God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. Sterne.
Thank God, that yet I live.
In tender mercy, heeding not the prayer
I boldly uttered, in my first despair,
He would not rashly give
The punishment an erring spirit braved.
From sudden death, in kindness. I was saved.
It was a fearful thought
That this fair earth had not one pleasure left.
I was at once of sight and hope bereft.
My soul was not yet taught
To bow submissive to the sudden stroke;
Its crushing weight my heart had well nigh broke.
Words are not that can tell
The horrid thoughts that burned upon my brain—
That came and went with madness still the same—
A black and icy spell
That froze my life blood, stopped my fluttering breath,
Was laid upon me—even “_life in death_.”
Long weary months crept by,
And I refused all comfort, turned aside
Wishing that in my weakness I had died.
I uttered no reply,
But without ceasing wept, and moaned, and prayed
The hand of death no longer might be stayed.
I shunned the gaze of all.
I knew that pity dwelt in every look.
Pity e’en then my proud breast could not brook,
Though darkness as a pall
Circled me round, each mournful eye _I felt_
That for a moment on my features dwelt.
You, dearest mother, know
I shrank in sullenness from your caress.
Even _your_ kisses added to distress,
For burning tears would flow
As you bent o’er me, whispering “be calm,
He who hath wounded holds for thee a balm.”
He did not seem a friend.
I deemed in wrath the sudden blow was sent
From a strong arm that never might relent.
That pain alone would end
With life, for, mother, then it seemed to me
That long, and dreamless, would death’s slumber be.
That blessed illness came.
My weakened pulse now bounded wild and strong,
While soon a raging fever burned along
My worn, exhausted frame.
And for the time all knowledge passed away.
It mattered not that hidden was the day.
—
The odor of sweet flowers
Came stealing through the casement when I woke;
When the wild fever spell at last was broke.
And yet for many hours
I laid in dreamy stillness, till your tone
Called back the life that seemed forever flown.
You, mother, knelt in prayer.
While one dear hand was resting on my head,
With sobbing voice, how fervently you plead
For a strong heart, to bear
The parting which you feared—“Or, if she live,
Comfort, oh, Father! to the stricken give.
“Take from her wandering mind
The heavy load which it so long hath borne,
Which even unto death her frame hath worn.
Let her in mercy find
_That though the Earth she may no longer see,_
_Her spirit still can look to Heaven and Thee_.”
A low sob from me stole.
A moment more—your arms about me wound—
My head upon your breast a pillow found.
And through my weary soul
A holy calm came stealing from on high.
Your prayer was answered—I was not to die.
Then when the bell’s faint chime
Came floating gently on the burdened air,
My heart went up to God in fervent prayer.
And, mother, from that time
My wild thoughts left me—hope returned once more—
I felt that happiness was yet in store.
Daily new strength was given.
For the first time, since darkness on me fell,
I passed with more of joy than words can tell
Under the free blue Heaven.
I bathed my brow in the cool gushing spring—
How much of life those bright drops seemed to bring.
I crushed the dewy leaves
Of the pale violets, and drank their breath—
Though I had heard that at each floweret’s death
A sister blossom grieves.
I did not care to see their glorious hues,
Fearing the richer _perfume_ I might lose.
Then in the dim old wood
I laid me down beneath a bending tree,
And dreamed, dear mother, waking dreams of thee.
I thought how just and good
The power that had so gently sealed mine eyes,
Yet bade new pleasures and new hopes arise.
For now in truth I find
My Father all his promises hath kept;
He comforts those who here in sadness wept.
“Eyes to the blind”
Thou art, oh, God! Earth I no longer see,
Yet trustfully my spirit looks to thee.
* * * * *
MY LOVED—MY OWN.
BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.
Nor the hush of the shadowy night.
Nor the glare of the busy day,
Nor the many cares of the world, from thee
Ever lure my thoughts away.
In dreams thou art by my side,
With thy babe, a rose unblown,
And thy voice for me breathes melody,
My loved—my own!
The page of the laureled bard
Thrills me not, since thou art gone;
And from earth below, and the sky above
Is an olden charm withdrawn.
Come back with thy beaming smile,
For my heart is mournful grown—
Fast the wild bird flies, when her sad mate cries,
My loved—my own!
I have prayed for a spell whereby
I might question the wind of thee,
And learn if thy cheek is flushed with health,
Or wan, while afar from me:
And I start when the casement jars,
And I hear a hollow moan,
But the churlish gale will tell no tale,
My loved—my own!
Not sooner the noon-parched flower
Would revive in summer rain,
Than a glimpse of thee and thy laughing boy
Would my sick heart heal again.
We have been, since wed, like leaves
By the breath of Autumn blown;
But home’s green bowers may yet be ours,
My loved—my own!
* * * * *
THE DARKENED HEARTH.
BY HENRY G. LEE.
Escaped from the heat and noise of the city, I went, a few years ago,
some fifty miles into the country, to spend a short time with a friend,
who lived in a pleasant village, the quiet air of which had never been
disturbed by rushing steamboat or rumbling car. There was to me a
Sabbath stillness about the place that made the brief time I sojourned
in Heathdale a period of rest to my spirit.
The scenery around the village was rather picturesque than bold. There
were high hills, but no mountains; deep valleys, but no abrupt
precipices. Far away along the distant horizon lay heavy blue masses,
like clouds; but, though their shapes looked fantastic, they never
changed.
My friend was a physician, and his practice lay for miles around the
village of Heathdale. In order to have the pleasure of his society, as
well as to enjoy the beautiful scenery, I usually went with him in all
his country visits.
One morning he said to me, “I shall have rather a longer ride than usual
to-day; but as it will be through some of the finest scenery we have,
you must be my companion.”
I did not hesitate. Recreation of mind and body was my object in
visiting the country, and in no better way could I find both. So, when
the doctor’s light carriage drove up, I was ready to step into it.
In talking of the past, the present, and the future, as well as in
remarking upon the various objects of interest around us, we spent an
hour, by which time we were riding along an old, grass-covered road,
winding in many a graceful sweep, and lined by tall poplars that had
seen their palmiest days.
“Wealth and taste have left their marks here,” I said, as a fine old
mansion, situated upon a gentle eminence, came in sight.
“Yes,” replied the doctor, “both have been here.”
“But are hardly present now, I should think.”
“No. They disappeared long since. Ten years ago a lovelier spot than
this could hardly have been found; nor one in which were happier hearts.
But now the hearth is desolate. ‘The bright fire quenched and gone.’ I
never like to come here. Of the many who lived and loved in this sweet
spot one only remains shivering by the darkened fireside.”
The doctor appeared to be disturbed. He was silent for some moments,
during which time my eyes were marking all that was peculiar about the
place. The house that we were approaching was a large, square-built,
two-story edifice, with a portico, and handsome Corinthian columns in
front. It stood, as just said, upon an eminence, one slope of which was
in a beautiful green lawn, and the others terraced for gardens and
shrubbery. Of the gardens, only the plan remained; and rank weeds grew
where once had blossomed the sweetest flowers. The untrimmed shrubbery
as strongly attested, by its wildness, tangled and irregular growth, the
want of care and culture. Everywhere that my eye turned, I could see
that the hand of taste had been—but not of late. The summer-house was
in ruins; the fish-pond grown over with weeds; the statues that stood
here and there, broken.
“To whom did this, or does this place belong?” I asked, rousing by my
question the doctor from the musing mood into which he had fallen.
“To an English gentleman of fortune, taste, and intelligence, named
Belmont,” he replied. “When a young man, he came to the United States
for the purpose of seeing the country, with ample means and freedom from
business. He lingered wherever he went as long as pleased his fancy.
Something drew him to this part of our state, where he spent two or
three months. In his rambles about he fell upon this spot, which had
been cleared by a farmer, whose log-cabin stood upon the very site of
that fine old mansion. Struck with its natural beauty, Belmont made the
man a liberal offer for his farm, which was accepted. A year afterward
he returned and commenced and completed as rapidly as possible, all the
main improvements you now see. But, as we are at the door, I must defer
this narrative until I have seen my patient.”
