shone last night, and how peaceful and lovely everything looked. As I
was returning to my lodgings, rather later than usual, I passed
through a lane, which shortened the distance, though the walk itself
was rough and unpleasant. As I was indulging in my old habit of
building castles by the moonlight, I heard the most piercing shrieks
issuing from a low building to which I was directly opposite. There
must be murder going on, thought I, and like the giant, I imagined I
could 'smell the blood of an Englishman.' I rushed to the door, almost
shook it from its hinges in opening it, and found myself in the
narrow, dark passage--but, guided by the cries, I soon reached another
door, which I opened with as little ceremony, and what do you think I
saw?"
"Were they killing the poor little girl?" cried Rosamond, drawing a
long breath, her eyes growing larger and darker.
"You shall hear. In the centre of the room, there was a large,
iron-framed woman, with her right hand extended, brandishing a
leathern thong over the head of a pale, shrinking girl, whom she
grasped with her left hand, and from whose bare shoulders the blood
was oozing through grooves that thong had cut. You may well start and
shudder, for a more hideous spectacle never met the eye. She was just
in the act of inflicting another lash, when I arrested her arm with a
force which must have made it ache to the marrow of the bones, and
caused her involuntarily to loosen her hold of her victim, who fell
exhausted to the floor. The woman turned on me, with the fury of a
wolf interrupted in its bloody banquet."
"Did she look like the picture of the wolf in little _Red Riding
Hood_?" asked Rosamond.
"Yes, a most striking resemblance. Her cap was blown back to the crown
of her head by the barbarous exercise in which she had been engaged,
her tongue actually protruded from her mouth, in the impotence of her
rage, and her hard, dull-coloured eyes glowed like red-hot stones in
their deep sockets."
"'What do you want?' cried she, in a voice between a growl and a
scream--'and who are you, and what is your business? You had better
take care, or I'll make your back smart, in spite of your fine coat.'
"I could not help smiling at the idea of being whipped by a woman, but
I answered as sternly as possible--'I want humanity, for I am a man.
My business is to snatch this child from your clutches, and to give
you up to the city authorities for disturbing the public peace.'
"'It is her fault, not mine,' replied she, a little intimidated by my
threat--'she always screams and hollows when I whip her, as if I were
murdering her, if I but scratch her skin. I gave her a task to do, and
told her if she did not do it I would whip her--a good-for-nothing,
lazy thing!--mope, mope from morning to night, nothing but mope and
fret, while I'm drudging like a slave. I'm not going to support her
any longer, if I have to turn her out of doors. She thinks because her
mother happened to die here, I must give her a home, forsooth, and she
do nothing to pay for it, the ungrateful hussy!'"
"Oh! don't tell any more about that horrid old woman," interrupted
Rosamond--"I want to hear about the little girl. What did she do?"
"Why, she wept and sobbed, and said she did all she could, but that
she was sick and weak, and she wished she was in the grave, by her
poor mother's side, for there was nobody in the world to take care of
her, and she knew not what would become of her. I told her impulsively
that _I_ would see she was taken care of, and if that vile woman but
lifted her finger against her once more, she should rue it to her
heart's core."
"There, Cecil, you have made a rhyme, so you must wish before you
speak again," said Rosamond, laughing.
"Well, I wish that poor, desolate child had a home like this, and a
mother like Mrs. Clifford, and a companion like Rosamond--or I wish
that I had a kind mother and sister, to whose care I could intrust
her, or a sweet gentle wife--and it is the first time in my life I
ever breathed that wish--who would be willing to protect and cherish
her for my sake."
"Is she a pretty child?" interrogated Mrs. Clifford, feelings best
known to herself prompting the question.
"Yes!" repeated Rosamond, eagerly, stealing a look in the glass at her
own bright eyes, fair complexion, and curling locks--"is she pretty,
and was she dressed nice?"
