, in too many
instances gave in a way that left an unpleasant impression behind.
How quickly has the first glow of generous feeling, that sought to
extend itself to others, that they might share the pleasure of
humanity, been chilled; and, instead of finding the task an easy
one, it has proved to be hard, and, too often, humiliating! Alas,
that this should be! That men should shut their hearts so
instinctively at the voice of charity.

We have not written this to discourage active efforts in the
benevolent; but to hold up a mirror in which another class may see
themselves. At best, the office of him who seeks of his fellow-men
aid for the suffering and indigent, is an unpleasant one. It is all
sacrifice on his part, and the least that can be done is to honor
his disinterested regard for others in distress, and treat him with
delicacy and consideration.




GOING TO THE SPRINGS; OR, VULGAR PEOPLE.


"I SUPPOSE you will all be off to Saratoga, in a week or two," said
Uncle Joseph Garland to his three nieces, as he sat chatting with
them and their mother, one hot day, about the first of July.

"We're not going to Saratoga this year," replied Emily, the eldest,
with a toss of her head.

"Indeed! And why not, Emily?"

"Everybody goes to Saratoga, now."

"Who do you mean by everybody, Emily?"

"Why, I mean merchants, shop-keepers, and tradesmen, with their
wives and daughters, all mixed up together, into a kind of
hodge-podge. It used to be a fashionable place of resort--but people
that think any thing of themselves, don't go there now."

"Bless me, child!" ejaculated old Uncle Joseph, in surprise. "This
is all new to me. But you were there last year."

"I know. And that cured us all. There was not a day in which we were
not crowded down to the table among the most vulgar kind of people."

"How, vulgar, Emily?"

"Why, there was Mr. Jones, the watchmaker, with his wife and two
daughters. I need not explain what I mean by vulgar, when I give you
that information."

"I cannot say that I have any clearer idea of what you mean, Emily."

"You talk strangely, uncle! You do not suppose that we are going to
associate with the Joneses?"

"I did not say that I did. Still, I am in the dark as to what you
mean by the most vulgar kind of people."

"Why, common people, brother," said Mrs. Ludlow, coming up to the
aid of her daughter. "Mr. Jones is only a watchmaker, and therefore
has no business to push himself and family into the company of
genteel people."

"Saratoga is a place of public resort," was the quiet reply.

"Well, genteel people will have to stay away, then, that's all. I,
at least, for one, am not going to be annoyed as I have been for the
last two or three seasons at Saratoga, by being thrown amongst all
sorts of people."

"They never troubled me any," spoke up Florence Ludlow, the youngest
of the three sisters. "For my part, I liked Mary Jones very much.
She was----"

"You are too much of a child to be able to judge in matters of this
kind," said the mother, interrupting Florence.

Florence was fifteen; light-hearted and innocent. She had never been
able, thus far in life, to appreciate the exclusive principles upon
which her mother and sisters acted, and had, in consequence,
frequently fallen under their censure. Purity of heart, and the
genuine graces flowing from a truly feminine spirit, always
attracted her, no matter what the station of the individual in whose
society she happened to be thrown. The remark of her mother silenced
her, for the time, for experience had taught her that no good ever
resulted from a repetition of her opinions on a subject of this
kind.

"And I trust she will ever remain the child she is, in these
matters," said Uncle Joseph, with emphasis. "It is the duty of every
one, sister, to do all that he can to set aside the false ideas of
distinction prevailing in the social world, and to build up on a
broader and truer foundation, a right estimate of men and things.
Florence, I have observed, discriminates according to the quality of
the person's mind into whose society she is thrown, and estimates
accordingly. But you, and Emily, and Adeline, judge of people
according to their rank in society--that is according to the
position to which wealth alone has raised them. In this way, and in
no other, can you be thrown so into association with 'all kinds of
people,' as to be really affected by them. For, the result of my
observation is, that in any circle where a mere external sign is the
passport to association, 'all sorts of people,' the good, the bad,
and the indifferent, are mingled. It is not a very hard thing for a
bad man to get rich, sister; but for a man of evil principles to
rise above them, is very hard, indeed; and is an occurrence that too
rarely happens. The consequence is, that they who are rich, are not
always the ones whom we should most desire to mingle with."