The doctor then left me in the carriage while he went into the house. He
was gone nearly half an hour. When he returned he looked graver than
when he went in.
“It always gives me the heart-ache to visit here,” he said, as we rode
away. “_My_ medicine can do no good.”
“Your patient has a disease of the mind?”
“Yes, an incurable one,” he replied. “Hers is a heart-sickness beyond my
skill to heal. She needs a spiritual rather than a bodily physician. But
to resume where I left off. Mr. Belmont was occupied about two years in
building that handsome house, and in improving these grounds. A part of
his time was spent in superintending these improvements in person; but
the greater portion of it was passed in England. When all was completed,
the house was elegantly furnished, and Mr. Belmont, with a lovely bride,
retired from the world, to live here in beautiful seclusion. People
wondered why a young couple, who had evidently mingled in the gayest
circles, and been used to elegant and refined society, should hide
themselves, as it were, in the vicinity of a small village in
Pennsylvania, thousands of miles away from their old homes and country.
For a while there was a great deal of gossip on the subject, and dozens
of little stories afloat as to what this, that, or the other servant at
the ‘white house’ had said about the young wife of Belmont. It was
alledged that she was often seen weeping, and that she was not at all
happy. This, however, was not generally believed; for Mrs. Belmont was
seen every Sabbath at the village church, and looked so cheerful, and
leaned so lovingly toward her husband, that all idea of her being
unhappy was banished from the mind. Still, people continued to wonder
why a young and wealthy Englishman, of noble blood, for aught they knew,
should prefer the deep seclusion of an almost forest-life in America.
Subsequent events threw light on this subject, and enables me to give
you the history of this young couple.
“Belmont belonged to a wealthy English aristocratic family, and was the
legal heir, on the death of his father, to a large estate. As is too
generally the case where the law of primogeniture exists, Belmont, as
the eldest son, was not left to consult his affections in a matter of so
much importance as marriage. A bride was chosen for him, long before he
was old enough to think of or care for a bride. But when the boy became
the man, he felt little inclined to enter into so close a union as that
of marriage with one for whom not a single affection stirred.
“Not long after the young man entered society, he met Catherine H——,
the only daughter of Lord H——, a lovely young creature, who soon
captivated all his feelings. Catherine, it happened, had, like him, been
early betrothed by her parents. Her hand was not therefore free. He
might admire, but not love her. Unlike Belmont, she was not indifferent
toward her betrothed. As they grew up together from childhood, their
young affections intertwined, until the friendship of youth became love
at mature age.
“A year spent on the Continent, and particularly in the gayest circles
of Paris, tended in no wise to elevate the moral sentiments of Belmont;
nor did absence from home weaken the attachment he felt for Catherine
H——, whose society he sought on his return at every favorable
opportunity. Between the ardor of a lover who seeks to win a heart, and
the quiet, gentle, unobtrusive attentions of one who believes that he
has already made a love-conquest, there is and must be a marked
difference. This was just the difference between the manner of Belmont
and the lover of Catherine. The lady, not indifferent to admiration,
found, ere long, the image of the former resting upon her heart, and
hiding that of the latter. Belmont was quick to perceive this; but the
lover of Catherine, who was not of a jealous temperament, remained
altogether unconscious that any change had taken place in the feelings
of his bride elect.
“From his false and delusive dream, something, not necessary to mention,
awoke Belmont; and in the effort to break through the meshes of love in
which he was entangled, he left England, and spent nearly twelve months
in the United States. While here, the beautiful site upon which he
afterward built himself an elegant residence, struck his fancy, and, in
a moment of enthusiastic admiration, and with, perhaps, a half-formed
resolution to attempt what was afterward done, he purchased it, and then
went back to England. When he again met Catherine H——, he was struck
with the change a year had wrought in her appearance; and he was also
struck with the marked expression of pleasure with which she received
him. The half-quenched fire which he had been endeavoring to extinguish
in his bosom, again burst into a flame, and burned more brightly than
ever. In a moment of passion, he avowed his love, and the maiden sunk in
silent joy upon his bosom.
“Meantime, the betrothed of Belmont, as well as her friends, were
fretted and angry with the coldness and indifference which he manifested
toward her. A near relative, a young man of a fiery temper, undertook to
ask explanations, and considering himself insulted by the answer he
obtained, sent Belmont a challenge to fight. This was accepted; and at
the hostile meeting which followed, the young man received a severe
wound that came near costing him his life. Belmont took advantage of
this circumstance to break off all intercourse with the lady, and to arm
himself, ready to give any of her friends who chose to espouse her
cause, whatever satisfaction they might desire. All this caused a good
deal of excitement in the circles immediately affected by it, and a good
many threats were made by the lady’s friends; but they amounted to
nothing.
“Erskine, the lover of Catherine H——, at length saw cause for
suspicion that all was not right. He had repeatedly urged her to consent
to an early performance of the marriage rite; but she had as often
evaded any direct response to his wishes. At length there was no
disguising the fact that she was becoming colder toward him every time
they met. He complained of this; but his complaint elicited no warm
denial of what he alledged. Erskine, who was deeply attached to the
lady, now became alarmed. It was too plain that she had grown
indifferent. Why, he was for some time at a loss to understand. But at
length his suspicions took the right direction. Just as he was about
demanding from Belmont an explanation of his conduct toward Catherine,
the father of the latter died; and before he could with any appearance
of decency refer to the matter after this afflictive occurrence, Belmont
left England, it was said, for America. His errand to this country you
know. As soon as he had completed the improvements he had projected, he
returned home to consummate the purpose that had been uppermost in his
mind for nearly two years. He married Catherine H—— secretly, and left
for the United States before the fact had transpired, bringing with him
his lovely and loving young bride.
“I do not wonder that the servants sometimes saw Mrs. Belmont weeping.
Smiles could not always rest upon her sweet face. And yet she was
happy—that is, happy as she could be under the circumstances, for she
loved devotedly her husband, and he in turn almost idolized her.
“Erskine, when the truth became known, was deeply afflicted at the
infidelity of his ‘betrothed,’ and for a time suffered the severest
pangs. The reaction upon this was angry indignation, and a final vow of
retribution. The ardent lover was changed to a cruel hater and seeker
for revenge.
“‘I’ll bide my time,’ he said, bitterly. ‘When they think I have
forgotten all, my hand will find them out, and my shadow will fall upon
them. When their fire burns brightest, I will extinguish it.’
“Year after year he nursed this bitter purpose in his heart. He had
found no difficulty in learning where the young bride had retired with
her husband, and from thence he managed to obtain frequent intelligence.
All that he heard but made the fire of hate burn fiercer in his bosom.
Catherine was represented as being happy amid her blooming children; and
the lovely spot where she dwelt was described as a little paradise.
“Fifteen years were permitted to go by, and then Erskine sought to
effect his fiendish purpose. An instrument by which this was to be done,
came into his hands, as he felt, most opportunely, in a young man of
fine exterior, elegant manners, intelligence, and varied
accomplishments, but without honor or feeling. He was a perfect man of
the world, and at heart an unprincipled villain. The name of this person
was Edgerton. By loans of money and other favors, Erskine attached this
man to him. The tie was, of course, that of self-interest. To him he
unfolded what was in his mind. He told him of the wrong he had
sustained, and the burning thirst for revenge that ever since had filled
his heart. Then he described, in glowing language, the beautiful spot
where Catherine dwelt, and the happiness that filled her bosom.
“‘Will you steal, as did the serpent of old, into this lovely paradise?’
he asked. ‘I have been your friend, but if you will serve me now, you
may command me in every thing. The wife of Belmont you will find to be a
lovely creature; and if you can win her from him, as he won her from me,
you will gain possession of a magnificent woman. She is a prize,
Edgerton—just the prize for a man like you. Gain it, and I will furnish
you with all the means of flight and security.’
“An adventure like this just suited the debased, impure, heartless
Edgerton; and he entered upon it with an ardor of feeling, and coolness
of purpose, that too sorely foreshadowed success.
“For sixteen years scarcely a cloud had rested upon the hearts of the
happy family of Belmont. He had three daughters, between each of whom
there was but little over a year’s difference in age. The oldest was a
tall, exquisitely beautiful girl of fifteen, and her sisters gave the
same promise of opening loveliness. Just at this time, and while Mr.
