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The Mysteries of Montreal: Being Recollections of a Female Physician

by Ch. Führer · English · Gutenberg #8443 · 366,677 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Mysteries of Montreal: Being Recollections of a Female Physician

Author: Ch. Führer


        
Release date: July 1, 2005 [eBook #8443]
                Most recently updated: November 6, 2016

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERIES OF MONTREAL: BEING RECOLLECTIONS OF A FEMALE PHYSICIAN ***




Produced by Robert Prince, Juliet Sutherland, Charles
Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team









THE MYSTERIES OF MONTREAL

BEING RECOLLECTIONS OF A FEMALE PHYSICIAN.

By Charlotte Fuhrer


Truth is Stranger than Fiction


MONTREAL




INTRODUCTION

During a long practice of over thirty years I have seen many things
enacted here in this city of Montreal which, if told with the skill of
a Dumas or a Collins, might not only astonish but startle the sedate
residents of this Church-going community. I have often, while waiting
for the advent of a little midnight visitor, beguiled the weary hours
with a narrative of some of my experiences, and have been amused at the
expression on the faces of my fair patients when told that my memory,
and not my imagination, had been drawn upon for materials. Enquiry
having frequently been made as to whether my recollections were
published, I have been induced to print this volume, changing only names
of persons and localities, so as to avoid identification. Many persons
will find it hard to believe some of the occurrences which are herein
mentioned, but those who have been concerned (directly or indirectly)
with any of the parties to my narratives, will recognize, under the
disguise of a false name, some person with whose history they are
familiar. Should any discover his own actions here narrated, let him not
think that I have wantonly endeavored to open old sores, but rather to
warn others from taking that first false step which so often leads to
future misery and bitter remorse.

MONTREAL, May, 1881





CHAPTER I.


Early Life and Professional Struggles.

My father, an officer in the Hanoverian Army, having died while I was
almost a child, I found myself, at the age of 17, governess in the
family of the Baron Grovestein in Hamburg, Germany, where I met
my present husband, Gustav Schroeder, at that time one of the most
“eligible” young gentlemen in that city.

Though not particularly handsome, Gustav was all that could be desired
in other respects. He was young, well educated, and the son of wealthy
parents, and of an amiable disposition. Soon after my engagement at the
Baron’s, young Schroeder’s visits (ostensibly to the family) became
so frequent, that his friends, who had divined the cause, forbade his
having anything to say to me, more than cold civility demanded;
and insisted that his visits to the Grovestein mansion should be
discontinued. This, it may well be supposed, had quite the opposite
effect, and in a short time we were engaged to be married, with the
formal, if not the hearty approval of Gustav’s relations, and in course
of time the marriage ceremony took place, with all the paraphernalia of
an _Alt-Deutsch Hochzeitsfest_.

Now, however, came the question: How are we to live! for my husband
had no settled profession, and his parents, though wealthy, could not
deprive their more obedient children of their rights to benefit the
perverse Gustav. They gave him sufficient to start him in business, with
the understanding that he would emigrate to America, their idea being
that a German gentleman with a little capital could not fail to make
a fortune among the comparatively illiterate Columbians. To New York
accordingly we came, and Gustav labored assiduously to establish a
business as importer of German manufactures; he soon found, however,
that men who did not know Horace from Euripides could drive closer
bargains, and make quicker sales than he could, and, as he was too proud
to compound with his correspondents in the old country, and insisted on
conscientiously paying a hundred cents for a dollar, we found ourselves
in less than three years, with diminished capital in specie, and an
increased one as regards future candidates for the Presidency, on our
way back to our common Fatherland. Through the influence of his friends,
Gustav procured a good situation in a merchant’s office, but he was
altogether unsuited both by temperament and education for such a
position, and I soon made up my mind that I must either prepare to enter
the world’s great battlefield in person, or live in helpless dependence
on my husband’s relations.

I had often while in America wondered why the ladies of that Republic
(so advanced and enlightened in everything else) should submit to
a practice so revolting, so contrary to all ideas of morality and
refinement as is the system of man-midwifery so widely practiced in the
United States. No German lady would think of permitting the attendance
of a man at her bedside on such an occasion, and though custom in
England seems generally to sanction the absurd practice, yet Her Majesty
Queen Victoria never allows her medical advisers to be in attendance in
any other capacity than that of _consulting_ physicians. I had discussed
the matter frequently with married ladies in New York, and they were
generally agreed, that, could only competent ladies be found in the
United States, man-midwifery would soon cease to be practiced in that
Republic. I accordingly resolved to devote all my energies to the study
of that particular branch of the medical profession, and my efforts were
crowned with success. In two years I obtained a diploma from the Hamburg
University, and soon after prepared to return to America.

[Footnote: Dr. Playfair, President of the Obstetrical Society of London,
in his address delivered in February, 1879, said:--“I confess that it is
with a feeling of regret, something akin to shame, when I reflect that
I am supposed to teach a class of young men the entire subject of
midwifery, and the diseases of women and children, in a short summer
course of something under forty lectures. The thing is a manifest and
ridiculous absurdity, hence we have, of necessity, to omit, year by
year, _at least half of midwifery proper_.”

The Principal of Calcutta Medical College writes Dr. Playfair thus:--“To
what a hideous extent is the practice of midwifery carried on in
England, by utterly unqualified men, whom the unhappy women and their
friends believe to be qualified, and the system in your hospitals sadly
favors this.”

“Yet there are some women who will smother every feeling of modesty and
morality, and trust their lives to one of these licentiates rather than
commit themselves to the care of a thoroughly trained midwife of their
own sex. Surely nothing can be more absurd and irrational.”]

About this time a friend of my husbands’ informed us that the climate
of Canada was very much superior to that of the Eastern States, and much
more like that of Germany, and that in Montreal I would be likely to
find, not only a pleasant city, but a people more European in style
and custom, also a capital field for the exercise of my profession. For
Montreal then we sailed with hearts full of hope, and, being fifty-four
days at sea, I was summoned by the Captain to attend a lady on board
(which I did with the success which has since invariably attended my
efforts), and this was my debut as a professional accoucheur.

On our arrival at Montreal we presented letters of introduction to the
German Consul, and the leading members of the German Society, and I soon
became fully occupied in the exercise of my profession. Dr. X----
(now one of our most distinguished physicians) not only tolerated my
vocation, but, with a magnanimity worthy of his genius and ability, gave
me counsel and advice, and recommended me as highly as possible to his
confrères and the public. Some few resident doctors threw cold water
on my enterprise, but, to their credit be it spoken, the profession at
large treated me invariably with the greatest kindness and courtesy,
shewing thereby a liberality and largeness of heart which is ever the
outcome of real ability.

I was not long installed in my new home when, as we were sitting cosily
round the fire, the door bell was rung furiously, and on my going down
to receive my visitor, I was astonished to find a gentleman with a
newborn baby wrapped in the tail of his broadcloth coat. He said he
was its father, and that the mother had taken suddenly ill before any
provision could be made for its reception, and he implored me to take
it, as he would otherwise feel impelled to throw it in the river.
I thought my heart would break to see the poor infant so ruthlessly
treated, so I took it from him, promising to see it safely to some
charitable institution. He told me his name was Ferguson, that he was
in business in Montreal, and that if I would deposit the child in some
charitable institution and call and see its mother during her recovery,
he would pay all necessary expenses. It was too late that night to go
out with the child, so I prepared some food for its nourishment and
kept it till the next day, resolved to go after dusk and see the Lady
Superior at one of the nunneries, but to my chagrin I discovered that
the nunnery was closed, and I was obliged to return home with the
babe, which, by-the-by, continued to roar lustily all the way, and so
attracted public attention to me (its presumptive mother) that I wept
as bitterly as the child itself, and was heartily sorry that I had
undertaken any such mission.

Next day I set out again in good time, but now a new difficulty awaited
me. The good Sister who received me informed me that only those who
were baptized and received into the Catholic Faith were eligible for
admission. On hearing this I burst into tears; I told her my story, that
the child was not mine, but that I was commissioned by its father to
deliver it to her, and I besought her so earnestly to take it from me
that she very considerately did so, and on my handing her the necessary
fee, she undertook to have it regularly baptized and admitted.

In the evening I called to see the mother; she was lying on a miserable
couch in a low lodging-house in the Quebec suburbs, yet she had about
her the air of a lady, and on her finger glittered a ring set with
brilliants. She wept when I told her how her child was disposed of,
but said that she had no other alternative, as if her father, who was a
lawyer of eminence, had any idea of her predicament, he would cast her
off in shame; that when she first discovered her condition she persuaded
her paramour to make a formal proposal for her hand, but her father was
enraged beyond measure, and threatened her so terribly that she, for a
time at least, put away all thoughts of Ferguson from her mind, and had
not quite decided how to act, when the occurrence took place which led
to the visit aforementioned, and caused the necessity for my attendance.
Miss L---- had barely time to call in a carriage at Ferguson’s office,
and apprise him of her condition, when she was taken ill, and obliged to
procure a lodging with all speed. Ferguson selected the wretched hovel
alluded to, as being away from all chance of discovery by his or her
friends, and after my visit, empowered me to engage a nurse, and make
what other arrangements I could for Miss L----‘s comfort. She managed to
get a confidential friend to telegraph her father from Quebec that she
had arrived in that city, and then sent on a letter and had it mailed
there, stating that she had gone on the steamboat the previous evening
to see some friends off, and, remaining too long on board, was taken
away eastward, but would return on receiving the passage money from
Montreal.

With this story she managed to deceive her otherwise astute father, and
in four days she actually got up and went to her own home in a carriage;
insisting on retiring immediately to her room in consequence of the
nervous excitement and fatigue she had undergone. The nurse I had
engaged to attend her, she on some pretence or another smuggled into
the house as a domestic servant, and so not only managed to have an
attendant, but to keep up a clandestine communication with Ferguson and
the outer world.

In the frantic hope of acquiring a rapid fortune, Ferguson migrated
to New Orleans, but just then the American war broke out, and he was
pressed into the service. Whether he was killed or not Miss L----never
found out; his letters became gradually less frequent, till finally she
lost all trace of him whatever, and she eventually married a wholesale
merchant of this city, who is to this day probably unaware of this
little episode in his wife’s former career. Sometimes I see her in her
carriage driving with liveried servants along St. James street, and
I cannot refrain from thinking of the innocent babe as it lay in poor
Ferguson’s coat-tail.




CHAPTER II.


A Just Retribution.

One evening, about the middle of June, 18--, a gentleman called to
see me, accompanied by a lady closely veiled. He said he wished me to
procure suitable lodging for her, and to attend her on her accouchement,
which was now close at hand, stating that no money would be spared to
furnish everything necessary either to her comfort or convenience. As I
did not know of any lodging suitable to a person of her station, I was
puzzled how to act; I did not want to lose a patient, and yet could not,
even if so disposed, make room for her in my own house. I knew that my
next door neighbor (an elderly French-Canadian lady) was accustomed to
take in lodgers; so, leaving the lady and gentleman for a while in my
parlor, I went to see if I could make arrangements for the reception of
the former. Madame Charbonneau, my neighbor, had all her rooms
occupied, but said she was willing for a consideration to give up
her drawing-rooms for a time to the fair patient. This was eminently
satisfactory to me, as, in the event of an emergency, I would be close
at hand; I accordingly arranged for Mrs. Trotter’s accommodation, and on
reporting to Mr. Dombey, the gentleman aforementioned, he seemed to
be perfectly satisfied. From, what I afterwards learned, I am able to
inform the reader that Mr. Dombey was junior partner in the house of
Dombey & Son, dry goods merchants, in this city, his father, Jacob
Dombey, sen., being considered one of the wealthiest importers in
Canada. In his youth Jacob Dombey, jun., had been pampered and petted
beyond measure, his every whim being carried out even at great expense;
arrived at the age of twenty-one he became enamored of a young lady
whose father kept a small toy-shop on Notre Dame street, and nothing
would content him but a marriage with the “Goddess,” as his innamorata
was called. At first he was quite proud of his pretty wife, and was to
be seen daily in Sherbrooke street, driving her behind a splendid span
of spirited bay horses, but after a few months he grew tired of this
routine, and with his bosom friend, Richard Fairfax, might be seen,
nightly at the theatres and other places of amusement, while his poor
wife sat in patient loneliness awaiting his return.

Mrs. Trotter was the daughter of a Civic Official of high standing, and
had married at a very early age a retired English Officer, who, being
well advanced in years, left her at the age of twenty-four a widow with
four children. Trotter was possessed of little besides his pension,
which died with him; so Mrs. T. was obliged to eke out a miserable
subsistence on the receipts from a little city property left her by her
father. Soon after her husband’s demise Mrs. Trotter removed to Lachine
(a small village on the river side about nine miles above Montreal), in
order to live more economically, and soon became acquainted with Mr. and
Mrs. Dombey, who had taken up their abode there for the summer season.
Mrs. Dombey took quite a fancy to the fascinating widow, and they soon
became inseparable.

Every evening on the promenade might be seen Mrs. Trotter leaning on the
arm of Mr. Dombey, his wife following accompanied by his friend Fairfax;
or they were together on the river boating, or enjoying a picnic on
“Dixie” Island. Occasionally, when the weather was unfavorable to
out-door amusements, they would engage in a rubber of whist, generally
ending the evening with a little music. Dombey did not know one tune
from another, but his wife praised Mrs. Trotter’s singing so highly that
he soon imagined that in that art, as in others, she was nearly, if not
altogether, perfect. When it became time for Mrs. Trotter to go home,
Jacob used to escort her to her cottage on the river bank, about a mile
distant from his own residence, and after a few weeks there sprang up an
intimacy between them which culminated in the incidents which gave rise
to my narrative.

On the day following that on which I had engaged her apartments Mrs.
Trotter took up her abode at Madame Charbonneau’s, and about six weeks
afterwards her baby, a beautiful girl, was born; she sent a message to
Mr. Dombey’s office, and in the afternoon he called to see her. He was
greatly pleased with the baby, and took it up fondly in his arms, and
on leaving placed a roll of bank bills in my hand, telling me to get
everything necessary for either the mother or her child, also to get the
latter whatever clothing it might require. After that he called almost
daily, and when Mrs. Trotter was sufficiently recovered to return to her
home, he pressed me so strongly to keep the baby till it was a little
older, and not to leave it to the tender mercies of an ignorant nurse,
that I consented to keep it till it was two years old, and then to
obtain for it, if possible, adoption by some respectable married
persons.

Margery, the baby aforementioned, turned out one of the most beautiful
children I had ever seen. Her father and mother visited her frequently
during the time she was at my house, and on my giving her for adoption
to Mr. Walker (a respectable Vermont farmer without any children of
his own) they were both deeply affected. Dombey was anxious that Mrs.
Trotter should take it to her own home, but, as “Mrs. Grundy” had
already been discussing her movements, she dare not, without fear of
ruining her children, take the baby under the roof. As there was no help
for it the baby was allowed to go to Vermont, and grew up a beautiful
girl, passionately devoted to the only parents she had ever known; Mrs.
Walker dying during the child’s infancy, Mr. Walker had her educated as
well as his means would permit, and they passed their time in the most
perfect harmony and sweet content. After the war, however, Walker found
himself almost without a penny in the world, and, thinking to better his
fortunes removed to New York, where he managed to make a poor living
as a subordinate in the Custom House. Margery regretted this change of
circumstances very much, but, being thoroughly devoted to her father,
she did not repine, but did all in her power to make his home as happy
as could be under such conditions. She missed her accustomed amusements
very much, and although in New York she saw many things and found many
opportunities which would have been altogether unknown to her in the
country, yet she was a long time in becoming reconciled to the close and
stifling atmosphere of a great metropolitan city.

One night her father promised her a great treat, they were to go to
X----‘s theatre to see Mademoiselle B---- in Romeo and Juliet. Margery
sat with strained eyes gazing wistfully at the play, laughing and
weeping by turns as the great master’s power was exerted on the audience
by the artists engaged, and at the close she heaved a deep sigh,
consequent upon having held her breath so long, and without thought
exclaimed aloud:--“Oh, what would I not give to be able to act like
that.” The manager who was close by, and who had been watching the
attentive beauty for some time, overheard the remark, and intercepting
the pair on their way out of the theatre said:--“I noticed that you were
favorably impressed with the piece; would you like an introduction to
Miss B----, the principal actress?” Margery was overcome with delight,
and besought her father so earnestly to allow her to go into the green
room that he accompanied her thither, and they obtained an introduction
to the famous artiste. Miss B---- was quite taken with the innocent
enthusiasm of the girl, and invited her to come to her benefit on the
following evening, when she was to appear as Parthenia in “Ingomar;”
 Margery, having obtained her father’s permission, readily consented, and
all the way home was full of praises for Juliet, Romeo, the manager,
and all concerned. On the following evening the manager drew her father
aside and whispered in his ear:--“You have a fortune in that girl
of yours.” Walker, misunderstanding the purport of his words,
replied:--“Yes, she is a good and affectionate child, as much so as if I
were her natural parent.” “You do not understand me,” said the other; “I
mean she has immense emotional power, which, if artistically cultivated,
would, coupled with her personal appearance, make both her fortune and
yours.”

“Do you think so?” replied Walker; “well, if we had only the means I
would certainly have her trained, for, since she has seen Mademoiselle
B---- act, her great ambition seems to be to occupy a similar position.”
 After further conversation it was agreed to place Margery under the
care of Mrs. L----, with a view of becoming a professional actress; for,
although Walker did not at all care for the stage or its concomitants,
still he did not wish to throw any obstacles in the way of his adopted
child’s prosperity. Margery, therefore, was allowed to pursue the bent
of her inclinations, and such an apt pupil was she that in a little over
eighteen months her debut was announced in the papers, and a crowded
house showered floral and other trophies on the beautiful debutante.
Offers of engagements from different cities came flowing in, and before
long Miss Margery Montague was announced to appear in Montreal. Her fame
had preceded her thither, and Fairfax was instructed to secure a box for
the Dombey family. Dombey himself (who had followed the career of his
child) tried hard to excuse himself from going, but his wife was not
satisfied to leave him at home; he sat in the back of the box, and as
the applause grew louder and louder, he showered costly bouquets,
and other offerings on the stage, his breast meanwhile being torn by
conflicting passions. How proud he would have been to clasp her to his
heart and call her his own; but he had willfully put her away from him,
and now, even could he receive her into his family, would her adopted
father be willing to give her up again. With flushed face and beating
heart he sought the manager, and begged to be allowed to see the fair
artiste, a favor which was granted; and, as he stood before his child,
and poured forth the usual stereotyped compliments and congratulations,
he bit his lips as he thought that he dared not press her to his heart,
but was forced to speak to her in terms of cold politeness.

On their return from the Theatre Mrs. Dombey announced her intention
of calling on the talented actress, and the following day she went,
accompanied by her daughters, to the St. Lawrence Hall, at that time the
most fashionable hotel in the city, where she was cordially received;
and the young actress made such a favorable impression on the ladies
that they invited her to dine at their house on the following day, an
invitation which was readily accepted.

Dombey was greatly moved when he heard that Miss Montague had accepted
an invitation to dinner, but there was no help for it, and, as though
to make matters worse invitations were sent to a few intimate friends,
including Mrs. Trotter. Here, then, was a painful position for the two
guilty ones: they were forced to sit and see the child whom they had
cast off fêted and honored by the woman both of them had injured. It
seemed as if a wet blanket were placed over the whole assembly: Dombey
sat moodily biting his finger-nails, and as Mrs. Trotter would not sing
and Mrs. Dombey _could_ not, matters went very slowly indeed.

When the time came for separating, Mrs. Dombey motioned to Jacob to see
Miss Montague to her hotel, but he being deep in a fit of abstraction,
his eldest son Charles stepped forward, and before his father could
prevent him, was equipped in greatcoat and overshoes, ready for a
moonlight stroll. During the evening he had noticed that Charles was
rather attentive to the fair actress, and the thought that an intimacy
between them was possible drove him to the verge of distraction, Mrs.
Dombey noticed his strange behavior, and asked him the cause, on which
he muttered something about “Auction lunch--infernal champagne,” and
some other incoherent exclamations, altogether unintelligible to his
unsuspicious wife. When he and his paramour got outside they walked
along in gloomy silence for several minutes--at last he addressed her:
“Is it not strange that this child, whom I had thought far removed from
me and mine, should be brought even into my own house, and eat at my
table?”