"No!" answered Cecil, "the only emotion she could excite is that of
the deepest pity. She is thin to emaciation, sallow to cadaverousness,
and her eyes occupy the greatest portion of her face, they look so
large and hollow and wild. She might sit for a miniature
representation of famine, disease, or woe. There is something about
her, however, that speaks of gentle blood and early gentle breeding.
Her name at least is aristocratic, and bespeaks a French
extraction--Eugenia St. Clair."
Rosamond was delighted with the name, and wondered how she could help
being pretty with such a beautiful name.
"Poor child!" said Mrs. Clifford, "it is a pity she is not handsome,
it would add so much to the romance of the adventure."
"She is helpless and oppressed," cried Cecil warmly, "and if she had
the beauty of a cherub her claims would not plead more eloquently than
they do in my heart. I should think I were guilty of murder, if I left
her in the hands of that virago. It is true I put a _douceur_ in her
hand, terrifying her at the same time with the threatenings of the
law, but this will only purchase the child's security for a short
time. I made a vow to myself, when she clung to me convulsively, as I
attempted to leave her, that I would place her in some situation where
she could find kindness and protection, till fitting arrangements can
be made for her education."
"You are indeed romantic," said Mrs. Clifford, seriously, "and know
not what you may entail upon yourself."
"I am sorry if you think me so," said Cecil, with a look of
mortification and disappointment--"I see I have as usual drawn too
hasty conclusions. You have been so very kind to me, so kind as to
make me forget in your household the absence of domestic ties. I dared
to hope you would assist me in my design, and perhaps receive for a
little while, under your own roof, this neglected child of orphanage
and want. I have no other friend of whom I could ask a similar favour,
and if I find I am presuming too much on you, I believe I must try to
fall in love and get married, so that I can take my protegée to a home
of my own."
Mrs. Clifford had not the most distant idea of permitting him to do so
preposterous a thing, for she had long since appropriated him to
Rosamond, whom as a child he now petted and caressed, and whom, if he
continued as he now was, fancy free, as a woman he must inevitably
love. When he first mentioned the girl, and expressed such a strong
interest in her behalf, she began to tremble in anticipation, fearing
a future rival in her views; but the lean, sallow face, half eyes and
half bone, just delineated, tranquillized her fears, and as her fears
subsided, her pity strengthened. And Rosamond, though too young to
enter into her mother's speculations, felt her sympathy increased
tenfold since she had learned that nature had gone hand in hand with
fortune, and been equally niggard of her boons. She was unfortunately
an only child, and accustomed to be an object of exclusive attention
in the household, from her idolizing mother down to the lowest menial.
The guests too easily understood the way to Mrs. Clifford's heart, and
as Rosamond was pretty and sprightly, they derived amusement from her
little airs and graces. But what flattered her vanity and elated her
pride more than anything else, Cecil Dormer, so distinguished for
wealth and accomplishments, so courted and admired, seemed to prefer
her company to the society of grown ladies, who had often declared
themselves jealous of her, and threatened, when she was a few years
older, to shut her up in some convent or cell. Thus imperceptibly
acquiring an exaggerated idea of her own consequence, and believing
the love and admiration of all her inalienable right, had Cecil
represented the orphan Eugenia as beautiful and charming, it is more
than probable she would have regarded her as a dreaded encroacher on
boundaries which nature had prescribed and fortune guarded--but for
the ugly Eugenia all her sympathies were enlisted, and she pleaded her
mother so warmly to bring her there directly, and take her away from
that dreadful woman _for good and all_, that Cecil was delighted with
her sensibility and benevolence, and rejoiced in such a juvenile
coadjutor.