Belmont was in search of a musical instructor for his children, Edgerton
managed to fall in his way, and by the most perfect address and
assumption of a false exterior, to win his good opinion. He showed
credentials of ability from well-known personages in New York and
Philadelphia; and also testimonials of character from eminent clergymen,
and others. These represented him as highly educated, belonging to a
good family, and distinguished for high moral excellence. They were, of
course, spurious.
“When Edgerton was introduced to the family of Mr. Belmont, Mrs. Belmont
shrunk from him with instinctive aversion. This was her first
impression; but it slightly wore off during the interview; and she was
rather inclined, after he had gone away, to think that she had permitted
herself to feel prejudiced against him without a cause.
“After due deliberation, Edgerton was engaged as instructor of the young
ladies in music and the modern languages—in all of which they had made
some proficiency; and also to superintend their studies in other
branches. To do all this Edgerton was fully qualified. He entered upon
his duties with patience and assiduity. In all his intercourse with the
family he was modest and unassuming, yet managed, in every conversation
that passed between himself and either Mr. or Mrs. Belmont, to show that
he possessed a discriminating, well-furnished mind. He had traveled
throughout Europe and Asia Minor, and been an accurate observer. This
made him an interesting and intelligent companion to both Belmont and
his wife, who had been over the same ground. In short, Edgerton soon
became the highly valued friend of the parents, as well as the
instructor of their children.
“For two years Edgerton remained in the family of Mr. Belmont, during
which time nothing occurred to awaken a suspicion, or to shake his
confidence in the young man. About this time business required him to go
to New York. He was absent over two weeks. Separation from his family
was painful to him, and therefore he hurried home as quickly as
possible. He had never, since his marriage, been so long absent from his
wife, and he grew impatient to be with her again, and to hear her voice,
which, in memory, was sweeter than it had ever seemed. He wrote her,
during his absence, many times, each letter warmer in its expressions of
tenderness than the one that preceded it. In the last letter, written
three or four days before he reached home, he said,
“‘I do not think I shall ever venture to go away from home again without
taking you with me. The separation has filled my heart with an
indescribable sadness. I think of you all the while; I see you all the
while; there is not a moment that I do not hear the sound of your voice.
But I cannot press my lips to yours, glowing with love; I cannot take
you in my arms—you are not really present. Dear Catherine! I shall soon
be with you. Ah! how the idea will force itself upon me that the day
must come when there will be a longer separation than this. But I will
drive the cruel thought from my mind.’
“As Belmont approached his home, his impatient spirit chafed at what to
him seemed the slow pace of the stage-horses, by which he was conveyed
the last twenty miles. At last time and distance intervened between him
and his earthly paradise no longer. As he sprung from the horse that had
borne him with swift feet from the village, he felt a slight chill of
disappointment at not seeing his wife at the door, with open arms, to
meet him. In the hall he was met by his youngest daughter, in whose face
there lighted up a smile, but it was not the free, glad, heart-smile
that ought to have been there.
“‘Where is your mother?’ he eagerly asked.
“‘I do not know. She went away somewhere day before yesterday, before we
were up in the morning.’
“‘Who did she go with?’
“‘I don’t know. But Mr. Edgerton went away at the same time. We think
she went with him.’
“Belmont caught hold of the door, and leaned hard against it.
“‘Where are your sisters?’ he asked.
“‘Catherine has been sick ever since. I can’t tell what is the matter
with her; but she cries all the time. Mary is in her room with her.’
“‘Does nobody in the house know where your mother is gone?’
“‘No, sir. She went away before any body was up. But there is a letter
for you in your room.’
“Belmont tried to run up stairs, but his knees trembled so, and were so
weak, that it was with difficulty that he could support himself. When he
reached his room, he grasped the letter to which his daughter had
referred, and sunk into a chair. It was sometime before, with his
quivering hands, he could break the seal, and then many minutes passed
before he could read a line. The blasting contents were as follows:
“‘My Husband,—How can I break to you the dreadful truth that
must be told? Long and devotedly as I have loved you, and still
love you, I am impelled to leave you, under the influence of a
stronger, more fiery, and intenser passion. I am mad with the
bewildering excitement in which I am whirling, as in the charmed
circle of a fascinating serpent. I do not love you less, but I
love another more. Forgive me, if you can forgive, and in mercy
both to you and to your unhappy wife, forget me. You know not
how I have been tempted and tried; you know not how, by the most
imperceptible approaches, the citadel of my heart has been
taken. God forgive him who has wronged you, and her who
permitted herself to be made an instrument in that wrong. You
will be far happier than she can ever be. As for my chil—’
“Here the paper was blotted and soiled, as if by a gush of tears. It
contained no word more.
“An hour afterward, when Mary Belmont and her younger sister stole
softly into their father’s chamber, they found him sitting motionless in
a chair, with the letter he had read crumpled in his hand. His eyes were
closed; and he did not open them as they drew near. They spoke to him in
timid voices, but he did not look up, nor appear to hear them.
“‘Father! dear father!’ they said, coming up close to his side.
“Slowly he drew an arm around each, and pressed them tightly to his
bosom—but he did not utter a word.
“‘Papa, where has mother gone?’ asked Mary, in a quivering voice.
“‘I do not know,’ was the low, mournful reply.
“‘Will she never come back?’
“‘No—never!’
“The children burst into tears, and wept for a long time bitterly. The
agitation of Belmont’s mind now became agonizing. It was his first wish
to conceal what he felt as much as possible from his children; he
therefore asked to be left alone. Mary and her sister retired from the
room, but with slow and lingering steps. When left to himself, the
father sunk down again, like one paralized, not to think but to feel. An
hour afterward, Ella, his youngest daughter, came quietly in, and said,
“‘Papa, I wish you would see Catherine. She does nothing but cry all the
while.’
“Feeling the necessity, at least for his children’s sake, of rousing
himself under this terrible affliction, for which there was no healing
balm, Mr. Belmont arose, and taking the hand of Ella, went with her to
the chamber of his eldest child, now a tall, beautiful young girl, in
her eighteenth year. Her face was turned toward the door when he
entered. At a single glance he saw that it was exceedingly pale, had a
strange expression, and was full of anguish. In a moment after it was
buried beneath the bed-clothes, while the whole body of Catherine
shivered as if in an ague fit. Sobs and deep moans of anguish followed.
To all that the father could say, not a word of reply was given.
Suddenly there flashed through his mind a dreadful suspicion, that
caused him to clasp his forehead tightly with his hands, and stagger a
few paces backward. Soon after he left the chamber, and retired to his
own room to make an effort to think. But it was a vain effort—all the
elements of his mind were in wild confusion. At one moment he would
start up with a fierce imprecation on his lips, resolved to pursue the
fugitives; but before reaching the door of his room, a thought of the
utter hopelessness of his condition would cause him to droop, nerveless,
into a chair, or sink with a groan upon the bed.
“For nearly the whole of the night that followed, Belmont paced, with
slow and measured tread, the floor of his chamber. Toward morning, his
mind became calmer and clearer. He was like a man suddenly pressed to
the earth by a burden that seemed impossible to be borne, who had
re-collected his strength, and risen with the burden upon his shoulders,
feeling that though almost crushing in its weight, he could yet bear up
under it. The first clear determination of his mind was to ascertain, if
possible, the cause of Catherine’s strange distress. He had a
heart-sickening dread of something that he dared not even confess to
himself. He felt that the specious villain who could draw his wife from
virtue, would not be one to hesitate on the question of sacrificing his
child, if by any means he could get her into his power.
“Late in the morning he left his bed, and had nearly completed dressing
himself when some one knocked at his door. On opening it, he found Ella,
with the tears raining over her cheeks.
“‘Oh, papa!’ she exclaimed, ‘Come, quick! and see Catherine. I don’t
know what’s the matter with her, but she says she is dying.’
“A cold shiver passed through every nerve of the unhappy man. He sprung
away at the last word of Ella, and was quickly at the bed-side of his
daughter. A great change had taken place since he saw her on the day
before. Her face, that was pale then, was now of an ashy whiteness, but
her eyes and lips had a calm expression.