“Oh, it is fearful; only think what would be the consequence if an
intimacy should spring up between her and Charles!”

“Yes, I must send him away at once.”

Mrs. Trotter reminded him that this step was unnecessary, as Miss
Montague left the next day for Chicago to fulfil a professional
engagement. He heaved a sigh of relief, and then, with a passionate tug
at Mrs. Trotter’s door bell, turned to go away.

“Will you not come in a while, Jack?” she said.

“No, he replied, Clara (Mrs. Dombey) would suspect something. She looked
at me very strangely this evening.”

“But you will come to-morrow,” rejoined the temptress.

“Yes, I will look in on my way up from the office,” he said. “Good
night.”

“Good night, Jack,” said she.

As he got to his own door he found Charles leaning pensively against the
balustrade, gazing wistfully at the heavens.

“Well, Charlie, have you forgotten your latch-key?”

“N--no Sir,” stammered Charles, “but it is so confoundedly hot inside
that I did not care to go in.”

Dombey reflected that as the thermometer registered only about ten
degrees Fahrenheit he had but to open his window to attain as low a
temperature as was consistent with comfort; however, he said nothing,
and they both walked upstairs.

“Good night, Charlie.”

“Good night, Father.”

And they entered their respective chambers.

I have heard it said that if two men are placed in one bed, one in love
and the other with a toothache, that the man with the toothache will
fall asleep first. Here, however, were two men; one, past the prime
of life, afflicted with the most bitter remorse; the other, young and
susceptible, with all the fever of a youthful passion springing up
within his breast. Dombey could not sleep, the thought that what at
first was barely possible was now become highly probable goaded him
almost to madness. He rose and dressed himself, going quietly out of the
front door into Sherbrooke street. Along the street he went at a fearful
pace, till, almost faint from want of breath, he turned down the hill
towards the city, habit bringing him along the route he was accustomed
to take to his office. As he turned the corner of St. James street, he
saw (for there were few persons abroad) a young man walking moodily up
and down on the side opposite the St. Lawrence Hall; he turned as if he
had seen an apparition, and ran rather than walked in the direction of
his own home.

Next day Miss Montague departed for the West, Mrs. and Miss Dombey
accompanied by Charles went to see her off at the Depot, and with many
assurances of a future meeting, should she ever return to Montreal,
they separated as the train moved slowly past the platform. As the
drawing-room car was just clearing the station, Miss Montague held
a piece of paper out of the window, which Charles caught eagerly
and placed in his pocket-book. His mother and sister chaffing him on
receiving tender messages from the fair artiste, he laughingly produced
it.

It was nothing more nor less than a page of an old timetable, and both
Mrs. and Miss Dombey laughed at the strange souvenir Miss Montague had
left behind her. When they got home, however, Charles carefully opened
the paper and observed that opposite each of the cities on her route
Miss Montague had placed a figure in pencil thus:--Chicago, 4;
Detroit, 2; Toledo, 2; Toronto, 3; New York; 6, Boston, 6. This, though
unintelligible to his mother and sister, informed Charles that Miss
Montague would go first to Chicago and remain four days, and afterwards
to the other cities mentioned, and that he might write or meet her there
as opportunity afforded.

That day matters resumed their normal condition in the Dombey family;
Jacob breathed freely now that his child had returned to the country of
her adoption, and his wife and family were happy because of his improved
spirits and appearance. Charles had apparently settled down to business
as usual, and Mesdames Trotter and Dombey drove out together as of old.
In a few weeks, however, Charles asked his father permission to go for
his holidays; a friend having invited him to spend a few weeks at Nahant
an island near Boston. There being nothing to keep him in Montreal he
had no difficulty in procuring consent, and he departed, taking fishing
tackle enough to have supplied the whole Atlantic coast for a season.
When his father learned the real object of his visit to Boston, he raved
like a madman; he came to see me, and told me the whole story, most of
which I had learnt before from other sources and he persuaded me to
go to Boston and to take on my self the painful duty of informing Miss
Montague who and what she really was, and why it was impossible that she
could ever marry Charles Dombey. The poor girl was almost heart-broken,
for she had learnt to love her stepbrother dearly, and now she would
have to be separated from him entirely. It was not for herself, however,
that she mourned the most, it was for him, when he should learn of the
wide gulf which separated them from each other. He never did learn it,
however; Miss Montague consented (for his sake) to accept an engagement
in England, and to trust in years to soften the blow which had smitten
her so severely. She wrote to Charles, telling him that, for reasons
unexplained, she never could be his wife, although she loved him dearly,
and that as there was no use striving against fate, she had bowed to
the inevitable, and taken a foreign engagement. At first Charles was
desperately cut up, but time, that physician _par excellence_, healed
his wounds, and he is now married to a respectable lady of this city;
deservedly successful in his business, and with a stainless reputation.
Jacob Dombey staggered along under his load for years, but, unable
to contain himself, he one day confessed the affair to his wife, who,
instead of denouncing him as the wretch he was, pitied and sympathized
with; aye, and not only that, she received his mistress into her house
as before, rather than make public his heartless conduct. Truly such
an angel never received such heartless treatment, or was so little
appreciated. It broke her heart however, and over her grave Dombey
resolved to cast Mrs. Trotter off forever, and send her away from the
city. He accordingly arranged with her to take an annual allowance and
go to New York with her family, vowing that he could no longer endure
her presence, which was grown distasteful to him.

This did not at all suit Mrs. Trotter, who had now hoped to become
the legal mistress of the Dombey mansion. But all her tears were of no
avail, the bitter pangs of remorse were tearing Dombey’s bosom, and
he would hear of nothing but, her immediate departure for the United
States. He determined that however he might have blighted the life of
the wife whose excellent qualities he had only now begun to appreciate,
nothing should stand in the way of her children’s advancement; and the
voice of a scandal having already been heard concerning Mrs. Trotter,
he felt that her immediate departure was a necessity. She argued and
entreated, but it was of no avail, and she accordingly made the best of
her case and got from him a liberal allowance. Hers was not of a nature
to reform, however; she went from bad to worse, and finally took to
smoking opium as a means to relieve her gnawing conscience, ending her
days prematurely.

Dombey survived her but a short time. He tried hard to make amends for
the past by increased attention to the children of his late wife, but he
never fully recovered himself, and finally succumbed to a wasting fever,
superinduced by late hours and immoderate drinking. To his last hour
his conscience smote him at the triple wrong he had inflicted on his
children, his natural daughter, and his confiding wife.




CHAPTER III.


The Bag Baby.

Madame Charbonneau gave such entire satisfaction as _Maîtresse
d’Hôpital_ that I purchased her interest in the lease of the house,
and employed her permanently as my aide-de-camp. In a short time we
established quite a reputation, and applications for accommodation
poured in from all quarters.

One bitter cold day towards the end of March a lady and gentleman
arrived by the morning train from the United States. The lady was
apparently about thirty-five years of age, while the gentleman might
have been from five to ten years her senior, and, although plainly
attired, they had the appearance of belonging to the better class of
society. The gentleman informed me that they had just arrived from New
York, and had put up at the St. Lawrence Hall; but that his wife had
taken ill unexpectedly, and, hearing that she would be better cared for
in my house than at the Hall, he wished, if possible, to secure rooms
and professional attendance. The house being rather full at the time,
Madame Charbonneau was obliged to give her the nurse’s room (which
contained two beds) till some of the other rooms should become vacant;
this her husband readily assented to, and arranged to call in the
afternoon and bring the necessary funds, which I always made it a
point to collect in advance. The lady seeming tired and exhausted, I
recommended her to divest herself of her clothing and retire to bed,
which she accordingly did, and soon fell into a deep sleep. In the
afternoon the gentleman returned, and, having settled the bills, went
upstairs to see his wife who was just then partaking of some light
refreshment. He expressed himself well pleased with our arrangements,
and said he would call regularly to see how his wife progressed.

That night as the nurse was about to retire, she was surprised to find,
under the coverlet of her bed, an enormous rag baby, as large as a child
of two years old, dressed completely, with shoes, bonnet and veil. Her
astonishment can easily be imagined as she held it up to the light
and carefully examined it; then, laughing heartily, she turned to Mrs.
Roberts (my patient) and said:

“My! who could have put this baby in my bed?” On which that lady replied
with evident embarrassment that the baby was a doll belonging to
her niece, and that, imagining the bed to be unoccupied, she had, in
unpacking her trunk, placed it there for the sake of convenience, and
apologized for being so careless. The nurse made no reply, but, being of
a jovial disposition, danced with it into the other rooms, exclaiming,
much to the chagrin of the lady, that she had found a beautiful baby in
her bed. The other patients wondered what it was, and whence it came,
and appealed to me for information, but, as I knew nothing about
it myself, their curiosity was not gratified in the least. On my
questioning the lady she told me a story similar to that which she told
the nurse, but her countenance contradicted her assertions, and the idea
of any child carrying a doll of the dimensions of the rag baby was too
absurd for credence. No more was said about it, however, and the matter
passed almost completely from our memory.

For three or four days things went on as usual, Mrs. Roberts getting to
all appearances better every day, and her husband’s visits being paid
with due regularity; one day, however, he failed to appear, and Mrs.
Roberts seemed very uneasy. After tea she asked for the evening paper,
and hastily scanned its columns, when her eye fell on some item of
interest, and she became deadly pale. The American war being then in
progress I thought she might have learned of the death of a friend or
relation, so I inquired if anything were amiss, and was astonished
when she pointed out a paragraph containing an account of her husband’s
arrest for enlisting British subjects for the American army, and
smuggling them across the line, She now took me into her confidence, and
explained that she was an accomplice of her husband, and that they
had made a practice of enlisting men in Montreal. Her husband usually
remained here, as it was dangerous for him to travel to and fro, but she
was sent as an escort for each recruit, and the baby was used to avert
suspicion, as no sentinel would think of scrutinizing a man closely who
went across accompanied with his wife and child. The excess of travel
had weakened her frame, and now this shock came to still further shake
her system; the result was a premature confinement, and a long and weary
illness.

Ere she recovered she got a letter from her husband, bearing the
New York postmark. It seems he had been liberated on bail, (having
influential friends) and had at once made the best of his way to the
United States. His wife soon joined him, taking with her the redoubtable
rag-baby, which had afforded us so much food for gossip and conjecture.




CHAPTER IV.


A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing.

Alfred Grandison was born in the ancient city of Bristol in the year
1831. His father had been bandmaster in a British Cavalry regiment,
but had retired some years previous to the birth of little Alfred, and
made a comfortable livelihood by teaching the children of the wealthy
residents of Clifton, the fashionable suburb of Bristol. Young Alfred
soon gave evidence of great musical talent, and used to amuse himself
blowing trumpet calls on his father’s French horn, although the
instrument was almost as big as himself; he also achieved considerable
mastery over the piano, the flute and the violin, but, though bright
and intelligent enough, and always maintaining a creditable position at
school, it was evident that nature had intended him for a musician,
and that he could never succeed in anything prosaic or mechanical.
Accordingly his father taught him not only to play, but also instructed
him in the theory and literature of music, and, when he was old enough,
had him entered as a chorister in Bristol Cathedral, where, in addition
to vocal music, he was carefully taught the art of organ-playing by the
Cathedral organist.

The boy soon became able to play quite skilfully, and when his voice
began to give way he obtained a position as organist in the church at
Shirehampton, performing on a small instrument with one row of keys.
From Shirehampton he shortly removed to a more remunerative position
in Bristol, and he was not long there before he fell in love with the
daughter of a hotel-keeper in one of the suburbs, whom, in spite of
the remonstrance of both relatives and friends, he eventually married,
although she was both poor and plain-looking, and at least ten years his
senior. “A young man married is a man that’s marred” says Shakespeare,
and, without venturing an opinion as to the correctness of this theory,
we may say that young Grandison had made a great mistake. In a short
time his affection, or fancied affection, for his wife became less
ardent, and he found himself at the age of twenty-four, married to a
woman who had neither taste nor sympathy in common with him, the
father of three helpless children, and the recipient of the stupendous
emolument of sixty pounds a year. Added to all this his friends, being
unwilling to associate with his wife and relations, had, one by one,
deserted him, and left him almost alone to brood over his ill-advised
alliance.

Whilst moodily glancing at an evening paper he saw an advertisement for
an organist who would be willing to go to Canada, and at once seizing at
the idea he applied for the post, which he eventually obtained without
great difficulty, sailing for Montreal in the spring of 1855, to play
the organ and direct the music of one of the leading Episcopal churches
in this city. At that time there were, very few musicians of ability
in Montreal, and Mr. Grandison soon became quite popular, both
professionally and socially. His wife was at first invited out, but,
finding that she seldom accompanied her husband on these occasions, her
name was, in time, dropped from the invitations, and Mr. Grandison was
treated as if he were a bachelor, many indeed being altogether unaware
of the fact that he had a wife and family.

Among those who took Grandison by the hand was a certain Mr. Sedley,
a professional man of high standing. Mary Sedley, the daughter of the
latter was possessed of a remarkably fine voice, and was one of the
ornaments of the church choir, so that the family were naturally
interested in the advent of a new organist from England, under whose
careful training the music of the church was to be developed and
improved. It was decided to place Mary Sedley under the special charge
of Mr. Grandison, and he accordingly went twice a week to the house to
give her lessons in singing, and when there was a special Anthem to be
sung his visits were much more frequent. Then the Sedleys gave grand
musical parties to which Mr. Grandison was of course, invited, playing
Miss Sedley’s accompaniment on the pianoforte, while she entranced the
assembled company with her singing; in fact, no gathering of the
Sedley family was complete without the presence of the handsome and
accomplished Mr. Grandison.

All this, in its way, was harmless enough, but Mary Sedley was a
blooming girl of seventeen, and Grandison, as I have said was quite
a young man, and from the frequent walking home with her alone from
services and rehearsals, and other meetings in society, there arose an
intimacy which, though unnoticed by Mary’s parents, and possibly not by
the young people themselves, could not be productive of anything in the
long run but sorrow and remorse.

One Saturday night when Mary came home rather later than usual, her
father (who, though fond of her, was an austere man) questioned her
gruffly as to the cause of her delay, when she replied:--“Oh! papa, I am
to sing ‘As Pants the Hart’ to-morrow, and Mr. Grandison insisted on my
trying it with the organ after practice. It is exceedingly difficult,
you know.”

Her father _did not know_, and was inclined to be very angry. The next
day, however, he forgot it all in the delight of hearing his daughter’s
voice resounding through the sacred edifice; Grandison was invited to
dinner, and everything was once more _couleur de rose_.

The first winter after Grandison’s arrival in Canada he gave a grand
concert in Nordheimer’s Hall, then the principal concert hall in the
city. Mary Sedley was the Prima Donna, and bouquet after bouquet was
thrown at her feet, as she retired amid the plaudits of the multitude.
After the concert Grandison accompanied them home to supper, and about
twelve o’clock took his leave of the family.

About an hour afterwards Mr. Sedley, thinking he heard a noise, got
up and searched the house, when, to his surprise, he found the door
unfastened. He thought he remembered having secured it as he retired to
rest, but was not certain; however, he proceeded, in his search, and
on coming to Mary’s room, found the door locked, and heard his daughter
breathing heavily, as if asleep. Being unwilling to disturb her, he
returned to his bed, and, ere morning, the affair had passed from his
memory. Had he remained awake, however, he might have seen a man emerge
from his daughter’s room, and, creeping stealthily along the passage, go
out at the hall-door, his daughter, the pure, spotless Mary, _leader of
Psalmody and sacred lays_, following close at his heels, to fasten the
door and make good his retreat.

This sort of thing went on for a long time, unsuspected by either Miss
Sedley’s parents or friends, when Mary became suddenly placed in a very
awkward position. A certain Mr. Hazelton, junior partner in a large
hardware firm, had long been a suitor of hers, and had asked repeatedly
for her hand; her father had hitherto refused to give his consent, owing
to her tender age, but he had now withdrawn every obstacle, and left her
free to get married if she chose; more than that, he urged Hazelton’s
suit, and, though unwilling to coerce his daughter in any way, gave her
to understand that he was particularly desirous that she should give
Hazelton a favorable reply.

Under ordinary circumstances Mary would have had no hesitation in
refusing to have anything to say to Hazelton, but for some time rumor
had been busy circulating scandal concerning herself and Grandison, and,
as she was at that moment not in a condition to bear scrutiny, she was
afraid to awaken suspicion by refusing Hazelton’s offer, and so he was
made the “happiest of men” (?)

A short time after Miss Sedley had become engaged to Mr. Hazelton she
went with her father and mother to Cacouna, where they had a summer
residence. By a strange coincidence, Grandison also chose Cacouna at
which to spend his holidays, and combined business with pleasure by
giving occasional concerts at the St. Lawrence Hall, which hotel had
just been erected, and was the fashionable resort of those people from
Montreal and Quebec who could manage to exchange the heated atmosphere
of these cities for the more bracing air of Canada’s popular watering
place. Mr. Hazelton was unable to leave Montreal, and Mrs. Grandison was
not disposed to accompany her husband, even if he could have afforded
to take her, in fact, the poor woman, feeling that she was a burden and
drag on her husband, had taken to drinking, and had gradually removed
herself still further from the pale of fashionable society. Her house
(which was situated in a back street in Montreal) was not only untidy,
but positively dirty, and her children ran about the streets unclad
uneducated, and uncared for.

The Sedleys had not been long at Cacouna when one morning the old
gentleman walking out, as was his wont, before breakfast, saw through
the fog (which in this district usually hangs about for some time after
sunrise) a man descend from his daughter’s bedroom window and walk
hastily in the direction of the hotel. Both the distance and the fog
prevented him from positively recognizing the man’s features, but the
form and carriage were unmistakably those of Alfred Grandison. Mr.
Sedley was, so to speak, “struck all of a heap,” he could not believe
the evidence of his own senses, and for a few moments he stood rooted to
the spot as if thunderstruck; then he rushed into the house, and going
straight to his daughter’s room upbraided her with her shameful conduct,
but was met by a bold and unqualified denial, the young lady stating
that she had been till that moment asleep, and that possibly some
burglar had been in the premises, whom her father had mistaken for a gay
Lothario. She burst into tears and wondered that her father could have
such an opinion of her, and suggested that immediate search should be
made, to see if any articles of value were missing. Her father was by no
means convinced of his mistake, however; he thought it possible that his
daughter might not have been aware of Grandison’s presence, or that he
might only have been _about to enter_ the house when he was frightened
away; but that Grandison was there he felt certain, so, going
immediately over to the hotel, he charged him directly with his
crime, at the same time, presenting a loaded revolver at his head, he
threatened to blow his brains out. This, as may be supposed, did
not prove a ready means of eliciting a confession from the cowardly
Grandison. The poor wretch cowered before the righteous indignation of
the broken-hearted father, and swore by every saint in the Calendar that
the latter must have been mistaken, and that nothing criminal had ever
taken place between the young lady and himself.

Mr. Sedley only half believed these asseverations, but, as may be seen,
he was a poor diplomatist, and took the very worst way to arrive
at anything like the truth. So saying “Not guilty, but _don’t do it
again_,” or words to that effect, he left the hotel and returned to his
own house. Here he disclosed his fears to his wife, but she scouted
the idea as preposterous, and urged him to have Mary’s marriage with
Hazelton celebrated as soon as convenient, and so put an end to all
possible contingencies.

Shortly after the return of the family to Montreal Mr. Hazelton led to
the altar with pride the “blushing” Mary Sedley. Good cause, indeed, had
she to blush, for never was man more egregiously “sold” than was “Mr.
Samuel Hazelton, of the city of Montreal, merchant.” The _happy couple_
left by the evening train for Boston, the “Wedding March,” which was
admirably performed by Mr. Grandison, still ringing in their ears.