The next morning Mrs. Clifford accompanied Dormer to Mrs. Grundy's,
the woman of the leathern thong, of whom she requested the history of
Eugenia. Mrs. Grundy was sullen, and but little disposed to be
communicative. She declared she knew nothing about her mother, only
that she came there as a boarder, with barely sufficient to pay the
expenses of her lodgings; that she fell sick soon after, and died,
leaving the little girl on her hands, with nothing in the world but a
grand name for her support. She expressed no gratitude or pleasure at
the prospect of being released from the burthen under which she
groaned, but grumbled about her own hard lot, insinuating that
idleness and ingratitude were always sure to be rewarded. Eugenia's
appearance was a living commentary on the truth of Dormer's story. Her
neck and shoulders were streaked with swollen and livid lines, and her
large, blood-shot eyes spoke of repressed and unutterable anguish.
When told of the new home to which she was to be transferred, that she
was to be placed by Dormer under the protection of Mrs. Clifford, and
that if she were a good girl, and merited such advantages, she should
be sent to school, and be fitted for a respectable station in
society--she stood like one bewildered, as if awaking from a dream.
Then, after taking in the truth of her position, she turned towards
Dormer with wonderful quickness and even grace of motion, and clasping
her hands together, attempted to speak, but burst into a passionate
fit of weeping.
"There!" cried Mrs. Grundy, "you see what an ungrateful cretur she is.
Do what you will for her, she does nothing but cry. Well, all I hope,
you'll not be sick of your bargain, and be imposing her on me, before
the week comes round again. But I give you warning, when once she gets
out of my doors, she never darkens them a second time."
Dormer cast upon her a withering look, but, disdaining to reply to
mere vulgarity and insolence, he took the hand of the sobbing child,
and motioning to Mrs. Clifford, they left the room, while Mrs.
Grundy's voice, keeping up a deep thorough bass, followed them till
the door of the carriage was closed and the rumbling of the wheels
drowned accents which certainly "by distance were made more sweet."
Eugenia had not been an hour under the roof of Mrs. Clifford, before a
complete transformation was effected, by the supervising care of the
proud and busy Rosamond. Her waiting-maid was put in active
employment, in combing, brushing, and perfuming Eugenia's neglected
hair, her wardrobe was ransacked to supply her fitting apparel, her
mother's medicine chest was opened to furnish a healing liniment for
her lacerated neck, which was afterwards covered by a neat muslin
apron.
"Now look at yourself in the glass," said Rosamond, leading her to a
large mirror, which reflected the figure at full length; "don't you
look nice?"
Eugenia cast one glance, then turned away with a deep sigh. The
contrast of her own tawny visage and meagre limbs with the fair,
bright, round, joyous face and glowing lineaments of Rosamond, was too
painful; but Rosamond loved to linger where a comparison so favourable
to herself could be drawn, and her kind feelings to Eugenia rose in
proportion to the self-complacency of which she was the cause.
It was a happy little circle which met that evening around Mrs.
Clifford's table. Mrs. Clifford was happy in the new claim she had
acquired over Cecil Dormer, and the probable influence it might exert
on her future plans. Rosamond was happy in enacting the character of
Lady Bountiful, and being praised by Cecil Dormer; and Cecil himself
was happy in the consciousness of having performed a benevolent
action. Eugenia's spirits had been so crushed by sorrow and
unkindness, it seemed as if their elastic principle were destroyed.
She was gentle, but passive, and appeared oppressed by the strangeness
of her situation. Yet, as she expressed no vulgar amazement at the
elegancies that surrounded her, and had evidently been taught the
courtesies of society, Mrs. Clifford became convinced that Dormer was
right in his belief that she was of gentle blood, and the fear that
Rosamond's manners might be injured by contact with an unpolished
plebeian subsided. When Eugenia was somewhat accustomed to her new
situation, Mrs. Clifford questioned her minutely with regard to her
parentage and the peculiar circumstances of her mother's death. She
gathered from her broken and timid answers, that her father was
wealthy, and that the first years of her life were passed in
affluence; that as she grew older her mother seemed unhappy and her
father stern and gloomy, why she could not tell; that one night,
during her father's absence, her mother had left her home, accompanied
by herself and one servant girl, and taken passage in a steamboat for
that city. They boarded in obscure lodgings, never went abroad, or
received visiters at home. Her mother grew paler and sadder. At length
the servant girl, who seemed greatly attached to them, died. Then she
described her mother as being much distressed for money to pay her
board, being obliged to part with her watch and jewels, and when these
resources failed, thankful to obtain sewing from her landlady, or,
through her, from others. As they became more wretched and helpless,
they were compelled to go from house to house, where her mother could
find employment, till she was taken sick at Mrs. Grundy's, and never
lifted her head again from the pillow so grudgingly supplied. A
diamond ring, the most valued and carefully preserved of all her
jewels, procured for her the sad privilege of dying there. Over her
consequent sufferings Eugenia only wept, and on this subject Mrs.