“‘Papa,’ she said, in a voice that thrilled through the heart of the
unhappy man, it was so inexpressibly mournful, ‘I do not think I can
live long. I have a strange feeling here,’ and she laid her hand upon
her heart. ‘If I have done wrong in any thing; if I have been betrayed
into evil, I pray you forgive the innocence that suspected no wrong, and
the weakness that could not endure in temptation.’
“‘Catherine, my dear child! why do you speak thus? What is it that you
mean?’ asked her father. ‘Has that villain dared—’
“Mr. Belmont checked himself for he saw that his daughter had become
greatly disturbed. She raised up partly from her pillow, while a rapid
play of the muscles agitated her whole face. Before, however, she was
able to articulate a word, she sunk back paler than ever. Two or three
deep groans struggled up from her heart, and then all was still—still
as death. Mr. Belmont looked for some time at the young, white face of
his first-born and dearly beloved child, upon which the great destroyer
had so suddenly set his seal, and then, answering groan for groan,
turned from the withered blossom that lay before him, and again sought
the silence and solitude of his own room.
“Two months subsequently to this, Erskine received a letter from
Edgerton. It was in these words:
“‘My Dear Sir,—The work is done—and well done. I have
succeeded fully in my plans. Your old flame has been with me in
New York for a month. But she takes the matter rather too hard,
and weeps eternally. I can’t stand this; and if she does not
improve very shortly, shall abandon her. If it had not been for
my wish to follow your instructions to the letter, I should have
taken the eldest daughter instead of the mother, who is much
more to my fancy. I have not yet heard any thing from Belmont,
though I look every day for him to pounce down upon me; but I am
not afraid of him. I suppose this affair will drive him half
mad, for he was exceedingly fond of his wife. This I mention for
your particular gratification. You may expect to see me in
England by the next arrival. Whether I shall bring my lady-love
along or not, I cannot say. It is, however, doubtful. Addio.
Edgerton.’
“The death of his oldest daughter, under circumstances of so much doubt
and distress, added to the desertion of a beloved wife, wrought a great
and melancholy change in Mr. Belmont. I only saw him a few times
afterwards, and then it was at his own house, where I was called to
visit as a physician. A few months had made the impression of years. His
face was thin, and marked with strong lines; his countenance dull and
depressed; his eyes drooping and sad. He moved about slowly, and spoke
in a low, quiet, pensive voice.
“One cold night in November, some six or seven months after the
afflictive events just described had occurred, Mr. Belmont, after laying
awake for hours, trying in vain to sleep, arose from his bed, and going
to the window, stood there for some time. The moon was shining brightly
through the clear, frosty air, making every object distinctly visible.
After standing at the window for some time, Belmont was about turning
away, when his eye was arrested by a figure that came slowly along the
main avenue through which we drove up to the house a little while ago.
Sometimes it would stop for the space of a minute, and then move on
again, until at length it stood in the clear moonlight, directly under
his window. He then saw that it was a woman. Her head was bowed down at
first, but soon she looked up, and the moonlight fell strongly upon her
face. Belmont started with a low exclamation, and retreated from the
window, and staggering back, sunk with a groan upon the bed, where he
lay for nearly five minutes. He then arose, dressed himself, and
descended with a deliberate air. On opening the hall-door, he perceived
that the woman had sunk down upon the steps. She did not move at his
approach.
“‘Catherine!’ he said, in as firm a voice as he could assume.
“But there was no motion—no reply.
“‘Catherine!’ But she did not answer.
“Stooping down, he placed his hand upon her, and then she looked up, and
the moonbeams fell upon her face. Her lips were thin and tightly
compressed; her pale cheeks deeply sunken; her eyes tearless, but, oh!
how full of mingled penitence, humility, and hopelessness. She uttered
no word, but lay upon the cold marble, at the threshhold of her
husband’s mansion, with her eyes fixed upon his face, that, if not stern
and angry, betrayed no sign of affection.
“‘Catherine,’ he said at length, in a cold, steady voice, ‘you have
returned to the old home that your conduct has made desolate. I do not
see that you have been any happier than those you left behind. I forgive
you, as I hope God will. I believe you were once worthy of all the love
I bore you, and for the sake of what you then were, I will not spurn you
back from the threshhold you now seek to pass.’
“He then took her arm, and raising her up, conducted her into the house,
and up into her old chamber, where every thing remained as she had left
it. The thoughts and feelings of other days came rushing upon his heart,
but he sternly drove them back. It was too late. They could never again
have place in his bosom. What she thought and felt is not known, and can
hardly be imagined. In the old chamber Belmont left his fallen wife,
with but a single word, and that a caution to remain where she was until
he visited her in the morning.
“Belmont did not again retire that night. Until near day he was busily
engaged in writing, and in evident preparation for a journey. About 5
o’clock the servants were aroused, and directed to prepare an early
breakfast. The coachman was ordered to have the carriage at the door by
7 o’clock. Then Ella and Mary were awakened by their father, who desired
them to dress immediately, and come to him in the library. When there,
he informed them that it had become necessary for him to leave for
England immediately, and that he wished them to accompany him. All
necessary preparation could be made in New York, where he would remain
two or three weeks. The girls were surprised, as may well be supposed,
by this announcement; but their father was too much in earnest to leave
them room to ask for a longer time to prepare for the journey than he
had given them. Precisely at seven they entered the carriage and drove
into Heathdale. On arriving there, Mr. Belmont said that he would have
to return, and that while he was gone they must remain at the hotel.
Mary wanted to go back with him for something that she had forgotten,
but he said that he would rather have her remain where she was, in a
tone that prevented her from saying any thing more.
“The object of Mr. Belmont in returning, was to have a parting interview
with the mother of his children, for whom he could not but feel the
deepest commiseration. But her own hands had placed the burden upon her
heart, and it was not in his power to remove it. She had been false to
her marriage vows, and false to those who had called her by the tender
name of ‘mother.’ He could not again take her to his bosom, nor again
bring her back among her children. He found her a sad wreck, indeed, and
could scarcely keep back the tears when he met her again, with the
searching light of day making visible all the marks of grief, crime, and
suffering.
“‘Catherine,’ he said, in a voice that trembled, spite of all his
efforts to be composed, ‘I meet you now for the last time. I shall
return to England, never again, I hope, to visit this country. This is
your home for life, if you wish to make it so. I have settled upon you
an annuity; and these papers, which I leave here upon the table, will
give you all necessary information in regard to the manner of drawing
it. I will not upbraid you for what you have done, for I do not wish to
add a single pang to the thousands you must suffer; I would rather
mitigate than increase them.’
“‘My children,’ she said, in an eager voice, as he paused, ‘where are
they—am I not to see them?’
“‘But two remain,’ Belmont replied, ‘and you cannot see them. You are
dead to your children, and must remain so. Catherine is in heaven. She
died, to all appearance, of a broken heart, a few days after you went
away.’
“The whole frame of this wretched woman quivered.
“‘Dead!’ she ejaculated, in a deep, hoarse whisper; and then covering
her face, wept for some moments violently.
“‘But Mary and Ellen,’ she at length said, looking up with streaming
eyes. ‘May I not see them? They are my children, Edward, and, erring and
sinful as I have been, I still love them. Do not, then, in mercy, deny
me this, the only boon I will ever ask at your hands. Oh! Edward, let me
see my children once before I die.’
“Belmont was deeply moved, but his purpose did not falter.
“‘You are dead to them, Catherine,’ he replied, with assumed coldness,
‘and must remain so.’
“Even on her knees the wretched woman prayed to see her children; but
she prayed in vain. Hard as it was for Belmont to resist her agonized
entreaties, he remained firm to his well-formed purpose.
“The moment of parting with her, and leaving her in loneliness and
misery on the very spot where she had once been so happy, and with a
thousand things around her to remind her of that happiness, was a most
painful one. It was with difficulty that Belmont could restrain the
desire he felt to take her in his arms, press her to his bosom, and
forgive and forget all. But her sin had been too deep—she had fallen
too low. He could not throw over the past the blessed mantle of
forgiveness; and so he left her alone, to shiver by the cold ashes of a
darkened hearth.”