About five months after this unholy marriage Mrs. Hazelton called on me,
and disclosed to me the whole state of the case, informing me (of which
there was little necessity) that her confinement was close at hand, and
soliciting my aid to get her out of the difficulty. My first impulse was
to call on her husband and acquaint him with the facts: but, remembering
that he occupied a prominent position, not only in the mercantile, but
also in the religious community; moreover, that a disclosure would in
no way mend the matter, and would be a lasting disgrace not only, to the
two culprits, but also to Messrs. Sedley and Hazelton I listened calmly
to her plans for getting out of the difficulty. She suggested pretending
a miscarriage, wished me to invite her to my house, where she would
become ill, and unable to leave till after her child was born. The child
was then to be conveyed to the nunnery, her husband being deluded into
the belief that she had miscarried.

Now, in the ordinary course of business, I would have been perfectly
justified in attending her without troubling my head about her
antecedents; indeed, had she been unmarried I would possibly have
given my services, but in this case the lady was married, and the child
lawfully belonged to her husband, _whose heir it was_, although actually
belonging to another man.

I accordingly declined having anything to do with her case, although I
promised that, as her confession was made to me in confidence and as a
professional secret, I would not disclose it to anyone. Having friends
in Boston, she made some excuse to visit them, and she was not long
there when her husband received a telegram, stating that his wife had
had a premature confinement and lay in a precarious state in Boston,
whither her loving husband instantly repaired. The child (a beautiful
girl) was sent to Mrs. Sedley in Montreal, and given out to nurse. She
was eventually adopted by a childless dry goods merchant in this city
who had her educated as his daughter, employing, by-the-by, _her own
father_ to give her lessons in music.

One would think that now Mrs. Hazelton had got over this great
difficulty, and started in life as a respectable married lady, she
would have eschewed her former errors and turned over a new leaf.
Unfortunately for all parties, her husband was proud of her musical
ability, and insisted that she should continue to take lessons from
Grandison, for whom strange to say, he had conceived a great regard. The
frequent meetings consequent upon this proved too much for both of the
culprits, and in a short time they became as intimate as ever. Since
Mary’s marriage, Mr. Sedley had quite forgotten his former suspicions
of Grandison, and he was cordially received into both houses, being, in
fact, almost a member of the family.

Mr. Hazelton was a prominent member of the church and, being a capital
speaker, had undertaken to give a lecture in the basement of that
edifice addressed to young men; Mrs. Hazelton and some other ladies
were to enliven the evening with music, accompanied on the piano by
Mr. Grandison. The lecture animadverted at some length concerning the
temptations which beset young men, and warned them to avoid vice of all
kinds, drinking, gambling, and the rest. Among other things he mentioned
the social evil, and contrasted the happy home of the chaste man and his
virtuous wife with that of the drunken, vicious libertine. The seducer
was anathematized, and a graphic description given of the poor degraded
women who had lost the one jewel in their crown. It is needless to say
that both Mrs. Hazelton and her paramour felt exceedingly uncomfortable
during this discourse; the former who was to have sung a brilliant aria
at its close, grew deadly pale, and had to leave the room. The lecturer
requested Mr. Grandison to substitute a piano solo, but strange to say,
he was unable to perform anything without notes, so the announcement was
made to the audience that, owing to the excessive heat (the temperature
was about 70 degrees Fahrenheit), Mrs. Hazelton, was unable to perform
that evening, and begged to be excused. Grandison was to have gone home
with the lecturer to supper, but he said he considered Mrs. Hazelton
would be the better of a little quiet, and, stammering out some excuse,
slunk away in the direction of his own home.

Mr. Hazelton found his wife reclining on a sofa in the drawing-room, and
he at once exerted himself to alleviate her suffering, and gratify her
every whim. He propped her up with pillows, and ordered the maid to
prepare whatever delicacies the larder afforded, blaming himself as
being the cause of all her sufferings. His solicitude in her behalf made
her only the more miserable; she had never loved, and never could love,
him, but his uniform kindness and attention had excited within her a
feeling of gratitude which made her remorse all the more bitter as she
thought how he had been duped by the woman who had sworn to love and
honor him. The next day was one of those appointed for receiving her
singing lessons, but she sent a messenger to Mr. Grandison, telling
him not to call for a few days, as she was unequal to even that slight
exertion. Mr. Hazelton called to see me in great alarm, informing me
that his wife’s first child was prematurely born, and that he dreaded
a recurrence of that terrible calamity. I, of course, had my own ideas
concerning what was the matter, but I promised to call and see her, and
do what I could to alleviate her sufferings. I found her well enough
physically, but in very low spirits and in tears. She told me what I
have informed the reader, adding that she was at the moment _enceinte_,
the father of this child being also Alfred Grandison. I was very much
shocked at this disclosure, but contented myself with remonstrating with
Mrs. Hazelton concerning the course she was pursuing, urging her to
drop all connection with Grandison. This she promised to do, but I
subsequently discovered that, far from keeping her promise, she had even
gone so far as to plan an elopement with him to the United States.

About two years after Mrs. Hazleton’s marriage, Grandison received the
appointment of organist to ---- Church, Chicago, and, together with
his wife and family, left Montreal for the Western city, leaving Mr.
Hazelton in undisturbed possession of his wife; the latter, instead of
rejoicing at this providential release from temptation, fretted at the
loss of her paramour, attributing, however, her fitful humor to her
delicate condition.

Shortly after Grandison’s departure for Chicago I was summoned to attend
Mrs. Hazelton, who gave birth to a fine boy. Mr. Hazelton was in ecstasy
at the thought of becoming a father; he gave a grand entertainment on
the occasion of the child’s christening, and when the guests all agreed
that the child had “its father’s nose” (which was doubtless the truth)
the poor man’s delight knew no bounds. Mrs. Hazelton gradually began
to be more cheerful, and to try in some measure to make amends to her
husband for the wrong which could never be repaired. When, however, he
carried her baby up and down, or fondled it upon his knee, the bitter
pangs of remorse gnawed at her heart, and made her captious and bad
tempered. With all this there was no deep repentance, and when Grandison
came to Montreal for his holidays, her husband was completely forgotten
once more. Grandison was invited to stay at the Hazeltons’ residence,
an invitation which to do him justice he endeavored to decline, but Mr.
Hazelton pressed him so strongly that he was afraid to awaken suspicion
by refusing, and so the wolf became ensconced snugly in the sheepfold,
not only without difficulty, but on the pressing invitation of its
occupants. Mrs. Hazelton during this visit urged Grandison so strongly
that he promised to elope with her so soon as he could conveniently
leave Chicago.

He had not been long back at his new residence when his wife died, and
letters of condolence were sent to him from all quarters. His wife, who
had never been received into society, was suddenly discovered to have
been one of its brightest ornaments, and her loss was deeply felt and
proportionately deplored. Mrs. Hazelton now thought her opportunity had
come, and accordingly wrote to Grandison that she was ready to go to the
end of the world with him. He, however, was not particularly anxious to
go to such a remote locality; in fact he had made up his mind to remain
in Chicago, and (now that his wife was no longer a burden upon him)
to turn over a new leaf and become a respectable member of society.
Whatever charms Mary Sedley may have had had long since disappeared, and
Mr. Grandison’s affection was not so deep-seated that he was prepared
to tie himself to a comparatively plain old woman for whom he had long
since lost every particle of respect. He accordingly took no notice of
her letter, and received a second and a third couched in the strongest
language of affection. But the more importunate she became, the more did
Grandison lose his respect for her; he therefore took no notice of her
letters, and determined to keep aloof from her in the future.

When Mrs. Hazelton began to realize that he had deserted her, she grew
frantic indeed. She would not believe it; the letters had miscarried, or
something else had interfered to prevent his writing. She resolved that,
come what would, she would go to him, and, throwing herself at his feet,
demand his protection. In the dead of the night she collected her most
valuable clothing and jewellery, and, with a little money in her purse,
stealthily left her husband’s house, carrying her bundle in her hand.
She wandered about the streets till daylight, and in the morning entered
the Grand Trunk Depot in St. Bonaventure street, and procured a ticket
for Chicago. Her husband at first thought she had merely gone to
Bonsecours market to purchase provisions for the ensuing week, and that
she would shortly return. Breakfast time came, however, and she did not
return, and he began to get uneasy; enquiries were made of neighbors and
friends at whose houses she might possibly have stayed, but no one had
seen her, or knew anything of her whereabouts. The police were next
communicated with, and a regular hue and cry was raised in the city
concerning her mysterious disappearance. In the meantime the object
of their search arrived in Chicago, and at once proceeded towards
Grandison’s residence. She had not gone far when he approached her with
a fashionably dressed young lady on his arm. Mrs. Hazelton ran towards
him with a cry of recognition, but, whatever he may have felt towards
her before, the sight of her as she now appeared drove every trace
of affection from his heart, he looked at her coldly, and without the
faintest sign of recognition The effect of this treatment under the
circumstances can well be imagined; the wretched woman fell fainting
at his feet, raving wildly and uttering the most awful imprecations. By
this time a crowd had collected, and the police, thinking she was some
madwoman who had escaped, had her removed to an asylum, and placed under
medical treatment.

During all this period Hazelton was like a man demented; he caused
advertisements to be inserted in the principal papers, describing his
wife, and offering a reward for her recovery. The canal locks were
dragged from end to end, and every place likely to have been visited by
her was thoroughly searched and examined. At the end of about a week Mr.
Hazelton received the following telegram:--

  Chicago, Oct. 14, 18--.
  To S. Hazelton, Esq.,

  Montreal

  Person answering description in advertisement in _Tribune_
  found here to-day, and placed under medical treatment.
  What shall we do?

   J----P----,

   --for Chief of Police.

Mr. Hazelton immediately telegraphed a reply, and, taking the next
train, was soon able to identify his lost wife. The sight of him made
the poor creature worse, and he was forbidden to call till she was in a
less excitable condition. In about a week, though still suffering, she
was removed to Montreal, and placed under the care of Dr. X----, to
whom I communicated what I knew concerning her antecedents. In a
comparatively short time she grew much better, and was able to converse
intelligently, the subject of her departure and her illness being
carefully avoided. Her husband attributed her mental aberration to the
old cause, although why she should have gone to Chicago, he never could
exactly understand.

Many years have now passed since these occurrences, and all the parties
to this narrative are still alive. Mrs. Hazelton has never recovered
from the effects of the shock received in Chicago, and sits brooding
mournfully and in secret over her past transgressions, while her husband
with unceasing devotion heaps coals of fire on her head. Grandison has
since moved to New York, where he married again, and became an altered
man. I met him in Montreal a short time since, but he carefully avoided
all mention of either Mr. or Mrs. Hazelton, and did not dare to call
either on them or the Sedleys. Once or twice his name was mentioned at
the house of the latter, but it seemed to awaken sad recollections in
the breast of Mrs. Hazelton, and was consequently avoided by the family.
The latter have lived so far in ignorance of these occurrences, and it
is to be hoped they will never be undeceived.




CHAPTER V.


Among the Fenians.

While still young, and unused to the many strange phases of life I had
an adventure which, at that period of my career, made a deep impression
on my mind. A rough-looking man called on me, and requested my immediate
attendance on a sick woman at Point St. Charles, at that time a remote
suburb of Montreal. As I hesitated to go with him, having a strange
dread of accompanying him to such a lonely place, he seemed to think I
was afraid of not receiving my fee, and, pulling a long purse out of his
pocket he took out a handful of gold pieces, one of which he tendered me
an advance. This made me all the more reluctant to accompany him, as
I feared he might be a robber or freebooter of some kind, but, quickly
controlling my emotions, I set my reason to work, and argued that,
whatever he might be, he could have no motive other than that assigned
for taking me with him, that he could gain nothing by way-laying or
even murdering me, and so I put on my outer garments and got into the
carriage beside him. The night was wet and stormy, and, just as we
started, forked lightning flashed across the heavens in all directions,
causing the horse to dash madly along as if to overturn the vehicle.
This of course was a mere coincidence, but, with all my firmness of will
and sound logical reasons for not being afraid, I could not altogether
control my emotions as we drove through the lowest and dirtiest parts
of Griffintown, which had at that time the reputation of harboring all
sorts of Fenians, thieves and marauders. We crossed the canal and got
out into the country, the rain descending in torrents, while the thunder
crashed louder than ever. I believe that, had I been able to get out, I
would have even then retreated, but I had no alternative but to remain
and make the most of my position. Beyond a few words at starting, my
companion said little; indeed conversation was impossible, as were
jolted from side to side of the street, and the crashing of the thunder
overhead would have drowned our most powerful efforts.

After about half an hour’s ride, the carriage stopped at a lonely house
some distance on the Lower Lachine road, and, alighting, we entered,
when I was piloted into an upper chamber, where a woman lay on a couch
in need of my attendance. I felt altogether re-assured now, and at once
opened my satchel to make the necessary preparations for my stay; still
the room had not the air of an ordinary bedroom, and the presence of
three men, all as rough-looking as my guide, made me suspicious as to
their calling, more particularly as there was not a woman to be seen
save my patient.

As soon as I had divested myself of my wet garments and hung them at the
fire to dry, the men left the room, and I ordered the woman to undress
and go to bed, which she did. I then tried to get some information from
her as to who her husband was, and what was the occupation of the men I
had seen, but she either was or pretended to be too sick to enter into
conversation, and I was obliged to restrain my curiosity for the time at
least. In about two hours the woman gave birth to a boy, and as soon as
I could leave with safety, I donned my clothes and left for home, the
man who had engaged me putting me into a cab with great politeness,
and paying the driver, he ordered him to deposit me in safety at my
residence.

The next morning I was surprised to read in the paper that a quantity of
arms and ammunition had been sent here from the Fenian headquarters
in New York, and that although it was known that they were secreted
somewhere about Griffintown, the police had been altogether baffled in
their search for them. A new light now dawned upon me, particularly as I
recollected that the room in which my patient lay was filled with long,
coffin-shaped boxes, the uses of which I had been unable to guess. I
accordingly consulted with my husband as to what course I should pursue.
Was I, having come by this information in my professional capacity, to
shut my eyes to these doings, or, taking advantage of my position, to
inform the police? My husband argued in this way:--If these people had
been guilty of a crime, which could not now be ameliorated or averted,
it would be a straining point for me to take advantage of what I had
learnt by accident and to bring them to justice; but that as in this
case a great national trouble _might be averted_, and many lives saved,
by timely information, it was my duty to exert myself in the interests
of the community by putting a check on their movements. With this end
in view I communicated with Mr. P----, then Chief of Police, and from my
description he said he had no doubt but these were the very persons of
whom they were in search, and that if I could only manage to frame an
excuse for the introduction of a detective, he would make sure of their
identity before making any arrests.

My second visit to the house was made in the morning. I found my patient
very weak and feverish, and, although it was only what I had expected,
took advantage of the fact to express my fears that the case was one
requiring the most skillful treatment, and that unless I were permitted
to call in a medical man of eminence, I would not be responsible for the
consequence. The woman’s husband was very much averse to this; but, as
I urged it strongly, and his wife (of whom he was apparently fond)
seconded my request, he finally consented, and the same afternoon
called, accompanied by Detective F----, whom I introduced as my
consulting physician. Whilst I mixed some simple remedies for my
patient, the detective carefully examined the boxes, which he was unable
to move, and which we were both convinced contained arms and ammunition
for the destruction of the peaceful inhabitants of Montreal. Mr. F----
carefully noted the position of everything in and about the house, he
also took a good look at the surroundings, and then we departed for
the police station. The Chief was for making an immediate arrest of
the whole party, but I dissuaded him, urging him, in the interests of
humanity, to wait till the woman was out of danger; he then agreed to
wait for a few days, keeping the house and its inmates under constant
surveillance.

The woman got better day by day, and at the end of a week, the Chief,
fearful lest something might occur to mar his plans, sent a detachment
of armed policemen to arrest the Fenian emissaries and capture the
stores. In some way or another the men got wind of the affair, and made
their escape across the lines, leaving the poor woman and her helpless
babe alone and unprotected. The police entered the house unopposed;
they found there several dozen, muskets and rifles, also about a hundred
bayonets and five thousand rounds of ball cartridge. The woman refused
to give the slightest information as to the names or identity of her
companions; she said she knew nothing about the arms contained in the
boxes, that the latter had been brought there by a strange man, and left
in charge of her husband, and that she had never seen them opened. As
the men were evidently by this time safe in Uncle Sam’s dominions, the
police contented themselves with securing the ammunition, leaving the
woman to shift for herself. As I did not like the idea of leaving her in
the room alone and uncared for, I explained the matter to the neighbors,
who good-naturedly undertook to look after her till she received money
from her husband to pay her passage to New York. As, although I had no
compunction in assisting to break up this den of ruffians, I pitied the
poor woman, who was probably innocent of any crime, I handed her the
gold piece which her husband had given me, and did not leave her till
assured that the neighbors would look after her till her departure. In
later years I have often passed the scene of these transactions, and a
shudder passed through my frame as I remembered my experiences among the
Fenians.




CHAPTER VI.


A Disciple of Satan.

About the year 1866 I was summoned to attend a lady in Berri street, the
wife of an officer in the ----th Rifles. Her husband, Captain O’Grady,
had taken a furnished house for the winter, the quarters in the Quebec
Barracks being unsuited for the accommodation of a lady of her station,
and round the house on every hand evidences might be seen of both
wealth, taste and refinement. Mrs. O’Grady was a beautiful woman of
about twenty-two, and had only been married about a year; her husband,
who was an Irishman, loved her passionately, and gave me particular
charges concerning her, bidding me spare neither trouble nor expense to
render her illness as little irksome as possible. After her baby (a
fine boy) was born I attended her regularly every day, and, as she had
travelled in her youth and lived for some time in Germany, she invited
me to come and see her in the evenings whenever I was at leisure, so
that we might converse in the beautiful language of Schiller and Goethe,
and chat about that beautiful far-off land. Captain O’Grady
quite approved of this arrangement, and often used to join in the
conversation; it was in Germany he had met his wife, and he had a great
fancy for the soft German language, although speaking it but imperfectly
himself.

Shortly after the birth of his child, Captain O’Grady’s regiment was
ordered to Chambly, and he was obliged to separate from his wife for a
time. He used to drive in occasionally to Montreal to visit her, but at
this season of the year the roads were very bad, and, as the thermometer
sometimes fell 20 or even 30 degrees below zero, the journey was usually
attended with much discomfort and even some danger. On Christmas Day,
Mrs. O’Grady wished her husband to remain at Chambly and dine at the
mess, but he insisted on coming into Montreal and dining with his
family. He accordingly set out about eleven o’clock in the morning,
accompanied by a brother officer named Churchill, a lieutenant in the
same regiment.

It was a bitterly cold day, and the snow, which had been falling heavily
for some days, was blown in immense drifts across the roads, rendering
them almost impassable. The groom, being accustomed to obey, brought the
horses round with alacrity when ordered to do so, but he shook his head
ominously as he handed the reins to Captain O’Grady, and jumped into the
dickey.

Off they flew through the blinding snowdrifts, the fine horses going
at a tremendous speed, and threatening to overthrow the sleigh every
instant. The hot breath of the horses froze to the head-gear and
harness, rendering it perfectly white, and the three men were obliged
to pull their fur caps over their ears to avoid their being frozen. They
had not proceeded far on their journey when the road, which in summer
was clearly defined by fences on either side, diverged somewhat from
the ordinary course, and was made, for convenience, through an adjoining
farm, being marked with pine branches, stuck at intervals in the snow.
As our party proceeded, even these slight indications were invisible,
the drifts rising in some places to a height of twelve or fourteen
feet. In one of the latter the sleigh stuck fast, and the occupants were
obliged to get out, and wading up to their knees in snow to assist the
horses to regain _terra firma_, or at least a more compact body of snow.
Whilst engaged in this operation, Mr. Churchill noticed that the groom’s
nose was perfectly white, and on examination it was found to be frozen;
they accordingly set to work to rub it with snow, and at Captain
O’Grady’s suggestion he held a large body of snow to it for the
remainder of the journey, which had the effect of thawing it out.