"I don't see that there is any use in our talking about these
things, brother," replied Mrs. Ludlow. "You know that you and I
never did agree in matters of this kind. As I have often told you, I
think you incline to be rather low in your social views."

"How can that be a low view which regards the quality of another,
and estimates him accordingly?" was the reply.

"I don't pretend to argue with you, on these subjects, brother; so
you will oblige me by dropping them," said Mrs. Ludlow, coloring,
and speaking in an offended tone.

"Well, well, never mind," Uncle Joseph replied, soothingly. "We will
drop them."

Then turning to Emily, he continued--

"And so your minds are made up not to go to Saratoga?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Well, where do you intend spending the summer months?"

"I hardly know yet. But, if I have my say, we will take a trip in
one of the steamers. A flying visit to London would be delightful."

"What does your father say to that?"

"Why, he won't listen to it. But I'll do my best to bring him
round--and so will Adeline. As for Florence, I believe I will ask
father to let her go to Saratoga with the Joneses."

"I shall have no very decided objections," was the quiet reply of
Florence. A half angry and reproving glance from her mother, warned
her to be more discreet in the declaration of her sentiments.

"A young lady should never attempt to influence her father," said
Uncle Joseph. "She should trust to his judgment in all matters, and
be willing to deny herself any pleasure to which he objected. If
your father will not listen to your proposition to go to London, be
sure that he has some good reason for it."

"Well, I don't know that he has such very good reasons, beyond his
reluctance to go away from business," Emily replied, tossing her
head.

"And should not you, as his daughter, consider this a most
conclusive reason? Ought not your father's wishes and feelings be
considered first?"

"You may see it so, Uncle; but I cannot say that I do."

"Emily," and Uncle Joseph spoke in an excited tone of voice, "If you
hold these sentiments, you are unworthy of such a man as your
father!"

"Brother, you must not speak to the girls in that way," said Mrs.
Ludlow.

"I shall always speak my thoughts in your house Margaret," was the
reply; "at least to you and the girls. As far as Mr. Ludlow is
concerned, I have rarely occasion to differ with him."

A long silence followed, broken at last by an allusion to some other
subject; when a better understanding among all parties ensued.

On that evening, Mr. Ludlow seemed graver than usual when he came
in. After tea, Emily said, breaking in upon a conversation that had
become somewhat interesting to Mr. Ludlow--

"I'm not going to let you have a moment's peace, Pa, until you
consent to go to England with us this season."

"I'm afraid it will be a long time before I shall have any peace,
then, Emily," replied the father, with an effort to smile, but
evidently worried by the remark. This, Florence, who was sitting
close by him, perceived instantly, and said--

"Well, I can tell you, for one, Pa, that I don't wish to go. I'd
rather stay at home a hundred times."

"It's no particular difference, I presume, what you like," remarked
Emily, ill-naturedly. "If you don't wish to go, I suppose no one
will quarrel with you for staying at home."

"You are wrong to talk so, Emily," said Mr. Ludlow, calmly but
firmly, "and I cannot permit such remarks in my presence."

Emily looked rebuked, and Mr. Ludlow proceeded.

"As to going to London, that is altogether out of the question. The
reasons why it is so, are various, and I cannot now make you
acquainted with all of them. One is, that I cannot leave my business
so long as such a journey would require. Another is, that I do not
think it altogether right for me to indulge you in such views and
feelings as you and Adeline are beginning to entertain. You wish to
go to London, because you don't want to go to Saratoga, or to any
other of our watering places; and you don't want to go there,
because certain others, whom you esteem below you in rank, can
afford to enjoy themselves, and recruit their health at the same
places of public resort. All this I, do not approve, and cannot
encourage."

"You certainly cannot wish us to associate with every one," said
Emily, in a tone less arrogant.

"Of course not, Emily," replied Mr. Ludlow; "but I do most decidedly
condemn the spirit from which you are now acting. It would exclude
others, many of whom, in moral character, are far superior to
yourself from enjoying the pleasant, health-imparting recreation of
a visit to the Springs, because it hurts your self-importance to be
brought into brief contact with them."

"I can't understand what you mean by speaking of these kind of
people as superior in moral character to us," Mrs. Ludlow remarked.