“Has her husband never returned?” I asked.
“Never! Five years have passed since he left, but no one has seen him in
this region. There came a rumor a few years ago, that he had met
Edgerton, and made him account with his life for his crime. But I know
not whether this be so.”
A year afterward I received a letter from my excellent friend, the
doctor, in which he mentioned that death had given the unhappy Mrs.
Belmont a kind release; “and, we may hope,” he remarked, “that through
much suffering she was purified and forgiven.”
* * * * *
THE WAYSIDE DREAM.
BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.
The deep and lordly Danube
Goes winding far below;—
I see the white-walled hamlets
Amid his vineyards glow,
And southward, through the ether, shine
The Styrian hills of snow.
O’er many a league of landscape
Sleeps the warm haze of noon;
The wooing winds come freighted
With fragrant tales of June,
And down amid the corn and flowers
I hear the water’s tune.
The meadow-lark is singing
As if it still were morn;
Sounds through the dark pine forest
The hunter’s dreamy horn;
And the shy cuckoo’s plaining note
Mocks the maidens in the corn.
I watch the cloud armada
Go sailing up the sky,
Lulled by the murmuring mountain-grass,
Upon whose bed I lie,
And the faint sound of noonday chimes
That in the distance die!
A warm and drowsy sweetness
Is stealing o’er my brain;
I see no more the Danube
Sweep through his royal plain—
I hear no more the peasant-girls
Singing amid the grain!
Soft, silvery wings, a moment
Seem resting on my brow:
Again I hear the water,
But its voice is deeper now,
And the mocking-bird and oriole
Are singing on the bough!
The elm and linden branches
Droop close and dark o’erhead,
And the foaming forest brooklet
Leaps down its rocky bed;
Be still, my heart! the seas are passed—
The paths of home I tread!
The showers of creamy blossoms
Are on the linden spray,
And down the clover meadow
They heap the scented hay,
And glad winds toss the forest leaves
All the bright summer day.
Old playmates! bid me welcome
Amid your brother band!
Give me the old affection—
The glowing grasp of hand!
I worship no more the realms of old—
_Here_ is my Fatherland!
Come hither, gentle maiden,
Who weep’st in tender joy!
The rapture of thy presence
Overcomes the world’s annoy,
And calms the wild and throbbing heart
Which warms the wandering boy.
In many a mountain fastness—
By many a river’s foam,
And through the gorgeous cities,
’Twas loneliness to roam,
For the sweetest music in my heart
Was the olden songs of home!
Ah! glen, and foaming brooklet,
And friends, have vanished now!
The balmy Styrian breezes
Are blowing on my brow,
And sounds again the cuckoo’s call
From the forest’s inmost bough.
Veiled is the heart’s glad vision—
The wings of Fancy fold;
I rise and journey onward.
Through valleys green and old,
Where the far, white Alps reveal the morn
And keep the sunset’s gold!
* * * * *
SONNET.
Sun of the new-born year! I hail thy light;
As bursting through the dark clouds that so long
Had veiled the glories of each morn and night,
Thou pourest over all thy radiance strong;
Bidding the chilling rains their fury cease,
And smiling on the drenched and languid earth,
That, all exulting in her glad release,
Puts on the beauty of a second birth,
And joys to greet thee. Type art thou, O Sun!
Amid the parting clouds thy bright path making,
Of that clear Star—the never setting One!
That through the pall of darksome ages breaking,
With healing beams, still moves, eternal on!
And lights the living soul when life’s dim day is gone!
* * * * *
SOPHY’S FLIRTATION.
A COUNTRY SKETCH.
BY MRS. M. N. M‘DONALD.
“Well, to _my_ mind, a nicer young man doesn’t live any where than
Archie Harris. So pleasant spoken, so good tempered, so civil as he is.
You ‘may go farther and fare worse,’ I can tell you, Sophy. It’s all
very well for girls to be dainty and particular about looks, when they
are young and handsome themselves, and think they may catch anybody, but
it’s no joke for a girl to settle herself with a man who may be unkind
to her by and bye. Archie Harris has that in him which will last in dark
days as well as sunshine; something that wont wear out in old age, like
your grandfather here, that I’ve lived with forty-five years come next
Christmas, and found him just the same, winter and summer. So, as I said
before, ‘you may go farther and fare worse,’ Sophy.” And having
delivered her sentiments, old Mrs. Middleton took a pinch of snuff, drew
her chair a little nearer the fire with an emphatic “hem,” and then
resumed her knitting, while she glanced over her spectacles to observe
what had been the effect of her speech upon her pretty granddaughter,
who was seated on the opposite side of the little round table, engaged
in sewing.
Sophy Middleton plied her needle with something of a petulant air, while
her grandmother spoke, and answered with a slight tone of
vexation—“Everybody can’t think alike, that is certain. Archie Harris
is well enough in his way, but he isn’t the only man in the world, that
is one comfort.”
“And why don’t you like him?” pursued the old lady, resolved not to give
up the point. “Tell me of one in the whole place that is better, or
kinder, or cleverer. _I_ never saw such a one at any rate, and once upon
a time, Sophy, you thought Archie a little better than most folks
yourself, and have only changed your mind since Philip Greyson came
home, I’m thinking.”
“Philip Greyson, indeed!” exclaimed Sophy, with a toss of her head,
while her cheeks crimsoned in spite of herself.
“Yes, Philip Greyson,” said the old lady. “I suppose you think, Sophy,
because I wear spectacles, I am half blind, and can’t see as far as I
used to do. But I have my eyes about me, and maybe spy a little farther
for my glasses, and I fancy that Philip, with his spruce uniform and
navy buttons, will make you forget poor Archie altogether.”
“I am sure,” said Sophy, whose thread at that moment had got into such a
knot that her undivided attention was necessary to disentangle it. “I’m
sure Philip Greyson is nothing to _me_.”
“I hope he never may be, indeed,” said Mrs. Middleton emphatically.
“These young midshipmen are wild blades, my dear, and I should never
know a minute’s peace if you were to marry one. But Archie Harris, ah!
Sophy, he is the husband for you; such a good son and brother—so quiet,
and steady, and—”
“Stupid,” said Sophy, supplying with a laugh the word for which her
grandmother paused. “Why, last night at Mrs. Morgan’s he scarcely said
ten syllables, and say what you will, grandmother,” she continued,
roused by the recollection of her last evening’s visit, “everybody likes
a merry, talkative beau, who has seen something of the world, better
than a fellow who sits by with a long face, and can do nothing to amuse
one.”
“And that fellow isn’t Philip Greyson, I guess,” said her grandfather,
who, on the opposite side of the fire, was calmly knocking the ashes
from his pipe. “Phil is one of those chaps that have no lack of words in
any company, if I may judge from the way in which I have heard him
chatter at his own father’s table.”
“Chatter! that he can, like a magpie, and with but little more sense, to
my mind,” said the old lady. “If Archie Harris speaks but seldom, his
words are always to some purpose, and he doesn’t think it amiss to be
civil to old people either. Philip has enough and enow to prate about to
young folks, but if an elderly person comes by, he is at no pains to
entertain him. Times have changed since my day, when young men and women
were taught to reverence their betters. Ah! well,” and Mrs. Middleton
drew a long deep sigh, and shook her head significantly as she leaned
over to mend the fire.
It was in the prettiest, neatest white house, in the main street of a
pretty village, somewhere in the Empire State, that Sophy Middleton and
her grand-parents resided. Samuel Middleton, who from his silvery hair,
and general knowledge of past events, together with the melancholy fact
that he is totally blind, has long been dignified with the title of “the
oldest inhabitant,” which title, by the way, the old gentleman
particularly glories in, being fond of relating anecdotes of the place,
which happened when he was a boy, and adventures with persons long since
dead, and though Brookville has not improved materially during the last
twenty years—being off the rail-road—yet the old man imagines in his
blindness that great changes have taken place, because the Episcopalians
have built a church, and Squire Edgewood a new house and barn, and
descants largely upon the good old times, when Brookville was just
settled, and “no folly or fashion had got into it.”