In a short time they regained the high road, and went along at a
tremendous pace for three or four miles, when they entered the village
of Longueuil, which is situated on the south bank of the St. Lawrence, a
little below Montreal. They found the river completely frozen over, the
cold being intense, but the ice-bridge had only just been formed,
and the surface was rough and uneven, causing the sleigh to oscillate
fearfully, threatening every moment to overturn. The storm had by this
time increased to a perfect hurricane, and the drifting snow was driven
with intense force into the faces of both men and horses, causing the
latter to bound and gallop fearfully, to the extreme peril of those
behind them. O’Grady, however, was a skillful driver, and kept the
horses well in hand, calling to them from time to time in a reassuring
manner; as for Churchill, he rather enjoyed the little spice of danger,
and, as conversation was out of the question, he lit a cigar, and,
drawing the buffalo-robes tightly round him, made himself as comfortable
as possible. In a short time they arrived at their destination, and
throwing the reins to the groom, O’Grady dashed up stairs and in an
instant had his wife in his arms. She remonstrated with him about coming
in on such a terrible day, but descended to the drawing-room, and,
having welcome Mr. Churchill to her house, ordered the servant to set
the table for dinner. Just then the groom entered the house to enquire
when the carriage would be required in the evening, and the appearance
of his nose set the whole party laughing heartily; his proboscis had
assumed a deep red hue, and was swollen to an enormous size, giving him
a most comical appearance. O’Grady ordered him to bring the carriage
round at ten o’clock, and, dinner just then being announced, they
prepared, in true English fashion, to celebrate the Nativity.

After dinner, Mrs. O’Grady entertained the gentlemen with music, and,
having chatted on various topics very pleasantly they were aroused to
the fact that the evening social intercourse must draw to an end by the
clanging of the door-bell announcing the arrival of the groom from the
neighboring livery-stable with the horses. Taking an affectionate
leave of his wife, and promising to come into Montreal to dinner on the
following Sunday, O’Grady mounted the box, followed by the light-hearted
Churchill, and cracking his whip was soon speeding rapidly along into
the howling storm. Churchill lit another cigar, and shut his eyes to
avoid the blinding snowdrifts, while the driver was with difficulty
enabled to see his way. Arrived at the suburb known as Hochelaga,
O’Grady turned his horses’ heads towards the river, and they dashed
across the ice-bridge at the rate of about twelve miles an hour. On they
went at a terrible pace, the sleigh bumping and jolting over the rough
road, till bang they came upon a piece of ice, on to which the snow had
drifted, and over went the sleigh, turning its occupants head first on
the hard, icy road. Churchill was first on his feet, and, though bruised
and bleeding, succeeded in arresting the horses, who, now thoroughly
frightened, were about to run away; the groom also soon recovered
himself and ran to the assistance of his master, but the latter was
past all human aid, having fallen from the upper side of the sleigh bead
foremost on a piece of ice, and broken his neck. His companions were
struck dumb with grief and astonishment; however, they could not stand
freezing in the middle of the river, so, righting the sleigh, they
placed the dead man gently inside it, and drove slowly to Longueuil,
where a friendly _habitant_ placed the best room in his house at their
disposal.

Mrs. O’Grady, as may well be supposed, was very much shocked at the news
of her husband’s death. The body was brought to her house in Montreal,
and from thence to Mount Royal Cemetery, where it was interred, a
company of rifles firing a volley over the grave. For a time the young
widow was undecided whether to go back to her friends in England or
to remain in Canada, but, being unwilling to become dependent on her
relations, she accepted a situation as governess in a wealthy family
residing in the west end of Montreal, placing her infant son under the
charge of a nurse.

Mrs. Thomson, in whose service Mrs. O’Grady was employed, was the wife
of a wealthy English gentleman who had invested largely in Canadian real
estate and national enterprises. She had two daughters, aged 18 and 16,
respectively (whom Mrs. O’Grady was expected to train and prepare for
entrance into society), also a son about 22, who, although educated as
a lawyer, pursued no avocation other than the collection of rents on his
father’s estate, and minor offices in connection with the investment of
his money. Randolph Thomson, the young gentleman in question, suddenly
became very attentive to his sisters. There was not a single concert
or ball of importance to which he did not take them, whereas before
he could rarely be induced to accompany them anywhere. The girls never
tried to account for this sudden change in their brother’s behavior,
being too much engrossed in the enjoyment of the entertainments
aforesaid to trouble their heads about the matter; Mrs. Grundy, however,
had an idea that the handsome widow who officiated as governess had
something to do with the affair, and, a rumor of the kind reaching the
ears of Mrs. Thomson, the unfortunate widow was eventually obliged to
leave the house, much to the regret of the whole family, but especially
that of Randolph, whose brotherly attentions suddenly became less
marked, and in time ceased altogether.

Mrs. O’Grady, being once more thrown on her own resources, departed for
Sherbrooke, one of the most thriving towns in the Eastern Townships,
where she endeavored to make a respectable livelihood by teaching music.
She chose Sherbrooke rather than Montreal, because in the latter place
every lady who wished to earn her own living started out as a music
teacher, and the teachers were rapidly threatening to outnumber the
pupils, and to equal many of them as regards want of knowledge.

Close to Mrs. O’Grady’s new residence, and removed a short distance from
the town, there dwelt a wealthy old farmer named Clarkson. Mr. Clarkson
was a bachelor about 65 years old, who, by steady attention to his
farm and shrewd speculations, had amassed a considerable fortune, being
considered one of the “solid men” of Sherbrooke. Clarkson happening to
meet Mrs. O’Grady at the house of one of the principal clergymen, became
enamored of her at first sight, and at the first opportunity proposed
for her hand. This she was at first loth to give, her heart at the time
being elsewhere; but, as Clarkson offered to settle all his property on
her and her children, and he himself, though neither young nor handsome,
was very agreeable, and held a high position in the community, she
finally consented, and was led a second time to the hymeneal altar.

Mr. Clarkson was very proud of his handsome wife, he ordered a handsome
phaeton and pair of bay ponies from Montreal for her private use, and
gave her an unlimited allowance of pin money, and she might be seen
any afternoon, fashionably attired, driving from one shop to another,
followed by the admiring eyes of the bank clerks and beaux, and the
envious glances of the single young ladies of Sherbrooke.

After three or four months Mrs. Clarkson told her husband that she had
been invited to go on a visit to Montreal, and urged him to allow her to
accept it, particularly as her little boy was afflicted with sore eyes,
and there was no oculist of ability in the town. Her husband readily
consented, and, with the promise that she would return in a few weeks,
Mrs. Clarkson came to Montreal, and calling at my house informed Madame
Charbonneau (in my absence) that she wished to remain there if possible,
as she was about to be confined. When I got home she confessed to me
that she had been on terms of intimacy with Randolph Thomson, and begged
me not to inform her husband, as he was exceedingly jealous, and would
kill her if he suspected the true state of affairs.

Promising to do the best I could under the circumstances I had rooms
prepared for both her and her boy, and secured the best medical
attendance for the latter, whose eyes were in a very bad state from long
neglect. It was two weeks before Mrs. Clarkson’s baby (a boy) was born,
and very unpleasant rumors were circulated round the town, which,
coming to the ears of the old gentleman caused him to write a very stiff
letter, ordering his wife to return immediately. This, of course, she
could not do, and as she was unable to frame an excuse for refusing to
I do so, she determined to take no notice of his letter, and, if brought
to task concerning it, _to deny having received it_, the letter being
unregistered. Fortunately for her, if not for himself, her boy’s eyes
continued to defy the skill of Dr. Fulford, the oculist to whose care
she had committed him, and it was imperative that they should remain
in Montreal a week or two longer. This fact was communicated to Mr.
Clarkson, but his sister (who had continued to reside with him after his
marriage) persuaded him to have nothing more to do with his wife, and
related to him the rumors she had heard, allowing them (as may well be
supposed) to lose nothing in the narration.

Mrs. Clarkson was naturally very much put out when she learnt how her
sister-in-law had acted; but, being both a strong-minded and crafty
woman, she determined to put a bold face on the matter, and if possible
to pay off old scores with her sister-in-law. She accordingly placed her
baby out to nurse, and, as soon as she felt strong enough, set out
for Sherbrooke. She found her husband’s house locked against her,
but, nothing daunted, she went straight to the mayor’s residence, and
explained that, having gone to Montreal with her husband’s permission,
she had (as soon as _her boy_ was sufficiently recovered) returned to
her home, and found the door locked against her. The mayor (a particular
friend of Clarkson’s) told her to come with him and he would see her
righted, but she refused, saying that she had already gone to her
husband’s house and been refused admission, and that she would not go
again until he came to fetch her; she then departed and engaged rooms at
the hotel.

The mayor, wishing to save his friend any public scandal, went to him,
and remonstrated with him on his conduct, explaining that, as his wife
had gone to Montreal with his permission, he was legally responsible for
all her expenses, and that in refusing to admit her into his house
he had rendered himself liable for an expensive lawsuit. On this poor
Clarkson got so frightened that he ordered his team to be brought round,
and, driving to the hotel, implored his wife to accompany him to his
house, begging her forgiveness for his conduct, and promising that he
would do anything to make amends.

Mrs. Clarkson now felt that she had obtained a grand advantage, and,
assuming an air of injured innocence, enquired who had set him against
her. Poor Clarkson was reluctantly compelled to admit that his sister
had had something to do with it, on which his wife refused to live under
the same roof with such a vile slanderer (’), and insisted that, before
she returned, the lady _who had taken away her character_ should leave
the house. In fact, she managed the affair so well, and exhibited such
an amount of “cheek,” that the poor man actually sent his sister away,
and drove with a magnificent team of horses to bring home the woman whom
he had refused to admit into his house.

For several months they lived happily together, Mrs. Clarkson _going on
a visit to Montreal_ whenever it stated her. In process of time she gave
evidence of being _enceinte_, and old Clarkson’s joy knew no bounds, as
he evidently rejoiced at the prospect of having an heir. Had he known,
however, that his wife, in visiting Montreal, was invariably met by
Randolph Thomson, it is questionable whether his joy would not have
been considerably moderated. Before the child was born the old man died,
leaving all his property to his wife and his expected heir. His sister,
who really was devoted to him, was left without a penny, and entirely
dependent on the charity of Mrs. Clarkson. The widow, however, had
not forgotten the part played by Mrs. Clarkson during her brother’s
lifetime, and being now steeped in wickedness, her better nature was
almost entirely lost. She turned the faithful sister from her door,
and she, the false wife, was with her illegitimate child (born almost
immediately after the old man’s death) snugly installed in the home that
in all equity and justice should have belonged to the woman she ejected.

“_Facilis descensus Averni_.”--It is wonderful how easy the descent
really is, when once the first false step is taken. As the avalanche,
which at first becomes slowly loosened from its lofty position,
gradually descends with greater and greater rapidity till it is dashed
into the abyss, so does the frail mortal, who at first shudders at
the bare thought of an immoral act, rush headlong into sin till her
desperate career is suddenly checked, often in a manner fearful to
contemplate. Mrs. Clarkson had now all that any woman could reasonably
be expected to desire. She had triumphed over her sister-in-law and
those of her husband’s relatives who had circulated rumors detrimental
to her character, and had become the possessor of a comfortable home,
without the incubus of an impotent husband. But she was not content;
Randolph Thomson, turning his back on her and his boy, had married a
young lady of fortune; so vowing vengeance against men in general for
their _falseness and inconstancy_. Mrs. Clarkson laid herself out to
entrap and ensnare every man who came in her way, and in this manner to
revenge herself (as she by some strange mental process led herself to
imagine) on her false lover.

The deceased Mr. Clarkson had a brother named William, a bachelor, whose
farm was adjacent to that now possessed by the widow. William was nearly
twenty years younger than his brother, and was considered rather a
good-looking man by his acquaintances. It is possible that, but for
her _liaison_ with Thomson, Mrs. Clarkson would, long ere this, have
fascinated him with her beauty and blandishments; but, he had hitherto
escaped unscathed, though openly admiring his brother’s wife, and taking
her part against the scandal-mongers when speculation was rife as to the
cause which detained her in Montreal. In looking round for some one to
entrap and ensnare, Mrs. Clarkson’s eye naturally fell upon William, as
the most eligible party in her immediate vicinity; and she was the
more anxious to secure him, because, with a woman’s far-seeing eye and
long-reaching vengeance, she wished to circumvent her sister-in-law,
who, being unmarried (and likely to remain so), had undertaken to keep
house for her younger brother, and would, as matters at that moment
stood, have likely outlived him and inherited his property. Opportunity
was not long wanting for her to effect her object; William was the sole
executor to his brother’s estate, and, as business often brought them
together at the late Mr. Clarkson’s lawyer’s office in Montreal, it was
not strange that the widow should almost immediately have opened the
campaign, which she did on the first occasion of their meeting in the
city, beginning, as most great generals do, with a little skirmishing,
in order to draw out her opponent. It was a beautiful spring morning,
and, as they had appointed to meet in Montreal at eleven o’clock, Mr.
Clarkson called to drive his sister-in-law to the depot to meet the
train. To his surprise, that lady declined to accompany him, reminding
him that she was now alone in the world, and that if during her
husband’s life-time the tongue of scandal was directed against her
reputation, how much the more would it be so now that her natural
protector was no more. William, being little of a gossip himself, urged
her to be above such petty pandering to public opinion, and to follow
her inclinations, but she replied naively.--“A woman has nothing to
depend on but her reputation, and she cannot be too careful, you know.”
 “Perhaps you are right,” William replied, laughing, and so he permitted
the widow to order her own buggy round, and follow him a few minutes
later to the depot. But even this precaution did not satisfy the wily
Mrs. Clarkson. She knew that many Sherbrooke people would be on the
trains both going and coming, and that inquisitive eyes would watch, and
gossiping tongues would relate all that passed during the journey,
so she induced Miss Cuthbert, a neighbor of hers, to accompany her,
promising her a pleasant day in Montreal.

The train had not arrived when the ladies alighted at the depot, but the
ever-acute widow instructed her servant man not to drive away, but to
wait and see if any parcels had been sent from Portland. She did not
expect any parcels from Portland, but she wished all the neighbors who
might be going on the train to see her man with the buggy, in case they
might imagine she had come in the carriage with William. When they got
on board the train, of course, her brother-in-law took a seat with her
and Miss Cuthbert, but the widow pretended to be engrossed in a novel,
leaving the younger lady to carry on the conversation. A boy approached
with “prize packages” of candies, and William, buying two, handed them
to the ladies, requesting them to see what fortune had in store for
them. Miss Cuthbert opened hers eagerly, and, amidst the almonds and
lozenges, discovered a gilt brooch, which she laughingly fastened on her
breast. William offered to open the widow’s for her, but she interrupted
him, saying:

“My fortune has been told already, give it to Miss Cuthbert.”

“Oh, yes! give it to me,” said the sprightly girl, and hastily opening
it, she poked amongst the candies and pulled out a small article rolled
in tissue paper; unrolling the paper eagerly she disclosed _a plain gilt
ring_.

“Put that on, also,” said Mrs. Clarkson.

“Oh, no!” answered Miss Cuthbert, “I will try to get some one to put it
on for me.”

With this careless banter the time passed away till they reached
Montreal, Mrs. Clarkson playing the shy widow to perfection, and, as may
naturally be supposed, not only raising herself in the estimation of her
brother-in-law, but drawing him in a strange manner within the radius of
her fascinating influences.

On arriving in the city they entered a carriage, and were driven to St.
James street, where Mr. St. Jerome, the lawyer, had his office. In about
an hour their business was transacted, and William invited the ladies
to Alexander’s to partake of luncheon, but this the widow discreetly
declined, being aware that the pastry-cook’s in question was a
celebrated rendezvous for all country-folk. Pleading as an excuse that
she wanted, to do some shopping, she advised William not to trouble
about them, as they would prefer shopping alone, and that, if fatigued,
they could easily drop in for an ice at some respectable confectioner’s.
“Besides,” added Mrs. Clarkson, “I have promised to take Miss Cuthbert
up the mountain this afternoon, as she has never been to the summit of
Mount Royal, though living so near the city bearing its name.”

“If you are going up the mountain, I pray you will allow me to accompany
you. I never visit Montreal without ascending it at least once,” said
Mr. Clarkson. “If you do not wish me to go shopping, I will not intrude,
but I will feel myself slighted if you compel me to ascend the mountain
alone.”

The widow feigned to give a reluctant consent, and accordingly they
arranged to meet on Place d’Armes at two o’clock, and to drive to the
base of the mountain together. At that time the beautiful mountain from
which Montreal derives its name, and most of its beauty, had not been
acquired by the city. It was private property, and there were no elegant
roads by which to drive to its summit; indeed, it was only by the
courtesy of the proprietors that persons were allowed to ascend the
famous hill, and enjoy the beautiful scenery and bracing air: even then
the task of ascending was no easy one, and ladies were generally glad of
the company of one or more of the hardier sex, if only to assist them in
clambering up the steep ascent.

Mr. Clarkson went to lunch, and then to the Corn Exchange to transact
some business, arriving in Place d’Armes precisely at two o’clock.
Shortly afterward she saw the ladies emerge from the French Church
of Notre Dame, and cross the square to meet him. Miss Cuthbert was
delighted with the church. Although a Protestant, she admired it as an
architectural art-work, the elaborate adornment, too, of the interior
pleased her, and accorded with her womanly tastes. Mrs. Clarkson had
seen both inside and outside so often that neither had now any more
effect on her; indeed, not only was her heart steeled to the refining
influences of the building, but also to the doctrines inculcated within
it; she had started on the downward path, and never once dared to look
up again, even for a moment.

“Well, you are sharp on time,” said Miss Cuthbert, addressing Mr.
Clarkson.

“Yes, indeed, I have been walking the streets for nearly an hour,
wondering if the hands on the Seminary clock would ever indicate the
hour of two. I had almost persuaded myself that the public clocks had
all stopped, but my watch, which was ticking, told me that they were
going on with methodical regularity.” He addressed himself to Miss
Cuthbert, but his eyes were turned slightly towards Mrs. Clarkson, who,
blushing slightly (she could blush at pleasure), turned away her head,
and appeared to be quite confused.

William hailed a cab, and they drove up University street, as far as the
carriage road permitted them. Dismissing the “carter,” they entered the
adjacent field, and ascended by a winding path which at that time
ran through the property of Mr. (now Sir Hugh) Allan. Miss Cuthbert,
although she lived faraway from all mountains or hills of any kind, was
remarkably active, and bounded up the steep ascent like a deer. Mrs.
Clarkson was a _dear_ of another kind, and she was obliged to cling to
her brother-in-law for support, which latter he was by no means adverse
to giving, after about twenty minutes climbing they arrived at the “view
point” immediately over Sir Hugh Allan’s residence, when everything
was immediately forgotten in the inspeakable emotion excited by the
magnificent panorama before them. At their feet lay the beautiful
city, the rows of shade trees, clothed with verdure, lending a gorgeous
setting to the elegant limestone buildings. In front rolled the mighty
St. Lawrence, nearly two miles wide, the vast expanse being relieved
by St. Helen’s Island, with its luxuriant foliage. On the right the
Victoria Bridge, that monument of engineering skill, stretched across
the mighty river towards the picturesque village of St. Lambert; while
further to the westward might be seen Nun’s Island with its shady
groves, at the head of which rushed the boiling waters of the famous
rapids of Lachine. I have in my youth travelled through both Germany and
Switzerland and, later, through the beautiful scenery of New Hampshire
and Vermont, but nowhere do I remember having seen a view so grand, or
a panorama so picturesque, as that to be seen from the brow of Mount
Royal.

For a while the entire party gazed in speechless admiration at the scene
before them, when Miss Cuthbert exclaimed:

“I can say, with the apostle of old, ‘It is good for us to be here.’”

“And build _three tabernacles_? queried Mrs. Clarkson.

“Oh, no, two would do. One for me, and another for you and Mr.
Clarkson.”

At this rejoinder Mrs. Clarkson bit her lips, and changed the
conversation immediately.

When they had surveyed the city, the river, and the country on the
opposite shore, they prepared to ascend to the highest part of the
mountain, where the observatory stands, imbedded in trees. Here they
sat down for a time to rest, and partake of some light refreshment which
they had brought with them; they then proceeded to descend on the other
side, passing through the Protestant and Catholic cemeteries, both
elaborately laid out, and looking like beautiful flower gardens, rather
than burial grounds. As they neared Côte des Neiges Miss Cuthbert
commenced to scamper along like a child, and at one short declivity, she
started off at a run, calling on the others to follow. Clarkson took his
companion’s hand and invited her to descend in like manner, but, almost
at the first step, his sister-in-law uttered a sharp scream and fell
forward on the grass, informing them that her foot had turned under her,
and that she had sprained her ankle.