Clifford had no curiosity.
It was about six years after these events, that Cecil Dormer again was
seated on the sofa in Mrs. Clifford's drawing-room, but Rosamond no
longer sat upon his knee. The rosy-cheeked child, with short curling
hair, short frock, and ruffled pantalettes, had disappeared, and, in
her stead, a maiden with longer and more closely fitting robes,
smoother and darker hair, and cheeks of paler and more mutable roses.
Cecil was unchanged in face, but there was that in his air and manner
which spoke a higher degree of elegance and fashion, and a deeper
acquaintance with the world. He had passed several years at Paris.
Rosamond had been in the mean time at a distant boarding-school, where
Eugenia still remained.
"What are you going to do with Eugenia," asked Mrs. Clifford, "when
she returns? Will you not find a young female protegée rather an
embarrassing appendage to a bachelor's establishment?"
"I have just been thinking of the same thing," replied Cecil. "I
believe I must still encroach on your kindness as I was wont to do in
former days, and request you to receive her under your protection,
till some permanent arrangement can be made for her home."
"That permanent arrangement must be your own marriage, I should
presume," said Mrs. Clifford; "and indeed, Cecil, I wonder that with
your fortune and rare endowments, you do not think seriously of
assuming the responsibility of a household."
"What! the sensible Benedict a married man?" cried Cecil, with a
theatrical start. "I shall lose all my consequence in society--I shall
dwindle down into complete insignificance. No--I am not quite old
enough to be married yet. I must act, too, as protector and elder
brother to Rosamond, on her entrance into the world, an office which I
promised to perform, when I dandled her a child in my arms."
"I am sure Rosamond would not wish to interfere with your personal
arrangements," replied Mrs. Clifford, in a tone of pique--she was
vexed and astonished at Cecil's coldness and indifference. She could
not imagine the stoicism which could resist the influence of
Rosamond's blooming beauty. She had looked forward to their meeting,
after an absence of years, as the moment which should realize her
long-cherished hopes, and nothing could be more provoking than the
nonchalance of Cecil, unless it was the warm interest he manifested in
everything respecting Eugenia.
"No, indeed," said Rosamond, laughing, "I willingly relinquish every
claim on your protection, for Eugenia's sake. Perhaps some one else
will take pity on my forlorn condition, and volunteer as my champion."
Rosamond laughed, but her voice was unsteady, and a bright blush
suffused her cheek.
Cecil noticed the vibration of her voice, and the sudden crimson
rushing even to her temples. Her emotion surprised--interested
him--was it possible, his marriage was an event capable of awakening
such visible agitation? He looked at her more intently. Sensibility
had added wonderful charms to her features. His vanity was flattered.
He had been much admired in the world, and the language of adulation
was familiar to his ear. But here was a young girl, in all the
freshness and purity of life's vernal season, incapable of artifice,
unpractised in the blandishments of society, one too whom he had known
and loved as a beautiful child, and caressed with the familiarity of a
brother, who was paying him an involuntary homage, as unexpected as it
was fascinating. It was surprising what a long train of images swept
over his mind, rapid and dazzling as lightning, called up by that deep
maiden blush. How delightful it would be to secure the possession of a
heart which had never yet known the pulsations of passion, whose
master chords were waiting the magic of his touch to respond the deep
music of feeling and love! How happy Eugenia would be in the constant
companionship of her juvenile benefactress, her schoolmate and friend!