A youth of industry—for it was not until advancing years that darkness
fell upon him—had secured for Samuel Middleton a moderate competency,
and at the old homestead, with the kind partner of his joys and sorrows,
and the orphan child of an only son, he had learned to bear with
patience and fortitude the sore trial which it had pleased God to send
him; thankful for the past, contented with the present, and fearless of
the future.
Sophy, so early orphaned as scarcely to remember any other care than
that of her grand-parents, was the life and light of the old man’s home.
Her cheerfulness beguiled very many of his wearisome hours, and her
merry voice, and mirth-inspiring laughter, seemed to cheat him of half
his sorrow. He knew her step upon the gravel walk when she came in from
school, as readily as if his sightless eyes could have looked upon her
face, and felt only too proud and happy when his friends said “that
Sophy was growing up a comely girl, and would be a beauty one of these
days.” As his beloved child grew older, this prophecy seemed likely to
prove true. Sophy’s blue eyes were full of vivacity, and her oval cheeks
and sweet lips were colored with Nature’s pure carnation. By degrees the
scrawny figure of the school girl was moulded to the grace of early
womanhood, and we introduce Sophy Middleton to our readers, at this
particular moment, a blooming country maiden of nineteen summers, very
much petted at home, sufficiently admired abroad, and therefore a
little, very little bit _spoiled_.
But who is Archie Harris, that we find the old lady eulogizing so
warmly? Why, Archie Harris and our Sophy went to the same school; sat on
the same bench; learned out of the same book, and were friends from the
time they were “no bigger than a midge’s wing.” Being next door
neighbors, this friendship had strengthened with their years rather than
diminished. Sophy had found a sister in Mary Harris, and, in the natural
course of things, a lover in Archie; and although no positive engagement
existed between them, it seemed such a matter of course that they should
love each other, and so desirable a connection on both sides, that
everybody—that wise person found in all villages—said it would
certainly be a match at some future day.
Philip Greyson, too, was a Brookville boy, and had been a schoolmate of
Sophy’s years ago. But Philip’s ambition soared higher than a life of
usefulness at home. He longed to see the world; to brave the ocean; to
tread on foreign shores; and when, through the influence of friends at
Washington, he procured a midshipman’s warrant, and left Brookville to
join his vessel at Norfolk, what cared he for aught he was leaving, when
the future stretched so brightly before him? His parents, teachers,
school-fellows, he bade them good-bye without a moment’s regret; and as
to Sophy Middleton, if he thought of her at all, it was but as an
unformed girl, rather more indifferent to him than his own sisters, and
whom he might perhaps never see again. On his return, however, after a
three years’ cruise, Philip found, to his surprise, this same little
Sophy grown a young lady, and a pretty one, too; and, charmed at the
sight of so much beauty where he least expected it, renewed his
acquaintance with delight, while Sophy, pleased and flattered by his
attentions, and dazzled by the glitter of his gilt buttons, danced and
flirted with the young midshipman to her heart’s content, exciting the
envy of sundry other damsels to whom nature had denied bright eyes and
rosy lips, and vexing poor Archie, by her unwonted vanity, in the most
uncomfortable degree.
Had Sophy related to her grandmother what passed between Archie and
herself on the previous night, as they walked home from Mrs. Morgan’s
tea-party, the old lady would have been inexpressibly distressed, for
Archie, in the warmth of his feelings, upbraided Sophy for her coquetry
and coldness, which Sophy’s high spirit would not brook. She bade him
remember that no engagement had taken place, and therefore she was free
to choose for herself, though everybody seemed to think—why she could
not tell—that because they lived next door to each other, they were “as
good as married.” Philip Greyson, she said, was an old friend as well as
he, and she would not give up the pleasure of talking to him, if she
liked, for _anybody_, and so at the garden-gate they parted, with a cold
“good-night.” Archie to mourn over the fickleness of the girl he dearly
loved, and Sophy to dream of—Philip Greyson.
Probably Mrs. Middleton suspected something of this, however, from her
urgent appeal to her granddaughter in behalf of their neighbor’s son,
and might, perhaps, have gone on still further to expostulate, had not a
knock at the outer door interrupted the conversation; and Sophy, who had
risen to answer the summons, returned in a few minutes with a letter
directed to her grandfather.
“A letter for you, grandfather,” she said, placing it in the old man’s
hand. “Mr. Norris sent it up from the post-office. It came by the late
mail.”
“For me?” said Mr. Middleton, turning it over, and placing his finger
upon the large, red seal. “I did not expect any letters just now. Read
it, wife.”
Mrs. Middleton, who had been adjusting her spectacles, eagerly seized
the mysterious letter, and carefully cutting it open, read the signature
aloud. “Henry Willetson.”
“I don’t know such a person,” said the old man, leaning forward to catch
every word. “Go on, Hannah.”
The letter was a brief one; and the old lady glanced her eye over it
before she began—but that glance was sufficient to tell the whole
story. There it was, written down in few but fearful characters; and
suddenly throwing the paper upon the table, she exclaimed, “Merciful
Father! we are ruined! All swept away! Oh! Samuel, Samuel, what shall we
do in our old age? All gone, all gone!”
“Tell me what it is. Let me know the whole truth,” said the old man,
groping his way to the table, and stretching his hand over it to find
the letter. “Tell me what has happened, Hannah—I can bear it.”
“All gone, all gone!” murmured poor Mrs. Middleton, as if deprived of
the power to say more.
“What is gone? Tell me, Hannah?” said the agitated old man. “Oh, this
awful blindness! Sophy, where are you? Do you read it for me.”
Pale and trembling, Sophy obeyed. The letter was from the agent of a
mercantile house in New York, in which Mr. Middleton had been persuaded
to invest the bulk of his small property, announcing the entire failure
of the concern, which would not, in all probability, at the winding up
of its affairs, pay five cents on the dollar; and thus the fruits of
patient industry, during the best years of Samuel Middleton’s life, were
swept away by the reckless speculation of others, and nothing remained
to him, save the pretty cottage in which he lived, and the good name
which no dishonest act had ever tarnished.
Had the old man been in the possession of his eye-sight, the blow had
not, perhaps, fallen so heavily; but unable by personal exertion of any
kind to repair the mischief, with no children to lean upon, his bark
seemed stranded among the breakers, and Samuel Middleton bowed his head
upon his hands, and sought for strength, in this hour of darkness, from
the source whence alone he felt certain of obtaining it. There was
silence for a few moments in the little apartment, disturbed only by the
stifled sobs of poor Sophy, and the moans of Mrs. Middleton, as she
rocked backward and forward in her arm-chair, till the old man spoke.
“We have received good at the hand of the Lord, and shall we not receive
evil?” he said. “Hannah, this is a sore trial—but it comes from God,
and we must submit. If He sends poverty upon us in our old days, depend
upon it, He will send strength to bear it. The trouble and the comfort
always seem to go hand-in-hand. Let us be thankful it is no worse.”
“It seems the worst that _could_ have happened, Samuel,” said the old
woman, her voice choked with sorrow.
“The worst!—oh, no! Think if we had been parted by death, Hannah; or if
Sophy had gone off with some wild, idle fellow, or many another thing
that might befall us. Don’t cry, Sophy, darling, grandfather specially
grieves on your account. But it’s all for the best, dear child. I feel
as sure of that as I do that I sit here this moment. Wife, don’t moan
so; it isn’t Christian-like to despair. God’s will be done.”
“Ah! husband, if I had your faith; but it comes so sudden, I can’t seem
to bear it.”
“Bring the Bible, Sophy,” said her grandfather, “and read to grandmother
and me how Job bore the loss of all his possessions.”
Sophy brought the Bible, and read with trembling voice, as Mr. Middleton
directed. When she had finished, the old man knelt down, and reverently
clasped his hands. He prayed for the patience of the patriarch of old;
for faith to believe it was in love as well as wisdom they had been
afflicted; for entire and cheerful submission to the Divine will; and
strengthened by this near approach to the Great Chastener of his
children, the little family lay down to rest that sorrowful night,
tranquil at least, if not altogether resigned.