William was almost beside himself. He felt that he had foolishly induced
her to forget herself so far as to indulge in a wild romp and thus
injure her ankle. He wished Miss Cuthbert at the bottom of the sea, and
wondered how they were to get the beautiful cripple home, as they were
removed from residences or conveyances of any kind, and Mrs. Clarkson
was no small weight. There being nothing else for it, however, the
sturdy farmer lifted her in his arms and carried her to the house of
the caretaker of the cemetery; then, leaving her gently on a sofa, he
started for the inn at Côte des Neiges, thinking he might obtain the
means of conveyance to Montreal.

On his arrival at the inn he was informed that there was no livery
stable of any kind for miles around, and that the private buggy of
the proprietor was at the moment in Montreal, whither the landlady had
driven for provisions. Just then a team was driven at a rapid speed
from the direction of St. Laurent; it contained two young gentlemen
from Montreal, who had driven round the mountain attended by a groom.
On hearing the particulars of the accident they at once, with great
gallantry, gave up their vehicle, a mail phaeton, for the use of the
disabled lady, cheerfully undertaking to walk the remainder of the way
(about four miles), and enjoining Mr. Clarkson to bring the carriage to
their stable so soon as he had deposited his fair companions in a place
of safety.

On reaching the cemetery, William found the widow looking wretched,
indeed, and apparently suffering great pain. Her face brightened,
however, as she saw the carriage and was convinced that they would be
able to get to Montreal in time for the night train for Sherbrooke.
William assisted Miss Cuthbert into the trap, and placed Mrs. Clarkson
carefully beside her; then, mounting the box, he thanked the caretaker
for his kind offices and drove, via Côte des Neiges hill, to Montreal.
He suggested to Mrs. Clarkson that it would be better for her to take
a room at the St. Lawrence Hall for a few days, and enjoy perfect rest
till her ankle got better, but she, remembering her past experiences,
preferred to travel at once to her home, and so avoid all scandal.

William drove straight to the Grand Trunk terminus in St. Bonaventure
street; and, placing the ladies in a Pullman car, drove up to Sherbrooke
street with the team, which he left, as directed, at the young
gentleman’s residence. He proceeded along to St. Lawrence Main street,
where he hailed a cab, and drove back to the terminus. Shortly after his
return to the depot the train started, and in a few hours they reached
Sherbrooke.

It was considerably past midnight when they got to Mrs. Clarkson’s
residence, so Miss Cuthbert remained with her till morning, doing all
she could to alleviate her pain. Shortly after breakfast William called;
and as his sister-in-law was confined to her room, he considerately kept
her company till Miss Cuthbert had gone home and obtained permission
to remain a while longer with the disabled lady. There is nothing that
tries a man’s heart so much as to see a woman (particularly a beautiful
woman) in pain. The widow was aware of this, and so, although the sprain
was purely accidental, and was not included in her programme, turned it
to such good account that the poor bachelor was fairly hooked, and began
to think seriously that he had got into an awkward fix.

Marriage with a deceased brother’s wife was illegal, and no clergyman
could perform the marriage ceremony without violating the laws of
both Church and State; even if one could be prevailed on to follow the
dictates of his conscience, and to stretch a point in their favor (as
was sometimes done) society would not recognize their union, and would
shun them as open adulterers. In vain did his sister-in-law urge on him
that the law was absurd, and that, as there was no blood-relationship
between them, there could be nothing criminal in their living
together; he had not the moral courage to face the cold criticism of
a narrow-minded and bigoted community, and, though mad with passionate
love, he hesitated to take the fatal plunge.

Mrs. Clarkson, however, having carried the outposts and principal
barriers successfully, was not to be thwarted by a mere matter of
sentiment. She expressed her intention of departing forthwith for
Detroit, assuring him that she would no longer remain in a country where
such intolerant bigotry existed, and instructed him, if he loved her as
he pretended, to sell his property in Canada and follow her thither.

Clarkson was loth to leave his relations and the home of his childhood,
but the temptress lured him gradually on, refusing at times even to
see a man who valued his narrow-minded friends’ opinion rather than her
love, and at length he consented to sell his farm for whatever it
would bring, and to rejoin her in Detroit. This was another piece of
generalship on the part of the widow, as, did they remain in Canada, she
could not, in the event of her husband’s death hold the property which
would revert to her hated sister-in-law; but that being now converted
into cash she was at liberty to squander it during her husband’s
life-time, retaining the fortune left by her first husband for the
future use of herself and children.

For a time Mr. Clarkson lived with his sister-in-law in a princely style
in Detroit. They entertained largely and handsomely, and most of their
guests neither cared nor enquired who they were, or whence they came.
They had not been there more than six weeks when Mrs. Clarkson made the
acquaintance of Count Von Alba, who for some time had been the lion
of fashionable circles in Detroit. Von Alba was a Russian, who (for
political reasons said his friends, for criminal reasons said his
enemies) had emigrated to America and lived on his fortune (his friends
insisted)--his wits, said his enemies again.

Whichever surmise was correct, Von Alba was undoubtedly good-looking.
He stood five feet eleven inches in his stockings, and was powerfully
built; his complexion, like most Russians was dark, and his lofty
forehead was surmounted with curls of the darkest brown. At the time of
the Clarksons residence, the Count was about five-and-thirty years
old; he had naturally a genial manner and a good-humored expression of
countenance, and a scar on his forehead (obtained, he said, when a lad,
at Inkerman) made him an object of feminine admiration, while he was at
the same time greatly envied by the opposite sex.

Von Alba was a sort of Admirable Crichton. He rode like Nimrod, danced
like Terpsichore, drove like Jehu, shot like William Tell, and sang like
Sims Reeves. It was in the _latter_ accomplishment, however, that
he chiefly excelled; he would stand up at the end of a crowded
drawing-room, and, playing a delicate accompaniment on his guitar, would
vocalize one of the passionate love-songs of his native land. Sometimes
he sang in English, then his defective pronunciation lent a strange
charm to his singing, which, although it could scarcely be accounted
for, made itself felt even in the bosoms of the dilettanti.

Strange to say, although courted and run after by nearly all the
eligible young ladies, the Count became so fond of Mrs. Clarkson’s
society that scarcely a day passed but he was found at her house. At the
fair lady’s “Thursday Evenings,” of course, he was one of the principal
attractions, added to which he dined and lunched frequently at her
house, and escorted her to balls and parties: her husband not caring for
the everlasting round of excitement, and, far from feeling jealous of
the Count, he was proud to think that his choice of a companion should
be endorsed by one who presumably was a competent judge.

It was not long till the lady was at her old tricks again, and what
Randolph Thompson had been to her before, Von Alba soon became, the
simple husband encouraging these visits, and allowing his wife to
squander his money lavishly on her paramour. Mrs. Grundy in the
meanwhile began to be suspicious, and rumors, at first vague and
indefinite, became almost pointed accusations against Mrs. Clarkson. The
poor husband, although not altogether crediting the fact that there
was a foundation for these reports, saw the necessity, in the equivocal
position in which both he and his wife stood, of putting a stop to all
suspicious intercourse with the Count; and, being resolute enough when
so disposed, he forbade his wife to meet Von Alba any more in private,
or to invite him to her house.

This, as may be supposed, brought matters to a crisis and brought on a
terrible quarrel between the abandoned woman and her husband. She saw
that the game was up as far as Detroit was concerned, and so, managing
to forge her husband’s name to a cheque for several thousand dollars,
she went the next day with great boldness to the bank where he kept his
money and presented it; it was cashed by the clerk without hesitation,
and that evening, abandoning both Clarkson and her children, she
went, accompanied by her paramour, to the depot and took the train for
Montreal, where they went to an hotel, registering their names as Mr.
and Mrs. Mortimer, of New York. Notwithstanding their false names and
altered attire they were traced to the St. Lawrence Hall, Mrs. Clarkson
being surprised, on coming from breakfast one morning, to observe her
husband busily scanning the register at the office counter. The Count
had not seen him, but Mrs. Clarkson hurried him upstairs and told him
that their whereabouts was discovered, and that they must take refuge in
flight before Clarkson had time to take steps for their apprehension.

Ringing the bell, Von Alba bade the boy to have their bill made out and
receipted, and to have their luggage sent to the station in time for the
next train for New York.

“There is no New York train till 3.15,” said the boy.

“When is there one for Toronto?” asked the Count.

“Not till eight this evening, but the Lachine train, which meets the
mail boat, leaves at 11.30.”

“That is what I mean,” said Von Alba; “we will go by that;” then,
packing hastily, the two culprits descended by the ladies staircase,
and, entering a carriage, drove off to procure tickets for Toronto.

All this time Mr. Clarkson was quietly seated in the breakfast-room,
taking light repast after his long journey. That the persons he sought
were in the hotel he felt confident; but there were so many gentlemen
with their wives real or pretended, from all parts, that he was puzzled
to conjecture which of the names in the register was that assumed by the
Count. At length he resolved to take the boy into his confidence; and,
handing him a gold piece, he began to question him concerning the guests
now quartered in the hotel. When he had described the pair he wanted,
the boy said: “W’y these ere must be the pair wat’s just gone to the
Toronto boat!” Clarkson said not a word; but, handing a card to the
cashier, rushed out of the hotel, and, jumping into a cab, bade the
driver to go with all speed to the Upper Canada boat. Had he thought for
a moment he would have recollected that the boat leaves the wharf early
in the morning, and proceeding slowly through the canal, stops to take
on passengers at the head of the Lachine Rapids. In his blind haste,
however, he had forgotten this; and lost so much time in going to the
wharf that, when he eventually learnt the truth and got to the depot,
the train was just leaving the platform.

There was nothing for it now but to wait for the train for the west,
and to get on board the steamer at Kingston. He had at least the
satisfaction of knowing that they were on the boat like rats in a trap,
and that, except the delay in confronting the villain Von Alba and his
wretched companion, he was as successful as possible in his pursuit of
the fugitives. Returning to the city, he procured the assistance of a
detective, who undertook to accompany him to Kingston, and assist him in
apprehending and arresting the fugitives.

By this time the steamship “Hungarian,” on which the wretched pair had
embarked, was ploughing the waters of Lake St. Louis. After a time they
passed through the Beauharnois and Cornwall canals, and entered the
labyrinth of beautiful patches known as the “Thousands Islands.” As they
emerged from this lovely spot the saloon became suddenly filled with
smoke, and in a few minutes cries of “Fire! Fire!” were heard on every
hand. A rush was made for life preservers, while the crew of five or
six men vainly endeavored to extinguish the flames. The captain ordered
boats to be lowered, but, the men being excited, and badly drilled at
best, the boats were successively swamped, leaving the poor terrified
creatures only a choice of two fearful deaths.

One of the sailors handed Mrs. Clarkson a life preserver, which she
requested Von Alba to fasten round her waist, but the cowardly fellow
_snatched it from her_, and, hastily securing it round his own waist,
swung himself overboard, leaving her to perish in the flames! He was
not to escape so easily, however; with a bitter yell of mingled rage and
despair the wretched woman mounted the taffrail, and plunging straight
for the spot where he rose to the surface dragged him under again and
again with fearful maledictions. The passengers who still remained on
deck could do nothing to separate them, and although the life preserver
would have sustained both of them easily in the water, so great was the
woman’s bate on the discovery of Von Alba’s cowardly treachery, that
she did not even give a thought to her own escape, so intent was she on
dragging him to the bottom. The expression of her face, lit up as it was
by the blaze of the burning; steamer, was terrible to behold: the veins
in her head and neck were swollen almost to bursting, and she died
cursing with bitter malediction the man for whom she had sacrificed not
only herself, but her husband and her children.

The steamer burned to the water’s edge, only a few of those who had
jumped overboard escaping. The bodies of the guilty pair were discovered
at some distance from the wreck, Mrs. Clarkson’s hand being tightly
clutched round her companion’s throat, while his tongue and eyes
protruded fearfully.

With sad and heavy heart Clarkson returned to Detroit, and, having
gathered together what remained of his former property, prepared to
return to Canada. He took with him the children of his late wife,
placing them both as boarders at the College at Lennoiville till they
were old enough to be apprenticed to some trade or profession. He never
quite recovered from the shock received on hearing of the manner of Mrs.
Clarkson’s death and that of her paramour, but became prematurely aged
when he realized that, instead of the sweet angelic creature whom he
thought he had married, he found that he had wedded a regular disciple
of Satan.




CHAPTER VII.


The Frail Shop Girl.

The many fine ladies who patronize the fashionable emporiums of
Montreal little think (as they sit comfortably at the counter, leisurely
examining dozens of articles they never intend to purchase) of the
sufferings undergone by those who minister to their wants, and, it may
be, their caprices. Dozens of these poor creatures stand day after day,
from morn till night, without a moment’s rest except at meal-times; even
then the short period allowed them barely suffices to permit of a hasty
meal, when they have to hurry back again to undergo another term of
misery.

It is strange that we should be so careful of brute beasts that we form
ourselves into societies for their protection, prosecuting rigorously
any one who shall have the temerity to ill-treat or abuse them, and yet
allow our fellow-creatures (and those, too, of the weaker sex) to be
treated with the most barbarous cruelty. A bruise or a blow may be
brutal and severe, yet neither is so hurtful, so systematically cruel,
as the forcing young girls to stand erect for lengthened periods,
without change of posture. I am sure if the members of the House of
Commons were deprived of their seats even for one session, we would,
without further ado have a Bill enacted making it criminal for
shopkeepers to make slaves of their employees, or individuals to
patronize such establishments.

Were shop-girls provided with even the commonest of seats, untold
numbers of crimes and diseases would be heard of no more. I am confident
that but for this most refined cruelty the circumstances which gave
rise to this story would never have occurred, and that I would have been
spared the narration of a history which, though painfully true, is none
the less shocking.

M----‘s dry goods store has long been known in Montreal as a
well-started and well-appointed establishment. Carriages daily blocked
the thoroughfare while waiting for their fashionable owners outside its
door; and inside busy walkers and clerks could be seen running hither
and thither, serving customers. Young women, also, some of them still
bright and cheerful, many, alas, pale and heavy with sadness, might be
seen grouped behind the counter, engaged in handing goods down from
the shelves, and displaying them to the fashionable loungers behind the
counter.

One of these girls, by name Esther Ryland, was noticed by many who
frequented M----‘s store on account of her unusually attractive person
and elegance of manners; she was a little above the average height, yet
graceful and well-formed, with remarkably handsome features, and eyes
that sparkled like a pair of diamonds. Esther had not been long in
Messrs. M----‘s service, yet she had become so popular as a saleswoman
that crowds frequented the particular counter at which she assisted, and
she was known to many who were unacquainted with her name as the Pretty
Shop-girl at M----‘s.

Esther was very proud of her attractions, both professionally and
otherwise; she did not calculate, however, that the more popular she
became the more work she would have to do, and that she would, in time,
pay for her popularity with her health, if not her life. She had, in and
out of the store, a great many admirers amongst those of the opposite
sex, but there was one she prized above all others, a certain Mr.
Quintin, a merchant tailor, who had just started business for himself,
and had persuaded Esther to promise that, after another year’s service,
she would give up business and become his wife.

It had been their custom to go for a stroll together on the long summer
evenings, and together they might have been seen, fondly looking into
each other’s faces, as, arm-in-arm, they perambulated the more remote
portions of Sherbrooke and St. Denis streets, which at that time were
scarcely built upon.

One evening when Quintin called, as usual, to take his enamorata for
a walk, she said she would prefer to stay at home, as she was quite
fatigued with the day’s work. Nothing disconcerted, her lover remained
with her in the house, and they amused themselves with a pack of cards
and a chessboard. The following evening, however, Miss Ryland was again
indisposed, and, on questioning her closely, Quintin drew forth the
avowal that she _had not sat down for a quarter of an hour_ during the
whole day! It seems it was the busy season at M----‘s, and, besides
being engaged incessantly in serving customers, Miss Ryland was obliged
to shorten her dinner hour, and to hurry back to meet the increased
demand.

Quintin was quite shocked at this discovery. Although well aware of
the brutal treatment of shopkeepers’ assistants, he had never been an
interested party, and so had the matter placed before him _in all its
horrors_ for the first time. He resolved that, come what might, he would
emancipate his intended wife from a life of such slavery, and so, having
carefully arranged his business and purchased a neat little cottage in
Cadieux street, he urged Miss Ryland to consent to marry him without
delay, and so avoid her life of thraldom. She agreed to marry him during
the ensuing month, pleading with feminine weakness that it would take
at least that time to get her trousseau ready, and the day was finally
arranged to their mutual satisfaction.

The excitement of preparation before marriage, and the change of scene
during her wedding-tour, wrought such an effect on the woman that Mr.
Quintin became convinced that his wife’s health was thoroughly restored,
and he labored assiduously at his business, looking forward cheerfully
to the time when she should become a mother, and the merry laughter of
his children should, in his hours of rest from worldly cares, gladden
and enliven their home.

A year rolled by, and both Mr. and Mrs. Quintin looked hopefully towards
the future; two years passed and still they were childless. Mrs. Quintin
would have given all the world, had she possessed it, for one of God’s
blessings; she loved children, even those of other children, and _one of
her own_ would have been a priceless treasure. But she lamented more on
her husband’s account. She knew that he doted on children; and when she
saw him take the neighbours’ children on his knee, and, after looking
wistfully in their faces, rise and dash his hand across his eyes,
she knew what it meant. “Oh,” she would cry, “if only these abandoned
wretches who desert their offspring could realize what it is to desire
them and yet live unblest! If they but knew the priceless treasures
they were casting from them, they would turn and repent in sackcloth and
ashes.”

Mr. and Mrs. Quintin had been married about three years when one day the
former called on me, his face beaming with joy, and informed me that his
fondest hopes were about to be realized, and that he would like me
to call and consult with his wife. I was a little surprised at this
intimation, as, from what I knew of Mrs. Quintin, I had fully made up my
mind that she would never become a patient of mine; however, I was glad
to hear that I had been mistaken, and so, when next in the neighborhood
I waited on that lady and congratulated her on her improved prospects.
To my great surprise she burst into tears, and confessed that she was
not _enceinte_, or likely ever to become so; that her career in M----‘s
store, and continued standing for hours together, had rendered her
physically unable ever to become a mother. She added that her husband
had so set his heart upon the one object (viz., the desire to have
children), and had spent so much money for medicine and medical advice
with a view to that end, that she could not bear him to think that all
his efforts were unavailing, and her complaint having assumed a form to
all outward appearances similar to pregnancy, she had permitted him
to delude himself with the belief that the latter was the cause of
her altered appearance, and that scientific skill had counteracted the
effects of years of abuse.

I was greatly taken aback at this disclosure, but my surprise was as
nothing compared to that in hearing the plot which the woman’s now
diseased mind had concocted. She said she was going to bear reproach no
longer (for, though her husband never murmured, at least in words,
his friends and her neighbors were ever ready to deepen her sorrow and
humiliation by taunting her with her impotency), and her eyes rolled in
frenzy as she almost shouted: I MUST AND SHALL HAVE A CHILD’! Why am I
prohibited from having what many do not know how to value? Many of them
cast their treasures from them; shall I, frantic with despair, _refuse
to pick one up_!

As she walked up and down the room in her fury, she looked like one
demented. Her hands were clenched till the nails entered her flesh, her
eyes rolled wildly, and, were I more easily frightened, I would have
felt impelled to call for help. Gradually becoming cooler, Mrs. Quintin
unfolded to me her plan for deceiving her husband, and, with a coolness
that I would not have pardoned but for her evidently unhinged condition,
actually _requested me to assist her?_ She said she had been offered
a child for adoption by a lady who was more guilty and unfeeling than
herself, and that the person in question had promised to send her word
when she was taken ill, so that she might send for me, and make her
arrangements for the reception of the child, which was to be transported
secretly into her bedroom.