"I said some of them. And, in this, I mean what I say. Wealth and
station in society do not give moral tone. They are altogether
extraneous, and too frequently exercise a deteriorating influence
upon the character. There is Thomas, the porter in my store--a
plain, poor man, of limited education; yet possessing high moral
qualities, that I would give much to call my own. This man's
character I esteem far above that of many in society to whom no one
thinks of objecting. There are hundreds and thousands of humble and
unassuming persons like him, far superior in the high moral
qualities of mind to the mass of self-esteeming exclusives, who
think the very air around them tainted by their breath. Do you
suppose that I would enjoy less the pleasures of a few weeks at
Saratoga, because Thomas was there? I would, rather, be gratified to
see him enjoying a brief relaxation, if his duties at the store
could be remitted in my absence."

There was so much of the appearance of truth in what Mr. Ludlow
said, combined with a decided tone and manner, that neither his wife
or daughters ventured a reply. But they had no affection for the
truth he uttered, and of course it made no salutary impression on
their minds.

"What shall we do, Ma?" asked Adeline, as they sat with their
mother, on the next afternoon. "We must go somewhere this summer,
and Pa seems in earnest about not letting us visit London."

"I don't know, I am sure, child," was the reply.

"I can't think of going to Saratoga," said Emily, in a positive
tone.

"The Emmersons are going," Adeline remarked.

"How do you know?" asked Emily, in a tone of surprise.

"Victorine told me so this morning."

"She did!"

"Yes. I met her at Mrs. Lemmington's and she said that they were all
going next week."

"I don't understand that," said Emily, musingly.

"It was only last week that Victorine told me that they were done
going to Saratoga; that the place had become too common. It had been
settled, she said, that they were to go out in the next steamer."

"Mr. Emmerson, I believe, would not consent, and so, rather than not
go anywhere, they concluded to visit Saratoga, especially as the
Lesters, and Milfords, and Luptons are going."

"Are they all going?" asked Emily, in renewed surprise.

"So Victorine said."

"Well, I declare! there is no kind of dependence to be placed in
people now-a-days. They all told me that they could not think of
going to such a vulgar place as Saratoga again."

Then, after a pause, Emily resumed,

"As it will never do to stay at home, we will have to go somewhere.
What do you think of the Virginia Springs, Ma?"

"I think that I am not going there, to be jolted half to death in a
stage coach by the way."

"Where, then, shall we go?"

"I don't know, unless to Saratoga."

"Victorine said," remarked Adeline, "that a large number of
distinguished visiters were to be there, and that it was thought the
season would be the gayest spent for some time."

"I suppose we will have to go, then," said Emily.

"I am ready," responded Adeline.

"And so am I," said Florence.

That evening Mr. Ludlow was graver and more silent than usual. After
tea, as he felt no inclination to join in the general conversation
about the sayings and doings of distinguished and fashionable
individuals, he took a newspaper, and endeavored to become
interested in its contents. But he tried in vain. There was
something upon his mind that absorbed his attention at the same time
that it oppressed his feelings. From a deep reverie he was at length
roused by Emily, who said--

"So, Pa, you are determined not to let us go out in the next
steamer?"

"Don't talk to me on that subject any more, if you please," replied
Mr. Ludlow, much worried at the remark.

"Well, that's all given up now," continued Emily, "and we've made up
our minds to go to Saratoga. How soon will you be able to go with
us?"

"Not just now," was the brief, evasive reply.

"We don't want to go until next week."

"I am not sure that I can go even then."

"O, but we must go then, Pa."

"You cannot go without me," said Mr. Ludlow, in a grave tone.

"Of course not," replied Emily and Adeline at the same moment.

"Suppose, then, I cannot leave the city next week?"

"But you can surely."

"I am afraid not. Business matters press upon me, and will, I fear,
engage my exclusive attention for several weeks to come."

"O, but indeed you must lay aside business," said Mrs. Ludlow. "It
will never do for us to stay at home, you knows during the season
when everybody is away."

"I shall be very sorry if circumstances arise to prevent you having
your regular summer recreation," was replied, in a serious, even sad
tone. "But, I trust my wife and daughters will acquiesce with
cheerfulness."

"Indeed, indeed, Pa! We never can stay at home," said Emily, with a
distressed look. "How would it appear? What would people say if we
were to remain in the city during all the summer?"

"I don't know, Emily, that you should consider that as having any
relation to the matter. What have other people to do with matters
which concerns us alone?"