Mrs. Clifford, too, had always shown him the tenderness of a mother,
and was so interested in his future establishment. Strange, what
slight circumstances sometimes decide the most solemn, the most
important events of life! The opportune blush of Rosamond sealed her
own destiny, and that of Cecil Dormer. In less than one month the
"sensible Benedict" was indeed a married man, the husband of the young
and happy Rosamond. Seldom indeed was there a prouder and happier
bride--ambition, pride, vanity, love--all were gratified, and could
she have purchased the lease of immortality on earth, she would have
asked no other heaven. But, even in the fulness of love's silver
honeymoon, a dark cloud rose. The mother, who had lived but for her,
and who was basking in the blaze of her daughter's prosperity, without
one thought beyond it, was stricken by a sudden and fatal disease, and
Rosamond's bridal paraphernalia was changed to the garments of
mourning. It was her first felt misfortune, for her father died in her
infancy; and the blow was terrible. At any other time it would have
been so, but now this sudden and startling proof of mortality, in the
morn of her wedded felicity, was chill and awful. Still there was a
consolation in the sympathy of Cecil, that disarmed sorrow of its
keenest pang, and there were moments, when she felt it even a joy to
weep, since her tears were shed on the bosom of a husband so
passionately loved. The arrival of Eugenia, a few weeks after this
melancholy event, turned her feelings into a new channel. Cecil had
often asked of her a description of Eugenia, whose letters, breathing
so eloquently of gratitude and affection, and so indicative of
enthusiasm and refinement of character, had been a source of pleasure
and pride to him. "If her person has improved only half as much as her
mind," he would say, "she cannot be ugly." Rosamond, who had been her
daily associate, was hardly sensible of the gradual transformation
that was going on in her external appearance. The strength of her
first impression remained, and whenever she thought of Eugenia, she
remembered her as she stood, pale and hollow-eyed, by her side,
before the mirror, which gave back the blooming image of her own
juvenile beauty. Still, though she felt her immeasurable superiority
to this poor, dependent girl, she was agitated at her coming, and
regretted the commanding claims she had on her husband's kindness and
protection.
"Can this indeed be Eugenia?" exclaimed Cecil, in a tone of delighted
surprise, when, unbonneted and unshawled, she stood before him,
tearful, smiling, and agitated. "Rosamond, are we not deceived? Tell
me, can this indeed be our Eugenia?"
"It is indeed that Eugenia whom your bounty has cherished, the child
whom you"--Eugenia paused in unconquerable emotion, and clasped her
hands together with characteristic fervour and grace. Cecil was deeply
affected. He recollected the little girl whose emaciated features told
a tale of such unutterable woe, whose shoulders were furrowed with
bleeding streaks, whose cries of agony had pierced the silence of his
evening walk. He contrasted the image drawn on his remembrance, with
the figure of exquisite symmetry, the face moulded into the softness
of feminine loveliness, the eyes of such rare beauty and lustre, that
they actually illuminated her whole countenance. His heart swelled
with the consciousness of rewarded benevolence, it softened into
tenderness towards every human being, and overflowed with a love for
Rosamond, such as he had never felt before. So true it is that the
exercise of every kind and generous affection increases the soul's
capacities for loving, instead of draining and impoverishing them.
"You must henceforth be sisters," said he, taking a hand of each, and
seating himself between them. "I need not tell you to love each other
as such. I am sure that injunction is unnecessary. But there is one
task I must impose upon you, Rosamond. You must teach Eugenia to look
upon me as a brother, a friend, not as a benefactor, for I feel repaid
a thousand times over, for all I have done for her, in the happiness
of this moment. Let the idea of obligation be banished for ever, and
we can be the happiest trio in the universe, bound together by a
threefold and indissoluble cord."