I was so astonished that I was for a time unable to a speak. The deep
plot itself, the proposition made to me to assist her, and the cool
manner of the lady herself, fairly staggered me. At length, speaking as
calmly as I could, I tried to convince Mrs. Quintin of the enormity of
the crime she intended to commit, telling her that, if she wished to
adopt a child, she would find it quite an easy matter to do so without
taking any such course as she evidently intended; and, after arguing for
some time, she seemed to yield a little to reason, and promised to do
nothing rashly. She had already, however, committed herself to the first
part of her programme, and told her husband a falsehood; how was she to
undeceive him? I suggested that she should tell him on his return that
she had been mistaken, and that on examination I had found nothing
unusual the matter with her. This she positively refused to do, saying
that her husband had so set his heart on this one object that, were his
hopes suddenly dashed to the ground, he might do something desperate.
She said she would break it to him gently, and, imploring me to say
nothing to him of what had passed, she escorted me to the door, and,
with tearful eyes, bade me farewell.

Several months elapsed, and I had, for the time, thought little of
either Mr. and Mrs. Quintin, when one evening in glancing over the
papers, my eye fell on the following announcement: “On the ----th inst.,
at ---- Cadieux street the wife of R. Quintin of a daughter.” I let the
paper drop as I gazed vacantly at the ceiling and tried to realize the
whole affair. Undecided how to act, I mechanically put on my bonnet and
cloak, and walked up Cadieux street, when, coming out of the house, I
spied my friend, Dr. P----.

“Good evening, Doctor,” said I.

“Oh, good evening, Mrs. Schroeder. I have just been attending a patient
of yours; it seems they were not at all prepared, and had not time to
notify you. Indeed, I was late myself, as I did not arrive till some
minutes after the child was born.”

Without saying a word I beckoned the Doctor aside, and made a sign that
I wished to speak with him privately. He invited me to step into his
carriage, and we drove in perfect silence to his residence in Beaver
Hall Terrace. Alighting, he preceded me to his surgery, and closed the
door; then, with a look full of meaning, he said:

“Well, what is there wrong here?”

“I said, Before I reply, will you permit me to ask you one or two
questions.”

“Who called you to attend Mrs. Quintin?”

“A carter came and requested me to come with all speed to attend a lady
in Cadieux street. I went as quickly as possible, but the child was born
before my arrival.”

“Who, then, attended the lady?”

“The nurse did, and apparently very satisfactorily indeed. I found
the bandages so well arranged, and the patient’s pulse so strong and
regular, that I left, perfectly satisfied that all was properly attended
to till your arrival. They explained to me that the lady was your
patient, but that being unexpectedly taken ill, she had ordered the
carter to bring the first doctor he found at home.”

“Was Mr. Quintin at home?”

“No; he is gone to England to purchase some goods.”

“Ah! That accounts for it then.”

“Accounts for what? Really you must not catechize me any further. What
is there underneath all these questions?”

I drew my chair closer to him, as I said tragically:

“Mrs. Quintin _never had a child_.”

“This rather staggered the good old doctor, who had just come from the
house, where he had examined and weighed the infant. He started up from
his chair, and, drawing back, exclaimed:

“What do you mean? Explain yourself.”

I then at length narrated all I knew concerning the Quintin family, and,
as I proceeded with my story, the old man’s eyes opened wider and wider
as he exclaimed:

“My God what a diabolical plot”!

“Yes, indeed, and I was invited to join in it.”

“Well, well. _I_ certainly would never have suspected anything of the
kind.”

“Nor would anyone. The thing was well arranged, and artfully carried
out.”

“I suppose they will send for _you_ now.”

“Not at all. That is only a sham to get rid of your attendance. The
husband will be given to understand that you were hurriedly called
in, and that, my assistance being unneeded, they did not think it
worth-while troubling me.”

After consulting with Dr. P. for a considerable time and putting the
case in different lights, we came to the conclusion that it would be as
well now to let matters take their course. Any interference on our part
would only have raised a great public scandal, and rendered both Mr.
and Mrs. Quintin miserable, without benefiting anyone, so we allowed
the poor man to believe that his prayers were answered, and that the
beautiful girl he fondled was really his own.

Time rolled on, the baby being baptized in due course and known by the
name of Edith Quintin. As she grew older, both Mr. and Mrs. Quintin
became passionately fond of her, the latter being as much attached to
the little girl as if she were her own daughter. When the child was
about twelve years old, Mrs. Quintin, who had gradually grown more and
more delicate, began to feel that she must, ere many months had passed,
finally succumb to the disease which was gradually gnawing at her
vitals, and the deception she had practised on her husband was a source
of great discomfort and annoyance to her. She called on me in great
grief, and, having informed me concerning that of which (as the reader
knows) I was well aware, implored me to give her counsel and advice. She
was surprised to hear that I had already learnt all from Dr. P----;
for, although she, of course, knew that _I_ was not blinded by her
subterfuge, she was not aware that I knew all concerning the method
adopted by her, and when she learned that both the doctor and myself had
forborne to inform on her, she was visibly affected, and thanked me on
her knees.

I advised her to break the matter to her husband, and not to die with
such a load on her conscience, but she avowed that she had neither the
strength nor the courage to do so, and importunately besought me to
undertake the painful task. When Mr. Quintin learnt the truth he was of
course greatly shocked, and at first was bitter in his denunciations at
his deceitful wife. His better judgment, however, was soon brought to
bear in the matter, and he was moved rather to pity her misfortune than
to punish her for her fault. He knew that her judgment erred solely in
order to retain his affection, and when he looked at her pale face and
emaciated form, and thought of the agony and suffering, both mental and
bodily, which the poor creature had endured, he willingly forgave her,
and, though sadly disappointed and sorely smitten, did what he could to
reassure her.

Edith meanwhile had developed into a beautiful girl, and had she really
been, as she believed herself, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Quintin, she
could not have been more beloved by them. The former enjoined me never
to reveal the secret of her birth to his daughter as he called her, and
so her life, at least, was not darkened in the least by the knowledge of
the truth.

When Edith was about seventeen years old Mrs. Quintin finally yielded
to the ravages of that dread destroyer, consumption. The poor girl wept
sadly and bitterly at the loss of her mother, the only one indeed the
poor child had ever known, and poor Quintin wept sadly as he thought of
his wife’s brief and unhappy career. He removed with his daughter into
furnished lodgings, not wishing the child to be burdened too soon with
the cares of house-keeping. What he would not allow her to do for him,
however, she soon became very anxious to do for another, and the days
of her mourning were not long passed when she became the happy wife of
a young man named Wentworth, bookkeeper in one of the leading hardware
firms in Montreal. She has now children of her own, and the youngsters’
greatest delight is to gather round their grandfather’s knee while he
astonishes them with stories. To them nor to no one else, however, has
he told, even as I have done, the story of the frail shop-girl, who from
being young and handsome, and the belle of her circle of acquaintances,
became a wretched and deceitful woman, diseased both in body and mind,
and finally sank into a premature grave.

Out on this heartless, brutal system, and the thoughtlessness and
ignorance which permit it! I hope the narrative given above may cause
some of those at least who engage in this barbarous system to pause and
give the great problem of life, capital and labor, a few moments thought
that they may see the error of their way, and that poor Esther Quintin
may not have died in vain.




CHAPTER VIII.


The Two Orphans

One evening, about a dozen years before the introduction of the present
system of fire alarms into Montreal, crowds might be seen hurrying along
that part of the city known as Little St. James street, towards the
scene of an immense conflagration. Several fire engines were throwing
strong streams of water on the burning mass, but, the evening being
windy, the fire swept all before it, and soon reduced several buildings
to ashes.

In one of these resided Mr. Wilson, Notary Public, and his two
daughters, the eldest a beautiful girl about 9 years old, the other
aged nearly 8. When the fire commenced they were seated calmly at the
tea-table, partaking of their evening meal, but, so sudden was the
holocaust which burst with tremendous fury around them that they had not
the slightest warning till they were surrounded with dense volumes
of smoke The two girls rushed forward to the window, and screamed for
assistance, while the old man endeavored to gather some of his most
valuable papers together and throw them into the street.

Amongst the crowd who assembled were two young men, clerks, named
Wilgress and D’Alton respectively. Taking in the situation at a glance,
they sought hastily for ladders, and placing them against the burning
windows, mounted bravely through the flames, each seizing a girl round
the waist, and carrying her in safety to the ground. Their clothes were
almost completely destroyed, while their faces were grimed and scorched,
still, nothing daunted, they looked up to see if anything more could be
done; they espied the old man at one of the windows with a parcel in
his arms. Quick as thought Dalton mounted the ladder once more, going
through the flames like a salamander, and, taking the parcel from the
old gentleman, tried to induce him to descend the ladder. Poor old
Wilson, however, could not bear to leave so much that was valuable while
a chance of saving it remained, and so, rushing wildly back into the
burning building, he was soon lost to sight. A cry arose from the crowd
as they saw him disappear once more, and several hardy youths sprang up
the ladders, determined to bring him out by force, but, ere they could
enter the flaming pile, a loud shriek met their ears as the floor gave
way, hurling the poor old notary into the dreadful pit of fire. All
efforts to do anything further were now unavailing, and the firemen
directed their energies to protecting the neighboring buildings, and
preventing the fire from spreading.

The young men were at first puzzled what to do with the two girls whom
they had rescued, and who were now orphans, without parents, money, or
even clothes, but some Sisters of Charity, who had witnessed the heroic
action, came forward and offered to take them in charge. The good
sisters took the children to the convent, and provided them with both
food and clothes, intending to educate them and bring them up in the
Catholic faith, but some Protestant ladies, members of the congregation
to which Mr. Wilson had belonged, having heard of the affair, induced
the clergyman to call and obtain possession of the orphans, they
undertaking to provide the cost of their maintenance, or to find them
homes in Protestant families.

By the time the Rev. Mr. Flood called at the nunnery the children had
dried their tears, and were beginning to feel quite at home. The Sister
in charge, however, saw at once the correctness of the Clergyman’s
action, and agreed to give the girls up as soon as he had made
arrangements for their reception elsewhere. In a few days they were sent
for, and each was adopted by a different family; Cissie, the elder, was
taken in charge by a childless minister, residing in St. Albans, in
the State of Vermont, while Lillie, the younger sister was adopted by a
farmer from the neighborhood of Varennes.

Many years passed away and the two girls were grown up, and were both
uncommonly good looking, Lillie being then just seventeen, and as
handsome a girl as one could wish to see. Then circumstances, however,
were not the same, for while Cissie had received a good education, and
had in every way the manners of a lady, Lillie could not even read with
facility, and writing was with her and utter impossibility. The people
who had adopted her were Irish settlers, who, though comfortably off,
knew little beyond the cultivation of potatoes and the care of pigs.

About this tame Cissie Wilson, tired of the monotony of life at St.
Albans, determined to make an effort to “see the world,” as she called
it, and earn her own living; and, as her adopted father remonstrated
with her in rather a hasty manner, she collected her effects together,
and, one day while the old man was out, started for Montreal. She left
a note for him, informing him of her destination, and warning him not to
attempt to stop her, as she had determined, at all hazards, to carry out
her intention. Miss Wilson had been several times in Montreal, and had
several acquaintances there, among them a Miss Wood, whose father had
a position in the Telegraph Office. To Miss Wood’s, therefore, she
repaired, and, being welcomed with the usual number of kisses, she
requested the young lady to persuade her father to procure a situation
as telegraph operator or something of the kind, as she was determined to
earn her own living. This the young lady promised to do and succeeded so
well that Miss Wilson was soon installed in a tolerably good position,
earning enough money to maintain and clothe herself respectably.

Things went on smoothly enough for a time, Miss Wilson spending most of
her leisure time with her friend, Miss Wood, or sitting quietly at home
arranging such dresses and finery as her scanty income permitted her to
indulge in. After some months, however, she began to make more friends,
and being invited frequently out, and made much of because of her
beauty and accomplishments, she soon became madly eager for the means
of dressing herself like the rest, and making the conquests she knew she
could make, were she only to have equal terms with her rivals.

This passion for dress and jewellery soon became deep-seated; were she
only well dressed, what could she not achieve. She had, in her anxious
endeavors to make a good impression in society, deprived herself even
of necessaries sin order to procure a fashionable ball-dress and outfit,
and these were now no longer fit for active service. While musing over
this circumstance one evening, as she walked home to supper, she chanced
to meet Anna Smith, who had been the belle at the last ball, her fine
dress and showy jewellery having completely eclipsed the more solid and
modest beauty of the poor telegraph girl. Miss Smith inquired casually
if Cissie were going to the Oddfellows’ ball, an affair which was then
on the _tapis_, and when the latter answered in the negative, explaining
that her small salary would not allow her to purchase the necessary
finery, Miss Smith laughed and called her a silly little goose. Taking
her by the arm, Anna then let her into a secret, and explained how she
obtained all she required, and indeed could, out of the abundance of her
stores, fit out Miss Cissie, whom she chose to consider her protégée.
She urged Cissie not to miss the ball on any account, and reminded her
that she had already obtained a decided advantage over Miss Williams,
Miss Hunt and Miss Jones, and that with such an outfit as she would lend
her the victory would be complete.

Cissie was for a moment shocked. She had been several times offered
presents by gentlemen of her acquaintance, but had always resolutely
declined to take them, having an instinctive feeling which warned her
against their acceptance. She could not bear now to wear the dresses
proffered by Miss Smith, and momentarily made up her mind not to go to
the ball at all. Then again her heart failed her as her companion glibly
ran over the names of those who were to attend, and Cissie thought how
she would like to enter the room on Horace Gibson’s arm in the presence
of Miss Williams and the rest. Horace Gibson was a clerk in the Bank of
Montreal who had invited Miss Wilson to the ball, and was to receive
her answer that evening. As luck would have it, that young gentleman
approached just as the girls were rounding the corner of the street,
and, raising his hat in salute, inquired if he was to have the pleasure
of taking Miss Wilson to the ball. Cissie hung her head, and was just
about to offer some excuse, when Miss Smith answered for her:

“Oh, yes, _of course_ she’ll go, and be the best dressed and best
looking lady in the room too.”

“If you have taken her up, I am sure she will be at least the _second_
best as regards get up,” responded Mr. Gibson, conveying an indirect
compliment to Miss Smith herself, who was celebrated for the elegance of
her attire. Cissie could not utter a word. After all, she thought, there
can be no harm in borrowing a dress from a young lady! It was not for
her to inquire how that lady was able to purchase so many dresses; and
then, as she looked at the handsome young man before her, and thought
how her rivals would bite their lips with envy to see her in her elegant
out-fit, the blood rushed into her temples, and with an impetuous bound
she burst away from both her companions and entered the house, saying to
Mr. Gibson: “Yes, I’ll go; call for me at nine to-morrow.”

Till late night Cissie sat in her rocking-chair, her hands pressed over
her throbbing temples; at length wearied nature came to her relief,
and compelled her to retire to bed. Being fatigued, she soon fell
fast asleep, and on the morrow when she awoke, although she remembered
clearly all that had passed on the previous evening, she had not the
same sensitive feelings, or the same sharp prickings of conscience, and,
as she walked towards the office, she began to anticipate the ball with
the greatest pleasure.

As Miss Smith had said, Cissie, beautiful before, was ten times as
beautiful now that she was adorned with all that art could do in the
matters of dress and jewellery. Miss Williams fairly gnashed her teeth
with envy, and left the hall shortly after ten o’clock, disgusted with
_that thing_ from the telegraph office, while the gentlemen eagerly
sought for an introduction to the acknowledged belle of the ball-room.
Miss Smith was as proud of Cissie’s success as if it had been her own.
With all her faults the girl possessed a good heart, and in doing as
she did fancied she was doing the innocent country girl a kindness in
opening to her the highway to fame and fortune, even though it were
reached by the gate of dishonor.

It is needless to give in detail the particulars of Cissie Wilson’s
career; suffice it to say, that the brilliant triumph at the Oddfellows’
ball was too much for her weak nature. She plunged headlong into the
vortex of worldly pleasure and excitement, and, having little time or
inclination for reflection, became in time quite habituated to this
peculiar mode of life, always maintaining outwardly, however, a moral
and respected appearance.

All this time, the reader may well ask, what had become of Lillie, the
younger sister? She had been remarkably successful in her country home,
having at her feet the hands and hearts of all the most eligible young
men for miles round. This at one time would have gratified her utmost
ambition; but her sister’s letters from Montreal made her dreadfully
anxious to join her in her whirl of exciting pleasures, and, with the
understanding that her sister would obtain her employment in Montreal,
Lillie, at the age of eighteen, came to the city.

She was not long in her new home till her sister unbosomed to her many
things of which she had previously been in ignorance, and promised to
introduce her to the _créme de la créme_ of her worldly companions,
urging her to endeavor to acquire these graces and accomplishments which
she had failed to learn in her country home. Lillie soon became
more popular even than her sister; for, although she was not so well
educated, she was naturally clever and witty, and there was a vivacity
and freshness about her conversation, which, added to her beautiful face
and perfect figure, made her a charming and desirable companion.

One day Mr. D’Alton, one of the gentlemen who had rescued the two girls
from the fire, was walking along Notre Dame street, when he observed
a beautiful girl, rather showily dressed, promenading just in front of
him. Something in the girl’s manner attracted his attention, and, as he
passed her, he turned round, and carefully scanned her face. As he did
so the girl looked up and their eyes met; he, raising his hat, blurted
out an apology, saying he had mistaken her for another lady of his
acquaintance named Brown. “Oh,” said she, laughing, “my name is Lillie
Wilson.”

On hearing this name D’Alton started, and, having questioned her closely
concerning her antecedents, asked her if she remembered the fire, and
the two gentlemen who rescued herself and her sister; and, although she
had altogether forgotten his appearance, she remembered the circumstance
perfectly. They walked together for a little while, and then he asked
her permission to visit her at her address, and was astonished to
find that she objected, for some strange reason, to do so. At length,
bursting into tears, she confided to him her whole history, informing
him that she had been seduced and betrayed, and was at that moment
_enceinte_. This disclosure, as may well be supposed, staggered D’Alton
not a little, but at the same time he became more and more interested in
the girl, and offered, if she would promise to give up her corrupt
mode of life that he would do his best to see her through her present
difficulty. Calling on me, he consulted with me as to what was best
to be done under the circumstances, explaining that, although he
was willing to do all in his power for the girl for the sake of old
associations, yet that he did not wish to peril his own reputation.
I promised to do what I could for the girl, and calling on her was
informed that her paramour was an officer in the Rifle Brigade, who
had returned to England, leaving her to bear the burden of their crime.
Having procured suitable lodgings, I saw the girl comfortably housed,
and in due time she gave birth to a fine little boy, which, as usual
in these cases, was sent to the nunnery to be taken care of by the good
Sisters of Charity.

Mr. D’Alton did not come to visit Miss Wilson during her convalescence
but, after she was completely recovered he called frequently, taking her
to theatres and concerts, and sometimes in the winter to sleigh-rides.
What his intentions at first may have been I do not know; I certainly
think that but for his friends he would openly have married her; be
that as it may, in a short time it became apparent that they had both
overstepped the bounds of ordinary friendly intercourse, and that Mrs.
Rushton (as she now called herself) would soon require my services a
second time. This time she gave birth to a beautiful girl, and, before
many years were past, there followed another girl and boy. These
children were not, as in the former case, sent to the nunnery, but
were retained and brought up by their mother, she being smart enough to
perceive that by doing so she would maintain a hold on their father,
and secure for herself, if not a respectable, at least a comfortable
position, Mr. D’Alton having been successful in business, and being at
that time one of the leading brokers in Montreal.

For a time things went on this way, D’Alton visiting his mistress
frequently, and becoming passionately fond of the children, whom Mrs.
Rushton artfully used to influence him on all occasions. To do her
justice, it must be said that she never, either in thought or action,
was untrue to D’Alton, and that, whatever her past career might have
been, she lived at this time a quiet life, indeed, caring only for her
husband (as she called him) and her children. By the time the little
boy was two years old, both mother and children had so ingratiated
themselves in Mr. D’Alton’s affections, that he determined, come what
might, to marry his mistress, and so make their future offspring at
least legitimate.