Before noon the next day, everybody in Brookville had been made
acquainted with the misfortune of the Middletons; and neighbors came
with kind offers, which the old man could not accept. He had settled
what to do, he told them, and thought it was the best plan. The white
cottage must be sold or rented, and, indeed, he had already dictated a
letter, which Sophy had written, to a gentleman in New York, who was
looking for a summer residence, and had once expressed himself pleased
with the situation of Mr. Middleton’s house, and the scenery about
Brookville. The income accruing from this would enable him to hire an
old broken-down tenement, about five miles off, where they would remove
without delay, and with strict economy, and good use of a little
garden-plot, become as contented, he hoped, if not as happy, as they
once were.
To this arrangement, reasonable as it appeared, everybody objected, and
suggested, of course, something else. One would take Sophy to live with
him; another would help to pay the rent of a better place; and a third
proposed some other grand expedient; but the old gentleman was firm.
“I thank you, my friends,” he said, “but I would keep my independence if
I can. Let me feel that I still eat my own bread, though it be coarser
and harder than it once was, and pray for a contented heart, which seems
to lighten almost any burden.”
A purchaser for the neat homestead was easily found, in the gentleman to
whom Sophy had written by her grandfather’s dictation; and at the
appointed time, Samuel Middleton and his family removed to their new
abode, not, however, until kind hearts and willing hands had contributed
to make the old place tolerably comfortable; to lay out and improve the
garden, long run to waste, and even to plant a few rose-bushes and
flowering shrubs about the door-way, that Sophy’s eyes, if not her
grandfather’s, might find some pleasant memento of Brookville and its
inhabitants, in these silent marks of their affection and respect.
When moving-day came, everybody came to help. Squire Edgewood’s men and
fine team, and Mr. Harris, with his strong market cart, to transport the
furniture, and when these were fairly off, arrived neighbor Maynard’s
light wagon, to carry Sophy and her grandmother down, with sundry small
baskets and boxes, while the minister himself drove the old gentleman in
his gig; and it was sad, though soothing, to catch the kind farewell
words as they passed down the village street, when many a one pressed
forward to shake hands, and to wish “good health, and God’s blessing on
their new home.”
And over this new home, in answer, perhaps, to these good wishes, some
benevolent brownie seemed already to preside; for when Mrs. Middleton
unpacked her valuables, she found, stored away in cupboards, supposed,
of course, to be entirely empty, such loaves of cake, and jars of
butter, with preserves, pickles, eggs, et cætera, as to excite her
astonishment in the highest degree; nor could any inquiries or surmises
detect the mysterious donors; and the old lady, amid her sighs and
bemoanings at their altered condition, could not but smile as she
surveyed the kind remembrances; and Sophy, poor girl, would have smiled
too, since she duly estimated the kind feelings which had induced them,
but that she was too miserable for any thing to interest her now—so
home-sick and lonely, that she cared for nothing, save the luxury of
shedding tears, when she could steal away from her grandmother’s side,
and, unobserved, weep over the change which had so suddenly befallen
them.
But all this time, amid these adverse circumstances, where were Sophy’s
admirers? Was she to find them only _summer_ friends, who, like
migratory birds, flew off in darker weather? Alas! it seemed too true.
Once or twice after their removal Philip Greyson rode down to Mr.
Middleton’s, and then Sophy resumed her smiles, and was happy; but his
visits were few and far between, and she learned that a pretty girl in
the midst of plenty and prosperity was very different from a pretty girl
fallen in fortune, and obliged to perform all sorts of menial offices
for her grand-parents. But Archie Harris, the companion of her
childhood, surely _he_ might have come to offer consolation, where he
knew it was so much required. Was it altogether right in _him_ to stand
back under such circumstances? Sophy felt it was unkind, “unbrotherly,”
as she mentally termed it, yet could scarcely blame him either, when she
remembered their last conversation, the indifference she had evinced
toward him, and the decided preference she had given to Philip; and
while her heart smote her for this, she felt more inclined to forgive a
coldness which she had herself so entirely provoked.
Our friend Archie, however, despite his seeming indifference, had not
forgotten. He had been wounded to the quick by her preference for his
rival; and the manner in which she appeared to rejoice that no previous
troth-plight would prevent her accepting Philip, made him feel how
little she valued true affection, when compared with a dashing exterior,
or a greater share of personal beauty. “Let her go! the vain,
cold-hearted girl!” he mentally ejaculated, as they parted on that
eventful night. “Let her try if he _can_ love her half so well as I
do—as I _have_ done,” he added more bitterly. “Fool that I was, to
believe she ever cared for me. That conceited peacock! I wish—” and
Archie, the best-tempered, kindest-hearted creature in the world,
conceived from that moment such an unutterable dislike and contempt for
all navy officers, and navy buttons, as to wish, in his awakened ire,
that Philip Greyson was on the coast of Africa, or the deep waters of
the Pacific.
But when misfortune came, Archie’s resentment at once gave way. Sophy
was in sorrow, and he longed to go and assure her that his love was
brighter than any skies could darken. But had she not rejected his love?
Then why should he urge it now? Philip was still at Brookville, and
might follow up the advantage he had gained; and Archie would not for
the world have interposed his own wishes. Pride, therefore, more than
anger, kept him back from any other attention than common civility
required; and he resolved by every means in his power to drive away the
remembrance of the past, and wait as calmly as he might the issue of
future events.
While such was the state of affairs with Archie, Sophy Middleton, in her
new home, was learning many valuable lessons, which, perhaps, she had
never gained but for these untoward circumstances. Lessons of patience
and submission, of industry, activity, and economy; and though she did
not recover her usual flow of spirits, still, as the months rolled on,
and her employments increased, a tolerable degree of cheerfulness
returned also. She found pleasure in her garden-beds and flower-borders;
pleasure in leading her good old grandfather about through the house and
ground, making him familiar with every thing, and instructing him how to
find his way, unaided, to the arm-chair in the porch; pleasure, too, in
devising plans with her grandmother for the better arrangement of their
little household, that pleasure which ever comes with the faithful
discharge of duty; and if Sophy could not forget, if she still
remembered Archie’s slighted love with bitter self-reproach, or Philip’s
short-lived admiration with mortification and disdain, she was still
calm, and patient, and resigned; less gay, perhaps, but not less
loveable or lovely.
The first year of their misfortunes had passed away, and during that
time Archie and our heroine had met but seldom, when the calm current of
the blind man’s life was ruffled by the intelligence that Mr. Wilson had
“sold out,” and the white cottage at Brookville gone into other hands.
That the beloved home of his early years, and of his married life,
should belong to another, had always seemed to Samuel Middleton but as
an unpleasant dream, from which he vainly tried to rouse himself, and
believe that it was, indeed, a reality. He could not discern the changes
around him, or miss the familiar objects which still lingered on his
memory; and this news, communicated rather abruptly by his wife, on her
return from a visit to Brookville, appeared to awaken all his past
regrets, and remind him anew of other and happier days.
“Why did Wilson sell, I wonder?” he said. “Dear me, I’m very sorry for
it. I’m afraid somebody may get there who will abuse the place.”
“It will make no difference to us _now_, grandfather,” said Sophy,
quietly.
“I don’t know as to that,” replied the old gentleman, rather testily. “I
don’t know as to that. Wouldn’t it make you feel badly, Sophy, to walk
past there, and see every thing going to rack and ruin? And if I can’t
see it, I can remember just how it all looked when we came away. If any
one should cut down those two elm trees in front of the house, it would
go nigh to break my heart, I think. Why, my father planted those elms
with his own hands when I was a boy; and I do hope nobody will cut them
down while _I_ live.”
“I hope not, indeed,” said Sophy, in a soothing tone, “but I don’t
suppose there is much danger of that, grandfather, they shade the house
so pleasantly.”
“Maybe not,” said Mr. Middleton, fidgeting in his chair, as if the very
idea had made him nervous, “but there is no telling how it will be.
People are so crazy to make money now-a-days, that nothing is safe. Who
did you say had bought it, wife?”