"You talk very strangely of late, Mr. Ludlow," said his wife.

"Perhaps I have reason for so doing," he responded, a shadow
flitting across his face.

An embarrassing silence ensued, which was broken, at last, by Mr.
Ludlow.

"Perhaps," he began, "there may occur no better time than the
present, to apprise you all of a matter that must, sooner or later,
become known to you. We will have to make an effort to reduce our
expenses--and it seems to me that this matter of going to the
Springs, which will cost some three or four hundred dollars, might
as well be dispensed with. Business is in a worse condition than I
have ever known it; and I am sustaining, almost daily, losses that
are becoming alarming. Within the last six weeks I have lost, beyond
hope, at least twenty thousand dollars. How much more will go I am
unable to say. But there are large sums due me that may follow the
course of that already gone. Under these circumstances, I am driven
to the necessity of prudence in all my expenditures."

"But three or four hundred are not much, Pa," Emily urged, in a
husky voice, and with dimmed eyes. For the fear of not being able to
go somewhere, was terrible to her. None but vulgar people staid at
home during the summer season.

"It is too large a sum to throw away now. So I think you had all
better conclude at once not to go from home this summer," said Mr.
Ludlow.

A gush of tears from Emily and Adeline followed this annunciation,
accompanied by a look of decided disapprobation from the mother. Mr.
Ludlow felt deeply tried, and for some moments his resolution
wavered; but reason came to his aid, and he remained firm. He was
accounted a very rich merchant. In good times, he had entered into
business, and prosecuted it with great energy. The consequence was,
that he had accumulated money rapidly. The social elevation
consequent upon this, was too much for his wife. Her good sense
could not survive it. She not only became impressed with the idea,
that, because she was richer, she was better than others, but that
only such customs were to be tolerated in "good society," as were
different from prevalent usages in the mass. Into this idea her two
eldest daughters were thoroughly inducted. Mr. Ludlow, immersed in
business, thought little about such matters, and suffered himself to
be led into almost anything that his wife and daughters proposed.
But Mrs. Ludlow's brother--Uncle Joseph, as he was called--a
bachelor, and a man of strong common sense, steadily opposed his
sister in her false notions, but with little good effect. Necessity
at last called into proper activity the good sense of Mr. Ludlow,
and he commenced the opposition that has just been noticed. After
reflecting some time upon the matter, he resolved not to assent to
his family leaving home at all during the summer.

All except Florence were exceedingly distressed at this. She
acquiesced with gentleness and patience, although she had much
desired to spend a few weeks at Saratoga. But Mrs. Ludlow, Emily,
and Adeline, closed up the front part of the house, and gave
directions to the servants not to answer the door bell, nor to do
anything that would give the least suspicion that the family were in
town. Then ensconcing themselves in the back buildings of their
dwelling, they waited in gloomy indolence for the "out of the city"
season to pass away; consoling themselves with the idea, that if
they were not permitted to join the fashionables at the Springs, it
would at lest be supposed that they had gone some where into the
country, and thus they hoped to escape the terrible penalty of
losing _caste_ for not conforming to an indispensable rule of high
life.

Mr. Ludlow was compelled to submit to all this, and he did so
without much opposition; but it all determined him to commence a
steady opposition to the false principles which prompted such absurd
observances. As to Uncle Joseph, he was indignant, and failing to
gain admittance by way of the front door after one or two trials,
determined not to go near his sister and nieces, a promise which he
kept for a few weeks, at least.

Meantime, every thing was passing off pleasantly at Saratoga. Among
the distinguished and undistinguished visitors there, was Mary
Jones, and her father, a man of both wealth and worth,
notwithstanding he was only a watchmaker and jeweller. Mary was a
girl of no ordinary character. With beauty of person far exceeding
that of the Misses Ludlow, she had a well cultivated mind, and was
far more really and truly accomplished than they were. Necessarily,
therefore, she attracted attention at the Springs; and this had been
one cause of Emily's objection to her.

A day or two after her arrival at Saratoga, she was sitting near a
window of the public parlor of one of the hotels, when a young man,
named Armand, whom she had seen there several times before, during
the watering season, in company with Emily Ludlow, with whose family
he appeared to be on intimate terms came up to her and introduced
himself.