He was weary of his irregular mode of life, and, being comparatively
wealthy, longed for some place which he could call his home. His wife
could hardly mix in society, even could she obtain an _entrée_ to that
realm of prudery and hypocrisy, but he cared for no society better than
that of herself and his children, and his bachelor friends, of whom
he had not a few, would, even if they did know or surmise the truth,
exercise a more liberal spirit, particularly while the wine in his
cellar maintained its reputation. Accordingly, he one day astonished and
delighted Mrs. Rushton with the proposal that he should marry her; and
that they should live together openly. As may be supposed, the lady
unhesitatingly accepted the proposal, and accordingly they were married,
formally and legally in St. George’s Church, which, at that time was
situated in St. Joseph street, on the site now occupied by Messrs.
Ligget & Hamilton’s large dry goods store. Mr. D’Alton took a house in
a new portion of the city, and as they lived very quietly, receiving no
calls, except from business friends of Mr. D’Alton, the neighbors did
not trouble themselves much about them, or inquire concerning their
antecedents.

Although her husband did not trouble himself whether his wife was or
was not received into society, Mrs. D’Alton felt it very keenly. She had
not, like him, drank the cup of life’s pleasures till it tasted insipid
or even nauseous; on the contrary, she looked on the pomps and vanities
of society as only a woman can look on them, and now that she was
legally respectable, and rich enough to keep pace with even the most
fashionable of her neighbors, it made her very heart ache to think
that these scenes of brightness were closed to her as much as ever. She
thought of what she might have been had she not in her ambitious haste
gone off the right track; and, pained with bitter reflections, and with
no one to speak to or converse with (for her husband spent most of his
time at the club) she solaced herself, as others in her predicament have
done, with the cup of forgetfulness, sinking deeper and deeper at every
step, till the habit became confirmed.

Although Mrs. D’Alton had taken her husband into her confidence, and
told him truthfully her history, she had not sufficient strength of mind
to tell him how ignorant she really was, and that she could not even
read and write with accuracy. Her letters to her husband had been
written by her nursery-governess, engaged ostensibly to instruct the
children; but in reality to act as amanuensis for the lady of the house.
The young lady thus engaged was at first rather averse to signing her
mistress’ name to her letters without adding her own initials, but the
present of a handsome broach and earrings soon quieted her sensitive
conscience and she soon fell into the plan, not being unwilling to make
use of such a powerful lever for obtaining largesses from Mrs. D’Alton.
In time this young lady became so overbearing that her mistress fully
made up her mind to discharge her, but a summer trip to Portland being
then on the tapis, she allowed her to have her own way, as Mr. D’Alton
remained in Montreal, and would naturally expect letters from his wife
during her absence. She would have dismissed the governess and engaged
another, trusting to her own pleadings and the powerful appeals of her
purse to win her over, but the handwriting would not be the same, and
she would not for worlds have allowed her husband to think she had
deceived him.

The day came for their departure for Orchard Beach, where Mr. D’Alton
had taken a cottage for their use. The children were in great glee as
they anticipated surf bathing and digging in the sand, but Mrs. D’Alton
was moody and down-hearted, the exhilarating effects of a large potion
of brandy having worn off and a reaction set in; her husband, however,
attributed it to sorrow at her separation from him, and was rather
gratified to think she was so deeply affected.

They arrived at her destination in due course, and were comfortably
ensconced in the cosy little cottage. Miss Watson, the governess,
dressed herself up, and with the children departed for the promenade,
and Mrs. D’Alton was left to her own reflections. The thought of her
past career, of the opportunities gone for ever, and lastly of the
predicament she was now in, shunned by all respectable people, and
despised by her own paid servant, who felt her power, and was disposed
to wield it unmercifully. The brandy-bottle, her never-failing
companion, was by her side, and as she mused mopingly over her sins,
she took from time to time copious draughts of the potent spirits,
regardless of its power to do otherwise than to rob her of these racking
memories of the past. In about two hours the promenaders returned and
found her lying back speechless in her chair, the bottle and glass by
her side; her eyes rolled wildly as she gazed vacantly on her children,
but she was unable to utter a word.

Miss Watson became alarmed and summoned a doctor immediately, who, on
entering the room, perceived at once the cause of Mrs. D’Alton’s malady,
and ordered her to be conveyed to bed. In the morning she was a little
better, being able to speak; but she was still very much shaken,
and raved incoherently. Mr. D’Alton was telegraphed for, and came
immediately; but, being merely informed that his wife had had a fit, he
imagined her to be afflicted with hysteria; indeed, although he knew she
was fond of a glass of wine, and often joined him in partaking of brandy
and water, he had no idea that she imbibed to such an extent.

In a few days Mrs. D’Alton was able to go out again, and, as during her
husband’s stay at Orchard Beach she was particularly abstemious, she
was able to associate with the ladies in the hotel, and made several
acquaintances, who, seeing that she had the dress and manners of a lady,
interchanged calls with her and invited her to visit them in Montreal.
On her return to her home, however, these ladies received her but
coldly, and when she gave a large party, inviting all those whom she had
met at the seaside, “they all, with one accord, began to make excuse,”
 and at entertainment there was present, besides herself and the family,
only a sister of the governess, and one or two bachelor friends of Mr.
D’Alton. Dancing was of course out of the question, so they organized
two whist parties, and, with a little music, managed to drag along till
supper, which was served in Joyce’s best style, and looked unnecessarily
elaborate for the small number who were to partake of it.

Mrs. D’Alton was mortified; she had imagined that those people whom she
met at the seaside would have judged her on her merits, and would not
have taken the trouble to inquire concerning her antecedents. She did
not calculate that, what may be allowable at a summer resort, would not
be tolerated in Montreal society; moreover, that the tongue of slander
had been busily engaged in painting her even blacker than she really
was, so that these people, even if personally disposed to associate with
her, _dared_ not do so lest they might lose their own insecure foothold
on the ladder of social position. In moody silence she presided
throughout the entire evening; she was enraged at herself and at the
poor enslaved creatures who, though anxious to go and enjoy themselves
yet dared not infringe the rules laid down by society; and, as she drank
glass after glass of her husband’s famous Moselle, she became more and
more despondent.

About midnight Amy Watson, the sister of the nursery-governess, took
her departure, and Mr. D’Alton with his friends, went up to the billiard
room to enjoy themselves at their favorite game. It was near daylight
ere they grew tired of pocketing the ivory spheres, and left their host
to close the doors, and retire to his room. When he did so what a sight
met his gaze! There lay his wife in all the finery she had arrayed
herself to dazzle her fashionable acquaintances, _a speechless corpse_!
a brandy-bottle, nearly emptied, lay at her side, telling too plainly
what had been the cause of her untimely death. Her husband’s first
impulse was to ring the bell and send for a doctor, but, knowing the
scandal that would surely ensue, he quietly let himself out, and went
for Dr. Hickson, being determined not to give up hope till he had done
all that could possibly be done. The doctor on examining the body shook
his head ominously, confirming Mr. D’Alton in the belief that his wife
was no more; he considerately agreed to remain in the house, and not
to inform the servants for some time of the occurrence. The doctor’s
presence, of course, excited some alarm, and in a short time it was
known that Mrs. D’Alton was dangerously ill, the announcement of her
death being reserved for a time till all the traces of the recent
festivities were removed, and the house had resumed its normal
condition.

When the children heard of their mother’s death they rent the air
with their cries of anguish; even Miss Watson shed real tears, her
occupation, like that of Othello, being gone. Poor Mr. D’Alton was
almost beside himself. He had never loved another woman; and, though he
was not blind to his wife’s failings and shortcomings, he nevertheless
lamented the loss of one, who, whatever her faults, was true to him and
a good mother to his children.

In the meantime what had become of Cissie Wilson, Mrs. D’Alton’s elder
sister? She had endeavored to persuade Mrs. D’Alton to engage her as
governess to her children, but the latter, once married, refused to
hold any communication with her whatever. Miss Wilson then despairing
of finding a road to reform in Montreal, took her departure for Toronto,
taking a position as governess in one of the leading families there. On
hearing of her sister’s death she wrote to Mr. D’Alton, offering to take
charge of the children till he had time to make permanent arrangements
for their education. To this letter she received no reply, which nettled
her so much that she determined on a plot for wounding the pride of her
haughty brother-in-law. “Who is he,” she would exclaim, “that he should
dare to snub me?” “If I _have_ sinned, was _she_ not equally bad, and
is he not guilty _himself_?” “Never mind, Mr. D’Alton, I will have
my revenge some day.” She racked her brain to think of some means of
repaying him for his severity to her, but could think of nothing at the
time, and so resolved to wait and watch her opportunity.

It was some years before Miss Wilson had that opportunity for which her
heart so yearned, but come it did, surely enough, and she dealt to Mr.
D’Alton a blow so bitter that he never got over its effects.

Lillian, Mr. D’Alton’s eldest daughter had, after her mother’s death,
been sent to a fashionable school in Mansfield street, presided over by
the wife of one of our leading brokers. Here she made many friends, and
being known only as the beautiful and accomplished daughter of a rich
widower doing business in Montreal, and well known on the Exchange, she
was in time introduced into society, and became at one bound the belle
of the season.

At that time several British regiments occupied the Quebec Gate
barracks, and the officers were eagerly sought after by the party-giving
community, no ball being complete without at least two or three officers
in _full uniform_. Among the latter was a certain Captain Trevelyan, the
heir-apparent of an English nobleman, who was, of course _the_ eligible
young gentleman of the season. Most of the ladies openly courted Captain
Trevelyan and, figuratively speaking, laid themselves at his feet;
but Lillian D’Alton was too little versed in such matters to know the
triumph she had achieved in being sought after as a partner by the
much-admired Captain, and, when he asked her to dance although she
complied readily with his request, yet she carried herself with an air
so natural, and altogether so different from the time-worn belles he was
so accustomed to meet, that he engaged her for dance after dance, then
for supper, and, before the ball was concluded, he was deeply in love
with her, none the less because she was the only young lady in the room
who did not covet that distinction.

Although Lillian was but eighteen years of age, she could not but
perceive the marked attention paid to her by Captain Trevelyan, nor
was she blind to the glances of envious hatred darted at her from all
quarters. Her heart responded to the unspoken avowal of her partner, and
ere they parted that night they were one in heart and in thought, each
living only for and in the presence of the other.

Youthful love makes rapid progress. Ere many months had passed Lillian
D’Alton was the affianced bride of Captain Trevelyan, and their
approaching wedding was the one theme of conversation at balls, routes
or parties.

Here then was the opportunity longed for by Miss Wilson. She would
inform Captain Trevelyan and his friends concerning the D’Alton family,
and warn him to break off his engagement. With a refinement of cruelty
peculiar to women blinded with rage, she allowed the wedding day to be
fixed before she communicated with the bridegroom, and then sent him a
complete history of the family he was about to enter, informing him
that the lady he was about to marry was the illegitimate child of Mr.
D’Alton, and that in marrying her he would not only injure his own
prospects, but alienate himself completely from his family, bringing on
them both shame and discredit.

Captain Trevelyan read the letter with astonishment, but did not
believe one word it contained. His Lillian a bastard! why the thing was
preposterous. Her father was as well known on ‘Change as Rothschild
was in London. Her mother’s funeral had been attended by the wealth
and fashion of Montreal, and since that time Lillian had been the
acknowledged belle of the set commonly known as “the upper ten.” The
letter being written in rather extravagant terms, he imagined it to
contain the incoherent ravings of a maniac, and his first impulse was to
toss it aside. On the arrival of the English mail, however, he received
letters from his friends, couched in terms of the deepest anxiety,
urging him to sever all connection with the D’Alton family if he did
not wish to alienate himself completely from all his family and
friends. These letters led him to think more seriously concerning the
communication from Toronto, and being determined, come what might,
to know the worst at once, he started immediately for Mr. D’Alton’s
residence, only to find that the gentleman in question had just that
moment departed for his office.

Lillian was at home, however, and she rushed downstairs impetuously to
meet her affianced husband. He received her as usual, but there was
a cloud on his brow as he followed her into her boudoir, where they
frequently spent hours together. He questioned her concerning her aunt
and her relations generally, but Lillian knew little more than that
her aunt resided in Toronto, and was generally considered to be what is
called “flighty.”

This somewhat reassured Trevelyan, and he dismissed the subject for a
time from his mind. He determined, however, to clear the matter up, and
so in the evening he called to see Mr. D’Alton, requesting a few words
with him in private. The two men entered the study, and Trevelyan led
off by saying:--“I have received a strange communication from your
sister-in-law, Miss Wilson; from what Lillian has told me, I am aware
that she is a person of weak intellect, and her stories are not worthy
of credence, but I thought it due to you, nevertheless, to bring the
matter to your notice.”

At the mention of Miss Wilson’s name D’Alton turned deadly pale. He was
a bold man, and capable of carrying out a deep scheme, had he felt
so disposed; but this intimacy of Trevelyan with his daughter was the
result of no scheme, and he had for some years lived, with the rest of
his family, a blameless life, rejoicing in the fact that his neighbors
either did not know, or had forgotten, or overlooked his past career,
and were prepared to receive his children with open arms into society.
With bated breath he ran his eyes hastily over the letter held out to
him by Trevelyan, and in an instant he saw the whole situation. If he
could only have had time to consider the matter, he would probably have
taken the right course, come what might; but he had little time for
decision, as Trevelyan stood before him, eagerly expecting a reply. Mr.
D’Alton pictured to himself the state of affairs did he acknowledge the
truth of the accusation, and though loath to deceive the young man (whom
he already loved almost as dearly as his own son), he dared not ruin his
daughter’s prospects by an avowal. Pretending to read the letter once
more he gained a little time, and then, with consummate diplomacy,
endeavored to find out what Trevelyan thought. Looking up coolly, he
said--

“And do you believe all this, Trevelyan?”

Of course, Trevelyan _did not_ believe it, and was profuse in his
apologies, for having permitted himself to doubt for a moment that the
writer was bereft of reason. This confirmed Mr. D’Alton in his course
and he at once denounced his sister-in-law in no measured terms, vowing
to punish her for her irresponsible utterances. The news that Miss
Wilson had written to Captain Trevelyan’s friends in England made
D’Alton furious, and he swore a fearful oath that he would place her
where her ravings would harm no one but herself. All night long he
thought over schemes for getting rid of her, and at length he concocted
a plan which he speedily put into execution.

As was said before, Mrs. D’Alton and her sister were orphans and they
both left their adopted parents early in life, having lived under
assumed names for years, and severed all connection with their former
associates. During Mrs. D’Alton’s lifetime her sister was forbidden to
approach the house, and on the death of the former Miss Wilson was not
recognized by her brother-in-law. The children had never seen or known
their aunt, and the people with whom she had last resided in Montreal
(in the capacity of nursery-governess) had known her as Miss Rogers, and
had lately lost all trace of her whereabouts.

Taking the early train for Toronto, Mr. D’Alton took counsel of an
astute lawyer, and learned that, as events had been shapen, Miss Wilson
would have now great difficulty in proving her connection with the
D’Alton family, did he choose to deny it, and that the fact of her
having written such letters as those received by Trevelyan and his
family would be fair presumptive evidence that the woman was insane.

Carefully considering his position, D’Alton determined on his course of
proceeding. He was averse to a public prosecution, as many things, now
unknown or forgotten, might be brought to light, and yet he felt that
the woman must be effectually silenced by some means or other. Going to
her residence he boldly demanded an interview with her, and, producing
the letter to Trevelyan, asked if she had written it. Miss
Wilson laughed as she saw the effect of her shot, and exultantly
exclaimed:--“Of course I wrote it; who else _could_ have done it?”

“And are you aware that you are liable to be prosecuted for libel?”
 pursued D’Alton.

“It is no libel,” retorted she, fiercely; “you know it is true, or you
would not be here now.”

“Indeed! _can you prove it, then_?”

“I have no need to prove it to you. Your very facial expression
acknowledges it to be true.”

“Will that satisfy the jury?”

“What jury?”

“The jury who are to try you for a malicious libel!”

At this Cissie started, but recovering herself exclaimed: “_You_ dare
not sue me for libel. Your history would not stand repetition in court.”

“Who knows my history?”

“I do!”

“Indeed! WHO ARE YOU?”

The fierceness with which he said this made his sister-in-law quail. She
perceived that he was terribly in earnest as he repeated his question in
a tone very unusual with him, and she meekly replied:

“You know well enough who I am, your late wife’s sister.”

“My wife _had no sister_!”

The look he gave as he said this fairly frightened her. She had seen
a good deal of life, and had in her time met with all kinds of men and
women, but never till now did she fear either. She began to see that she
had roused a desperate man, and that, legally, she had no hold on him,
neither status in society; moreover that she had got entangled in the
meshes of her own net, and that only the dread of exposure would prevent
D’Alton from prosecuting her for libel. Not knowing what to do, she
remained mute, her eyes fixed firmly on the ground. At length Mr.
D’Alton broke the silence: “You have evidently had an object,” he said,
“in circulating these reports. If your object be to extort money out of
me, you will find it more to your interest to remain silent.” With these
words he drew from his pocket a roll of bank bills, and laid them on the
table near his companion; but she, growing livid with rage, refused to
touch them, promising to expose him and his family before all the world.

D’Alton had not calculated on this, and was for a time taken a little
aback. His last card, however, was not yet played; and, summoning all
his energies together, he braced himself for the enactment of that,
which under other circumstances, he would have suffered much rather than
become in any sense a party thereto. Addressing the lady once more he
said:--“What, then, was your object in writing these letters?”

“My object was _to disclose the truth_,” she cried, vehemently, “to
denounce you as a blackhearted villain, and to save an unsuspecting
youth from becoming the victim of your deep-laid schemes.”

D’Alton bit his lip with passion, but restrained himself. “And you do
all this solely from conscientious motives,” he said with a sneer.

“My conscience, like your own, Mr. D’Alton, is pretty well hardened. No;
I have no conscientious motives to impel me to show your true character
to the world; but revenge is sweet, and I have not forgotten the scorn
and contempt with which both you and your fashionable wife treated me
while I was in Montreal. _I_ was not good enough to touch the hem of
your garments, but _she_ was dressed up and paraded in the drawing-rooms
of those who did not know better than to admit her, and now her b----
daughter is to wed a scion of a noble house, while _I_ am not even
recognized. No, Robert D’Alton, you will not become respectable and
leave _me_ out in the cold, insulting and spurning me at every turn with
your petty offers of money. I have sworn to have my revenge, and by ----
now that the opportunity offers, I _will have it_, too!”

She had worked herself up to state of uncontrollable fury. Her eyes
rolled wildly, and she looked like one demented. This gave the devil
his opportunity, for D’Alton, who had been halting between two opinions,
came to a hasty conclusion, and bringing the interview to a close,
hurriedly left the house, his teeth firmly set, and a horrid glare in
his eyes. He walked rapidly down Yonge street and along the east end
of King street, then, hailing a cab, he directed the driver to travel
towards the west end, coming to a halt opposite the Lunatic Asylum.
Entering he enquired for Dr. Tuffnell, and was informed that he would
likely find that gentleman at his residence on Jarvis street. On
repairing thither he found the doctor at home, and, requesting a few
minutes’ private conversation, was soon closeted in the consultation
room. “I have long intended to see you,” Mr. D’Alton began, “about a
young lady who lived in our family some years ago in the capacity of
nursery-governess. She was always of a somewhat flighty disposition,
which we used to humour as best we could, and when she left us (at my
wife’s death) for Toronto, we fancied she had quite recovered, but it
seems she has been gradually growing worse, and she now continually
torments our friends and us with letters full of ridiculous flights of
fancy, which, though meaningless to those who understand how she has
been afflicted, might possibly cause serious trouble.”

“Has the young lady, then, no friends or relatives?”

“None, whatever. She was taken out of an orphan asylum by an aged
clergyman, now deceased, who adopted her, and since his death she has
supported herself by teaching. We consulted our physician about her
some time ago, when she imagined herself to be my wife, and ordered her
mistress down to the kitchen. He thought it would be advisable for her
to take another situation away from us till her health improved, as she
was continually fancying herself trampled upon by some member of the
family; we accordingly procured for her a situation in a friend’s house
in Montreal, but they in turn became frightened of her, and dismissed
her, which dismissal, strange to say, she attributed _to me_. She now
imagines herself to be my wife’s sister, and demands an entrance into my
house, denouncing me in the vilest terms, and writing scandalous letters
to all my acquaintances.”

“Are you sure she is insane?”

“Well, I have long tried to persuade myself that she is not, but
latterly she has grown so violent that I am afraid that what I said
years ago to my late wife in fun about her being demented was only
painfully true. If you would kindly visit her and give me your opinion
concerning her case, you would oblige me very much.”