“I didn’t hear his name,” replied Mrs. Middleton; “but I was so busy
with other matters, that maybe I didn’t ask. However, we can hear all
about it to-morrow, Samuel, for to-morrow is election-day, you know, and
Mr. Harris says he must have your vote, and they’ll send down their
wagon for you and me in good season, so that we can take a dish of tea
with them, if Sophy don’t mind being alone _one_ afternoon.”
Sophy expressed her entire willingness to remain at home, and, indeed,
was rejoiced at the prospect of so doing; and at the appointed hour next
day, when Mr. Harris’s wagon came rattling down the lane, gladly
assisted her grand-parents to prepare for their visit, and saw them
drive away with, it must be confessed, a feeling of relief, somewhat
difficult, perhaps, to analyze.
Instead, however, of setting about the various little tasks which, to
beguile her loneliness, Mrs. Middleton had suggested, Sophy sat down by
the window, and was soon lost in deep thought. What was the subject of
her meditations, I think I _would_ not tell, even if I could, because I
do not choose to betray all the weaknesses of my sex; but I am sure her
eyes were wet, and her face very sorrowful, when who should come
trotting to the door but Archie Harris himself, the very last person in
the world one might have expected on election-day, when everybody, young
or old, was, or ought to have been, busy at the Brookville poll. Be this
as it may, however, here, as I said, came Archie, who threw the bridle
of his pretty bay pony over the gate-post, and walked into the
sitting-room, saying, “I met your folks just now going to the village,
and hearing you were at home, called to see you.”
Sophy received him with a mixture of reserve and cordiality quite
unmistakable, and a blended shower of tears, smiles, and blushes, which
Archie interpreted favorably, I suppose, for he said, “Then you _are_
glad to see an old friend once more, Sophy.”
“Certainly I am, and it is a long time since you were here.”
“Long! let me see—six weeks, I guess. You don’t call that a great
while, do you?”
“Oh, yes, I do,” replied Sophy, blushing. “We are so lonely now that we
have learned to think much of our friends.”
“Have you?” said Archie, regarding her with a look half pleased, half
sorrowful, as if some painful recollection at that moment crossed his
mind; “that is enough to make _some_ of us almost glad that you have
left Brookville.”
“Oh! never say you are glad of _that_!” cried Sophy, earnestly, “when it
made me so unhappy.”
“Not glad on some accounts, certainly,” said Archie, “not that you
should have met with misfortune, but only because you think more of old
friends here than there.”
“True! real friends are the same everywhere,” said Sophy, not exactly
knowing what to say.
“Sometimes—not always,” replied Archie, significantly. “But if friends
bring bad news, are they less welcome?”
“I don’t believe you have any _bad_ news to tell me this afternoon,”
said Sophy. “You look very well pleased.”
“Oh! it is not disagreeable news to _me_, but perhaps it may be to
_you_,” said Archie, smiling.
“Let me hear it, then,” said Sophy, “or maybe I can guess it. Mr. Wilson
has sold the old place.”
“Yes, the old place has changed hands again, and _I_ think for the
better; but that is not the news I mean.”
“Do tell me, then,” said Sophy, impatiently, “for I cannot guess.”
“Perhaps,” said Archie, suddenly becoming grave, “it may make you sorry;
and if so, I had rather not be the one to tell it; but—Philip Greyson
is married.”
“Is that all?” asked Sophy, blushing to the very eyes at the mention of
Philip’s name. “I thought your news was _bad_.”
“And don’t you _really_ care about it?” said Archie. “Let me look in
your eyes, Sophy, and see if you are in earnest—if you really do not
care.”
“No, indeed, I _do not_,” said Sophy, looking in Archie’s face with a
smile which spoke entire truth. “I should not care if he had married all
the girls in Brookville.”
“You thought differently once,” said Archie, “and I am not sure, Sophy,
that you will care to hear an old story of true love over again, after
the last talk we had on the subject.”
“Oh, Archie! will you never forget that foolish business!” exclaimed
Sophy, bursting into tears.
“People forgive easier than they forget, sometimes,” said Archie; “and I
can’t, for my life, forget any thing that concerns you. I may be
mistaken, but I think, that, after Philip Greyson, you care more for me
than any one else; and now that he is married—”
Sophy answered him with a glance, which told a whole story of penitence,
and a world of reproach.
“And if you think I could make you happy, as I would try to do, dear
Sophy,” he continued, “why then, perhaps, you wont object to go back to
Brookville, and live with me at the ‘old place,’ and take grandfather
and grandmother with you, hey, Sophy?”
Poor Sophy was crying so heartily, from a mingled feeling of joy and
sorrow, that she could not answer, and so Archie proceeded.
“I have been very fortunate this last year. I suppose, because I had
nothing to draw me off from business, and have been able to buy the
place from Mr. Wilson. I will put it in good order again, and we shall
be _so_ happy there—shan’t we, Sophy, darling? But you don’t speak.”
“Because I am so happy that I have no words to tell it,” replied Sophy,
smiling through her tears. “But will you really forgive all my
foolishness and vanity, dear Archie? And shall we really go back to
Brookville; to the ‘old place’—and with _you_, too? Oh! it seems like a
blessed dream.”
“A dream that will last, I hope,” said Archie, “and pay us for all the
sorrow we have had the past year—for you haven’t been sad alone, Sophy;
I have thought of you, and loved you just the same; and longed to come
and tell you so, often and often, only I thought if you did like Phil
Greyson best—”
“Please don’t name him again,” said Sophy. And Archie, nothing loth to
discard a disagreeable topic, promised—I believe with a kiss—that he
would not. Unfortunately for grandmother Middleton’s little jobs, Sophy
found the time pass so rapidly that she quite forgot them—since Archie
stayed all the afternoon, while his poor horse stood, kicking off the
flies, at the garden-gate—wondering it may be, at his master’s unusual
delay, or sudden love of gossiping.
The old gentleman and his wife came home in excellent spirits, having
heard who had become the purchaser of their former abode, and Mr.
Middleton’s mind quite at ease respecting his favorite elm trees; and
when they learned further of all that had occurred during their absence,
and how their darling Sophy—now so smiling and happy—was to become the
mistress once more of the dear ‘old place,’ their cup of joy and
contentment seemed full to overflowing. Grandmother reminded Sophy that
“she had told her a year ago that Archie Harris would make the best
husband in the world—always excepting _her_ old man;” while grandfather
could only clasp his withered hands, and raise his sightless eyes in
silent ejaculations of gratitude and love.
Genuine lovers of love stories like to hear of that devoutly wished-for
consummation—a wedding; but editors, and some other people, best fancy
jumping at the conclusion at once. So, most kind reader, whoever you may
be, please to imagine Archie Harris and his bride quietly settled at
Brookville before the autumn commenced—the happiest people in the wide
world; while grandmother is busiest of the busy, all day long, in her
accustomed haunts; and grandfather sits under the shadow of his beloved
elms, almost forgetting his misfortunes, or their year of exile, in the
added happiness of his darling Sophy.
* * * * *
THOU’RT NOT ALONE.
Written on hearing a young lady exclaim, “Alas! I’m all alone!”
BY N. CURTISS STINE.
Thou’rt not alone—the greenwood’s shades are round thee,
When summer comes, with all her joyous train;
And playful winds at eve have often found thee,
And murmured in thine ear Hope’s sweetest strain.
Thou’rt not alone—each gaily tinted flower,
That smiling greets us on the dewy lea,
The painted clouds at sunset’s golden hour,
To me are friends, and should be so to thee.
Thou’rt not alone—the red stars gleaming o’er thee,
At midnight lone, with whispering voices tell,
Old tales of those who passed away before thee,
In brighter lands beyond the sun to dwell.
And when the robe of Autumn gaily shining,
With rainbow hues is o’er the forest thrown,
Go, list the winds among their boughs repining,
And learn on earth thou ne’er can’st dwell alone.
Thou’rt not alone—the shades of the departed,
On radiant wings are soaring softly by—
Thou can’st not see them, but the gentle hearted
To visit thee oft leave the azure sky.
What though the world in chasing flying Pleasure,
With icy heart should past thee coldly hie?
Look—look on high—thou hast a richer treasure,
Than all its gems and glittering dross can buy.
* * * * *
THE WIDOW AND THE DEFORMED.
BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.