"Pardon me, Miss Jones," said he, "but not seeing any of the Miss
Ludlows here, I presumed that you might be able to inform me whether
they intend visiting Saratoga or not, this season, and, therefore, I
have broken through all formalities in addressing you. You are well
acquainted with Florence, I believe?"

"Very well, sir," Mary replied.

"Then perhaps you can answer my question?"

"I believe I can, sir. I saw Florence several times within the last
week or two; and she says that they shall not visit any of the
Springs this season."

"Indeed! And how comes that?"

"I believe the reason is no secret," Mary replied, utterly
unconscious that any one could be ashamed of a right motive, and
that an economical one. "Florence tells me that her father has met
with many heavy losses in business; and that they think it best not
to incur any unnecessary expenses. I admire such a course in them."

"And so do I, most sincerely," replied Mr. Armand. Then, after
thinking for a moment, he added--

"I will return to the city in the next boat. All of their friends
being away, they must feel exceedingly lonesome."

"It will certainly be a kind act, Mr. Armand, and one, the motive
for which they cannot but highly appreciate," said Mary, with an
inward glow of admiration.

It was about eleven o'clock on the next day that Mr. Armand pulled
the bell at the door of Mr. Ludlow's beautiful dwelling, and then
waited with a feeling of impatience for the servant to answer the
summons. But he waited in vain. No servant came. He rang again, and
again waited long enough for a servant to come half a dozen times.
Then he looked up at the house and saw that all the shutters were
closed; and down upon the marble steps, and perceived that they were
covered with dust and dirt; and on the bell-handle, and noted its
loss of brightness.

"Miss Jones must have been mistaken," he said to himself, as he gave
the bell a third pull, and then waited, but in vain, for the
hall-door to be swung open.

"Who can it be?" asked Emily, a good deal disturbed, as the bell
rang violently for the third time, and in company with Adeline, went
softly into the parlor to take a peep through one of the shutters.

"Mr. Armand, as I live!" she ejaculated, in a low, husky whisper,
turning pale. "I would not have _him_ know that we are in town for
the world!"

And then she stole away quietly, with her heart leaping and
fluttering in her bosom, lest he should instinctively perceive her
presence.

Finding that admission was not to be obtained, Mr. Armand concluded
that the family had gone to some other watering place, and turned
away irresolute as to his future course. As he was passing down
Broadway, he met Uncle Joseph.

"So the Ludlows are all out of town," he said.

"So they are not!" replied Uncle Joseph, rather crustily, for he had
just been thinking over their strange conduct, and it irritated him.

"Why, I have been ringing there for a quarter of an hour, and no one
came to the door; and the house is all shut up."

"Yes; and if you had ringing for a quarter of a century, it would
all have been the same."

"I can't understand you," said Mr. Armand.

"Why, the truth is, Mr. Ludlow cannot go to the Springs with them
this season, and they are so afraid that it will become known that
they are burying themselves in the back part of the house, and
denying all visiters."

"Why so? I cannot comprehend it."

"All fashionable people, you know, are expected to go to the
sea-shore or the Springs; and my sister and her two eldest daughters
are so silly, as to fear that they will lose _caste_, if it is known
that they could not go this season. Do you understand now?"

"Perfectly."

"Well, that's the plain A B C of the case. But it provokes me out of
all patience with them."

"It's a strange idea, certainly," said Mr. Armand, in momentary
abstraction of thought; and then bidding Uncle Joseph good morning,
he walked hastily along, his mind in a state of fermentation.

The truth was, Mr. Armand had become much attached to Emily Ludlow,
for she was a girl of imposing appearance and winning manners. But
this staggered him. If she were such a slave to fashion and
observance, she was not the woman for his wife. As he reflected upon
the matter, and reviewed his intercourse with her, he could remember
many things in her conversation and conduct that he did not like. He
could distinctly detect a degree of self-estimation consequent upon
her station in society, that did not meet his approbation--because
it indicated a weakness of mind that he had no wish to have in a
wife. The wealth of her father he had not regarded, nor did now
regard, for he was himself possessor of an independence.

Two days after, he was again at Saratoga. The brief interview that
had passed between him and Mary Jones was a sufficient introduction
for him; and, taking advantage of it, he threw himself in her way
frequently, and the more he saw of her, the more did he admire her
winning gentleness, sweet temper, and good sense. When he returned
to New York, he was more than half in love with her.