“What does her present mistress say about her?”

“Oh she has only been there a short time and has not yet given an
exhibition of her oratorical powers. Still the lady who is a clergyman’s
widow, told me that she walks about her room in the middle of the night,
talking wildly to herself.”

Dr. Tuffnell had not time to visit Miss Wilson that morning, but he made
an appointment with Mr. D’Alton for the following day, and together they
went to the unfortunate girl’s residence. Arrived at the house they rang
the bell, and inquired for Mrs. Brookes, the mistress.

Mrs. Brookes was a middle-aged lady of a retiring disposition. Her
husband had died at an early age, leaving her to take care of three
young children. Her temporal wants however, were provided for, her
husband having been possessed of a handsome income independently of
his small salary. Dr. Tuffnell made inquiries concerning Miss Wilson’s
habits, and was informed that her actions were at times very peculiar,
that she had not gone to bed all the past night, but had stamped up and
down her room, talking as if to a second party. Mrs. Brookes was shocked
to hear that she had unwittingly engaged a mad woman to take charge of
her children, and suddenly recollected several extraordinary episodes
which, until that time, had never struck her forcibly.

It was arranged that the Doctor should see Miss Wilson and satisfy
himself concerning her affliction before any further steps were taken.
Accordingly Mrs. Brookes rang the bell and told the servant to summon
the governess.

Miss Wilson had not slept all night, and her eyes had a wild expression,
which heightened when she beheld Mr. D’Alton. The doctor, having
previously taken all that was told him for granted, made up his mind
at once that she was insane, and never reflected for a moment on the
possibility of some scheme being on foot to injure her. On entering the
room she laughed wildly and said--“So you have come back with your bag
of gold. I tell you it’s _trash_, sordid trash, not half so sweet as
REVENGE!”

Now as the doctor had heard nothing from either D’Alton or Mrs. Brookes
which he could in any way connect with this wild utterance; moreover,
as the young lady looked like a tigress, and walked fiercely up and down
the room, he became more than ever convinced that he had got a bad case
in hand and acted accordingly. Looking at D’Alton he shook his head,
which Mrs. Brookes perceiving, she shook her head in turn, and, taking
out her handkerchief, wept copiously. Dr. Tuffnell tried to soothe the
patient with gentle words, but she (mistaking him for a pettifogging
lawyer, whom D’Alton had engaged to bind her over to keep the peace)
cried out:

“Ah, yes! you want to quiet me, but _you can’t_ quiet me. I am like the
surging cataract, which, suppressed in one place bursts out again with
more fury in another. I have suffered too much to be tamed down by soft
and gilded promises. No, Robert D’Alton, you have started the mighty
avalanche and it is too late now to stop its progress.”

The doctor began to feel he had a desperate case in hand and tried to
quiet her, but the more he did so the worse she got till at last all
persons began to talk to her, receiving from the poor girl replies
altogether removed from the point at issue coupled with threats and
oaths and furious gesticulations. At length the doctor suggested, in a
whisper, the propriety of their departure, when they might consider what
was best to be done, but, on Mrs. Brookes protesting that she was afraid
to stay alone in the house with the maniac, Dr. Tuffnell dispatched
a note to the asylum, and in a short time two keepers arrived, and
proceeded to take Miss Wilson into their care till she should become
possessed of a sound mind.

There is no time at which a sane person looks so much like a maniac
as when trying to convince people of his sanity. The real lunatic will
cunningly hide his affliction from the most watchful, and is frequently
able to deceive those unaccustomed to deal with persons of unsound mind,
but the victim of persecution becomes wild with honest indignation,
and generally manages to convince even those who might be inclined to
believe him to be sane.

When the truth of her position began to dawn on Miss Wilson, she became
more frantic than ever. She raved at D’Alton and the doctor, tore with
her hands at the keepers, and abused Mrs. Brookes for standing tamely by
to see one of her own sex so ill-used. She roared so that two policemen
came rushing up to the steps to inquire what was the matter, but, seeing
Dr. Tuffnell, with whom they were well acquainted, they saluted him
respectfully and withdrew.

Miss Wilson was accordingly driven to the asylum and incarcerated till
she should come to her senses, and Mr. D’Alton, having made arrangements
for her safe-keeping returned to Montreal.

Shortly after her father’s return Lillian D’Alton was married to Captain
Trevelyan in Christ Church Cathedral. The wealth, beauty and fashion of
Montreal attended the wedding, and the costliest presents were displayed
on her father’s sideboard. The young couple departed for England
immediately, Trevelyan’s regiment having been ordered home, and the
bride was received into the first London circles.

Mr. D’Alton remained in Montreal where he still lives and moves in the
best society. What his private feelings are I cannot tell, but outwardly
all is serene, the only one besides myself who knows his family history
having long since passed away in solitary confinement.




CHAPTER IX.


A Tale of Two Cities

Among the many friends we made during our stay in Montreal, none were so
thoroughly beloved by myself and family as the Sinclairs. Mr. Sinclair
was an English artist who had settled in Canada some time previous to
our arrival, and, being generally well informed, as well as a shining
light in his own profession, he was made much of by the English
residents here, and had as pupils many of the wives and daughters of the
officers of the garrison, besides some of the more cultivated Canadians.
Mrs. Sinclair was a refined English lady of good family, and had several
children, mostly girls, who were greatly admired not only for their
beauty, but also for their many and various accomplishments. The
Sinclair girls were frequently at our house, being, in fact, looked upon
as members of our family, and no social gathering of ours was considered
complete without them.

In time Mr. Sinclair became tired of Montreal. Many of his patrons
left with their regiments for England, and he became weary of the
dull routine and scanty income which he saw was all he could ever look
forward to in Canada, so, breaking up his household, he departed for the
United States, and, having lived for a time in various cities, finally
settled in Boston, where he became quite successful, and soon obtained
an enviable reputation as a portrait painter.

Lulu Sinclair, the eldest of the girls, was a sprightly blonde of about
sixteen when her father left Montreal, and the family had not been
long in Boston before she became engaged as a teacher at one of the
conservatories, and a mutual attachment sprang up between the pair.
Miss Sinclair had already made her _début_ in Boston Music Hall as a
vocalist, and the pair were frequently engaged at the same concerts
and entertainments, so that the natural sequence was that they in time
became engaged, and afterwards--_married_!

“Nothing very mysterious in that,” I think I hear my fair reader say, a
little disappointed that I have not prepared a spicy bit of scandal for
her delectation; but as Balaam the Prophet could only speak as he
was impelled by the spirit, so likewise must I confine myself to
_the realities_ of the case, and I therefore make no apology for this
commonplace bit of history, but proceed with my story.

One evening Lulu made her appearance at our house, in Montreal,
accompanied by Mr. Hill, her husband. It seems that they were on a
concert tour, and were to give two concerts in Saint Patrick’s Hall,
which at that time stood on the corner of Craig street and Victoria
square, and, as we had often invited them to do so, they promised
to avail themselves of our hospitality during their stay, as their
engagement terminated with these concerts and they were anxious to take
a little rest before returning to Boston.

The children were delighted to have Mr. and Mrs. Hill in the house
with them; they had never met a _real live prima donna_ in private
life before, and they flaunted “Professor Hill” and “Mademoiselle Lulu
Sinclair” in the faces of their juvenile acquaintances, as if they
had been entertaining the Emperor of all the Russias and Her Imperial
Majesty the Empress.

Since the Sinclairs had left Montreal, the principal playmates of our
children had been the Bennetts, who lived in the adjoining street. Mr.
Bennett was a French-Canadian, with (as usual) a large family, and was
in comfortable circumstances, having a large retail grocery on Notre
Dame street. One evening, shortly after the arrival of Mr. Hill and
his wife, the former drew me aside and asked me if I knew a family in
Montreal named Bennett. I told him that I knew them intimately, that
they lived close at hand, and taking him to the window (it was late in
the spring) I showed him the children walking opposite hand in hand with
our own. He then intimated that he had something to tell me, and, taking
me aside into the adjoining room, he told me something which astonished
me as much as it will doubtless astonish the reader of these pages.

It seems that Mr. Bennett’s father was an American, who, in early life,
being settled in Montreal, became enamoured of a Canadian girl named
Beauchamp. Miss Beauchamp was young, pretty, and a Catholic. The first
two of these qualifications rather suited Mr. Bennett, and the third
did not in any way annoy him, he being (although a Protestant) a
liberal-minded man, and having the idea that thoughts and opinions could
not be forced, like sheep, to go in a particular track, but that
every one should be free to hold what convictions his reason dictated,
untrammelled by conventionality or creed of any kind. Miss Beauchamp
professed to be of a like mind, and agreed to allow him to educate the
boys (if any), while she would look after the female issue of their
marriage. With this ridiculous understanding they got married, and for
a time things went pleasantly along, Mrs. Bennett attending L’Eglise
St. Jacques regularly, not only without opposition from her husband but
sometimes even accompanied by him. He did not believe in the efficacy of
the service to save his soul, but he had sufficient common sense to know
that it could not harm him, or turn him one whit aside from what his
reason dictated; and neither did it, for at the end of two years he was
as greatly opposed to what he considered the errors of the Church of
Rome as ever he was, and though he attended L’Eglise St. Jacques almost
as regularly as St. George’s Church, of which he was a member, he went
there simply because he liked the society of his wife, and she believed
it to be necessary for her salvation.

In the course of time Mrs. Bennett gave birth to a boy, then two
girls, and afterwards another boy, all of whom, as children will, made
enquiries concerning whence they were and whither they were going, etc.
Mr. Bennett now began to see the folly he had been guilty of in making
the agreement mentioned above. If the Catholic religion were the true
and only faith, all his sons were on the high road to perdition; if, as
he was inclined to think, the Protestant religion were nearer the mark,
then what was to become of the girls? What a pleasant prospect was
there before him! His family torn and divided by the most bitter of all
dissentions, religious disputes (or rather _irreligious_ disputes about
matters of doctrine), and his life and those of all his family rendered
miserable. This was certainly bad enough in its way, but something more
annoying was in store for him. He one day discovered that not only were
the girls baptized in the Romish faith, but that the _boys also_ were
surreptitiously baptized by the parish priest, so that he alone of all
the family remained a Protestant, and a poor one at that. Every day
things got more and more complicated, and his wife at last openly avowed
that _all_ the children were to be Roman Catholics, and advised him also
to flee from the wrath to come and take refuge in the arms of the true
church.

Bennett was not exactly a bigot, but, if not a Protestant, he was
certainly not going to become a Roman Catholic. Cursing himself bitterly
for his folly, he sought to make matters better; but that, so far as
changing the religion or creed of his family went, was altogether beyond
his power. He had his choice between living an alien and a heretic,
despised by his own family; and joining a church whose teachings he
considered puerile and inefficacious, and the atmosphere of which was
now exceedingly disagreeable to him. His wife showed herself so much
more devoted to the church than to her husband, that his love for her
soon faded away, and he made a fearful resolve to leave Montreal, and
never see his wife or children more. Accordingly one evening, instead
of returning as usual from his store, he left for parts unknown, leaving
his wife and children almost penniless behind.

Mrs. Bennett, though acting as she did, loved her husband dearly. It was
this very love for him which made her so anxious for him to leave what
she considered the false religion of the Church of England for the pure
and unadulterated system of the Church of Rome. She cried after him as
if her heart would break, and sent after him in all directions. All her
efforts, however, were in vain, no trace of her husband being found.
The children were left at school till they were in time old enough to be
apprenticed to a trade or business, Mrs. Bennett struggling bravely, as
only a woman can do, to keep their heads above water. When William, the
eldest boy, was about fourteen, he was placed in the well-known house
of Messrs. Mockridge & Co., dry goods merchants, and in course of time
became thoroughly conversant with the business. He had not only
been able to help his mother to maintain the family, but had put by
sufficient to start a small business for himself. Before deciding on
the latter, however, he determined to visit Boston, to get a few ideas
connected with the business, and, while there, came across his father,
who had married again under the name of Hill, his wife being a young
American of good family, and the mother of the gentleman from whom I
learnt this story.

William Bennett reproached his father with his misconduct, and insisted
on his leaving his American wife. Bennett the elder was very much averse
to doing so, but his son would leave him no alternative, threatening him
with exposure and criminal action should he decline. The old man tried
to temporize, and persuaded William to visit and dine with his family,
introducing him as a business friend from Montreal.

Whatever Anti-Spiritualists may say to the contrary, there are
undoubtedly influences other than material which affect us at times, and
give us mysterious intimations of events happening or about to happen.
Both Mrs. Hill and her children had a presentiment of some impending
calamity, and, although they had not the faintest suspicion of the real
state of affairs, they did not look on William Bennett as they would
have done on any other person casually introduced into their household.
A damper seemed to have been placed on all their spirits, and the flow
of conversation was sluggish and dull.

After dinner they endeavored to organize an impromptu card-party, but
that, also, was a failure; and, although, as a rule, they had a
little music after dinner, on this particular evening each one seemed
indisposed to break the monotony.

About ten o’clock William left for his hotel, having first made an
appointment with his father for the following morning. When they
met William returned to the subject of their previous discourse, and
insisted on his father returning with him to Montreal. The old man vowed
that, come what might, he would never go back to his “priest-ridden
family” as he chose to designate his wife and children. The battle waxed
fast and furious, till at last William exclaimed with an oath: “By ----
you shall leave your Yankee mistress, then; _she_ shall suffer what _my
mother_ suffered;” and with oaths and threatenings he hounded his father
out of Boston, determined that Mrs. Hill should not (innocent though she
was) enjoy the happy home which was denied to his mother.

When Mrs. Hill learned the truth (which she did from a letter sent her
from Montreal) she nearly lost her reason. Her case was even worse than
that of Bennett’s first wife; because, whereas the latter could at least
seek her husband, and live in the hope of one day finding him again, the
former could not, even did she discover him, claim him as her own.

Mr. Hill’s visit to Montreal, then, though ostensibly made for
professional pursuits was, in reality to find out something concerning
his father’s whereabouts, and other matters connected with his
quasi-relations. It was strange that he should have come to me for
information without being at all aware of our intimacy with the Bennett
family, indeed, while he was relating his story Amelia Bennett, his
brother’s eldest child, came running in for something or another, and
I at once saw a resemblance between the two, not only in personal
appearance, but also in manners and actions.

The next day Mr. Hill, leaving his wife to the care of our family (who
had undertaken to show her “the lions”) went forth on his expedition
in search of his father. He had obtained from me his brother’s business
address, and going to the office unannounced was immediately recognized
by him, although they had only met once before, and that a considerable
time previously. On explaining the object of his visit, Hall was very
coldly received and informed that Bennett the elder had left Montreal
for New York some years previously and had not since been heard of. Mr.
Hill pretended to believe the story, but secretly determined to keep a
watch on his half-brother as he felt certain that the latter was still
in communication with his father. He accordingly made arrangements to
stay at my house, and as the Bennetts were constantly coming and going
he was sure that in a short time he would learn more concerning him of
whom he was in search.

One afternoon we were seated round the parlor fire, discussing the usual
after-dinner topics, when Mrs. William Bennett dropped in to have a
friendly chat. She disclosed the fact that her husband was going to
visit a superannuated employee in the nunnery, which he usually did
on the first of each month, and that she did not see what reason her
husband had to support forever all his broken-down employees. At the
first word, Hill listened breathlessly, and when Mrs. Bennett said that
she had just left her husband dressing, he quickly, but quietly, left
the room. In an instant he was opposite Bennett’s house, and as soon as
he noticed the bedroom light extinguished (for it was already dark),
he drew back into a shadowed corner till he saw Bennett emerge from
the doorway and walk rapidly down the street. Hill followed at a safe
distance, but soon he saw his brother hail a passing sleigh, and,
entering it, order the driver to take him somewhere; the name of the
street, however, he failed to hear, and he felt chagrined to see the
neighboring cab-stand completely deserted. “Now or never,” he thought,
“am I to attain the object of my visit,” and he dashed madly along the
street after the vehicle which was travelling at the rate of ten miles
an hour; several times he passed a cab-stand and would fain have taken
a fresh horse in pursuit, but he was afraid that while doing so he might
lose sight of the sleigh he had followed so far; or confound it with
another vehicle, for they were now passing through the centre of the
city towards the west end of St. Antoine street.

Past terrace after terrace they flew, till Mr. Hill was nearly faint and
breathless, when a sudden turn to the right brought them to the foot of
a hill, now Guy street, up which the carter walked his horse, and gave
the half dead pedestrian time to recover his breath. When they had
proceeded about a quarter of a mile up the hill, the carter drew up at
the Nunnery on the left side of the road, and Mr. Bennett, alighting,
rang the bell. A sliding panel was immediately pushed aside, and a
hooded sister held a few moments conversation with the visitor, on which
the door was opened, and he was admitted. Hill, who had been standing in
the shadow of the porch, entered unnoticed at his brother’s heels, the
janitor being under the impression that they had come in the sleigh
together. Walking along a dark corridor they came to a stairway, down
which their guide preceded them into the basement; here Hill took a
favorable opportunity to turn aside, still keeping his eye on the others
till they arrived at the end of the passage and entered a large room
where several old men were congregated, some chatting in groups, others
smoking or reading lazily. In one of these, with emotions which cannot
be described, Hill recognized his father from whom he had so long been
separated. His first impulse was to rush boldly in and make himself
known, but, the first transport over, his American caution prevailed,
and he slipped down another passage which commanded a view of the
staircase, and watched from his point of vantage the many persons
returning from visiting their friends. He felt relieved when he saw
Bennett take his departure, and with one bound he rushed into the middle
of the room where the old man was, and, throwing himself round his
father’s neck, wept like a child. The old man did not recognize him at
first, but when he did he went into hysterics, so great was the shock
to his nervous system. Never was there such a commotion in the quiet
Nunnery, and the inmates gathered round in excited groups to listen to
Hill’s story. He told them that his father had left Boston some years
before, and, becoming unable to support himself, had been placed by a
heartless elder brother in the cold confines of the Nunnery, although
the younger members of the family were both willing and anxious to
support their aged parent. There being no reason why the old man should
not leave the institution if so inclined, the Superior allowed him,
after some hesitation, to take his departure, first receiving the
grateful thanks both of himself and of his son for her kind and
fostering care. Hill left a letter for his brother, informing him that,
his father being willing, he had taken him away from the Nunnery, and
that as they evidently did not want to keep him with their families, he
was about to take him to live with _his_.

Bennett was furious when he received the letter, but, as Mrs. Hill was
now no more, and no threats or exposures of any kind could induce young
Hill and his father to separate, he allowed them to go their way in
peace.

A few years after these occurrences Mr. Hill received an appointment in
Montreal.

Bennett and he sometimes meet in the street, but give no signs of
recognition. The old man is still living, seldom going beyond the
portals of his son’s house and passing most of his time in moody
meditation on the past. Let us hope that a heartfelt repentance may in
some measure atone for his past weaknesses.




CHAPTER X.


A Blighted Life.

Amongst the many orthodox business men of Montreal, none were more
highly esteemed than Mr. Rogers, Manager of the ---- Bank. He was what
is generally considered a shrewd business man, methodical and precise in
all his relations, whether commercial, domestic or ecclesiastical. I say
ecclesiastical, because the worthy gentleman was one of the pillars
of the church, having held the office of Elder for several years. Mr.
Rogers had several children, most of whom he trained in the way in which
they should go, but Jack, his eldest son, was incorrigible, and resisted
all attempts to keep him under control. On Sunday mornings the family
were usually marshalled in the dining-room, and marched off to church,
but Master Jack frequently put in an excuse,--he had a bad cold, or a
sprained ankle, or some other ailment which precluded the possibility
of his attending. No sooner were the family outside the garden gate,
however, than the poor boy with the sprained ankle would perform a _pas
seul_ on the hearthrug, or, in spite of a cold which prevented his going
out of doors, would shout “The old log cabin” with an excellent tone and
remarkable vigor of lung; then, returning to his room, he would take
a French novel from its hiding place under his pillow, and, lighting
a fragrant Havana, would devote the morning to “the improvement of his
mind,” as he called it.

Mrs. Rogers employed three servants besides a coachman: a cook,
a housemaid, and a tablemaid. The latter was a young and
attractive-looking girl from Glengarry, Ontar

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