"Mr. Armand has not been to see us once this fall," said Adeline,
one evening in October. They were sitting in a handsomely furnished
parlor in a neat dwelling, comfortable and commodious, but not so
splendid as the one they had occupied a few months previous. Mr.
Ludlow's affairs had become so embarrassed, that he determined, in
spite of the opposition of his family, to reduce his expenses. This
resolution he carried out amid tears and remonstrances--for he could
not do it in any other way.

"Who could expect him to come _here?_" Emily replied, to the remark
of her sister. "Not I, certainly."

"I don't believe that would make any difference with him," Florence
ventured to say, for it was little that she could say, that did not
meet with opposition.

"Why don't you?" asked Adeline.

"Because Mary Jones--"

"Mary Jones again!" ejaculated Emily. "I believe you don't think of
anybody but Mary Jones. I'm surprised that Ma lets you visit that
girl!"

"As good people as I am visit her," replied Florence. "I've seen
those there who would be welcome here."

"What do you mean?"

"If you had waited until I had finished my sentence, you would have
known before now. Mary Jones lives in a house no better than this,
and Mr. Armand goes to see her."

"I don't believe it!" said Emily, with emphasis.

"Just as you like about that. Seeing is believing, they say, and as
I have seen him there, I can do no less than believe he was there."

"When did you see him there?" Emily now asked with eager interest,
while her face grew pale.

"I saw him there last evening--and he sat conversing with Mary in a
way that showed them to be no strangers to each other."

A long, embarrassed, and painful silence followed this announcement.
At last, Emily got up and went off to her chamber, where she threw
herself upon her bed and burst into tears. After these ceased to
flow, and her mind had become, in some degree, tranquillized, her
thoughts became busy. She remembered that Mr. Armand had called,
while they were hiding away in fear lest it should be known that
they were not on a fashionable visit to some watering place--how he
had rung and rung repeatedly, as if under the idea that they were
there, and how his countenance expressed disappointment as she
caught a glimpse of it through the closed shutters. With all this
came, also, the idea that he might have discovered that they were at
home, and have despised the principle from which they acted, in thus
shutting themselves up, and denying all visiters. This thought was
exceedingly painful. It was evident to her, that it was not their
changed circumstances that kept him away--for had he not visited
Mary Jones?

Uncle Joseph came in a few evenings afterwards, and during his visit
the following conversation took place.

"Mr. Armand visits Mary Jones, I am told," Adeline remarked, as an
opportunity for saying so occurred.

"He does? Well, she is a good girl--one in a thousand," replied
Uncle Joseph.

"She is only a watchmaker's daughter," said Emily, with an
ill-concealed sneer.

"And you are only a merchant's daughter. Pray, what is the
difference?"

"Why, a good deal of difference!"

"Well state it."

"Mr. Jones is nothing but a mechanic."

"Well?"

"Who thinks of associating with mechanics?"

"There may be some who refuse to do so; but upon what grounds do
they assume a superiority?"

"Because they are really above them."

"But in what respect?"

"They are better and more esteemed in society."

"As to their being better, that is only an assumption. But I see I
must bring the matter right home. Would you be really any worse,
were your father a mechanic?"

"The question is not a fair one. You suppose an impossible case."

"Not so impossible as you might imagine. You are the daughter of a
mechanic."

"Brother, why will you talk so? I am out of all patience with you!"
said Mrs. Ludlow, angrily.

"And yet, no one knows better than you, that I speak only the truth.
No one knows better than you, that Mr. Ludlow served many years at
the trade of a shoemaker. And that, consequently, these high-minded
young ladies, who sneer at mechanics, are themselves a shoemaker's
daughters--a fact that is just as well known abroad as anything else
relating to the family. And now, Misses Emily and Adeline, I hope
you will hereafter find it in your hearts to be a little more
tolerant of mechanics daughters."

And thus saying, Uncle Joseph rose, and bidding them good night,
left them to their own reflections, which were not of the most
pleasant character, especially as the mother could not deny the
allegation he had made.

During the next summer, Mr. Ludlow, whose business was no longer
embarrassed, and who had become satisfied that, although he should
sink a large proportion of a handsome fortune, he would still have a
competence left, and that well secured--proposed to visit Saratoga,
as usual. There was not a dissenting voice--no objecting on the
score of meeting vulgar people there. The painful 

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