CHAPTER VIII.

"It's a decent match enough," said old Mrs. Myles to the rector when

two years had elapsed, and she had become reconciled to it. "Of course

Rose never could have taken the same stand as Helen, who has been a

lady now more than a year; though she's a good, grateful girl, and

Edward very attentive--very attentive indeed--and I must say more so

than I expected. Helen, I mean my lady, you know, has, as she says in

her last letter, a great deal to do with her money--of course she must

have; and so, sir, pray do not let any one in Abbeyweld know that the

little annuity is not continued--regularly, I mean," she added, while

a certain twitching of her features evinced how much she felt, though

she did not at the moment confess it, the neglect of one she so dearly

loved. Like most talkative people, she frequently talked away her

sorrows; and, thinking she would be better if she opened her heart,

she recommenced, after wiping away a few natural tears: "You see, sir,

Helen--I mean her ladyship--said she would make it up by-and-bye to

me, and so she ought, poor dear thing; for I sacrificed both myself

and her cousin Rose for her advancement; and really I cannot tell how

the money goes with those great folk. Only think," proceeded the old

lady, bringing her face close to Mr. Stokes, and whispering--"only

think, she says she never has five pounds she can call her own. Now,

as I told Rose, this is very odd, because my lord is so very rich

since the death of his brother, ten times as rich as he was at first,

and yet Rose says they are poor now to what they used to be--is

not that very strange? She says it is because of the increased

expenditure, and that I don't understand; but it's very hard, very

hard in my old days. If she can't live upon thirty thousand a-year,

I wonder how she expects her poor old grandmother to live upon thirty

pounds, for that's all my certainty; and the little farm, I must say,

would have gone to destruction, but for Edward Lynne--he does every

thing for it, poor fellow. She never sends me a paper now, with

her presentations, and dresses, and fine parties, printed in it at

full-length; she's ashamed of her birth, that's it; though sure

you and your lady, sir, noticed them both like equals, and I never

even asked to go near her, though his lordship invited me more than

once--and he even came to see Rose, as you know, ay, and a good ten

mile out of his way it was to come--a good ten mile--and kissed her

baby, and said he wished he had one like it, which they say Helen

never will have. Oh, it was a pity that first one of her ladyship did

not live! It is so cruel of her not to let me see the papers with an

account of her fine doings, all in print--very cruel--I who loved her

so, and took care of her--I never could find out from Rose whether

or no she thought her happy. Ah, Rose is a good girl! not, however,"

added the old lady, again wiping away her tears--"not, however, to be

compared to her ladyship; and I would not say what I have done to any

one in the world but you, sir, who have known them all their lives."

So talked old Mrs. Myles, and so she continued to talk at intervals,

during the next five years, growing weaker in mind and body, until at

last she took to her bed. "I could die happy," said the old woman, "if

I were to see Helen once more; write to her, Rose, and tell her so;

she will not refuse to see me, her first friend--only once."

Communications between the cousins had ceased for a long time, but

Rose wrote. Mrs. Myles sent twice every day to the post-office--and

her hopes, so constantly disappointed, increased her fever; at the end

of a week, a letter came.

"Give it me, Rose, give it me!" exclaimed Mrs. Myles, "it is from

my own darling child, bless her!--my beauty! Oh, deary me! I'm sure

that's a beautiful seal, if I could only see it; prop me up--there.

How the jessamine blinds the window--now my spectacles--so"--She tried

hard to read, but the power of sight was gone. "She used to write the

best hand in the school, but this fashionable writing is hard to make

out," observed the old woman; "so do you read it, Rosy."

"Here is ten pounds to begin with," said Rose, placing the gossamer

note before her.--Mrs. Myles mechanically took up the money, and

played with it as a child plays with a toy, and Rose read the few

words that accompanied the gift:--"Grieved to the heart to hear of the

illness of her ever dear relative--would be miserable about her but

from the knowledge of Rose being the best nurse in the world--begs she

will let her know how the dear invalid is by return of post, and also

if there is any thing she could send to alleviate her sufferings."

While Rose was reading the letter, Mrs. Myles's long thin feeble

fingers were playing with the note, her dim eyes fixed upon the

window; large round tears coursed each other down her colourless

cheeks. "No word about coming, Rose--no word about coming," she

muttered, after a pause; "send her back this trash," she added,

bitterly--"send her back this trash, and tell her the last tears I

shed were shed not for my sins, but for her cruelty." She continued to

mutter much that they could not understand; but evening closed in, and

Rose told Edward that she slept at last; she did certainly, and Rose

soon discovered that it was her last sleep. The money was returned;

and again five years elapsed without Rose hearing, directly or

indirectly, from her rich and titled cousin. In the mean time, Edward

and Rose prospered exceedingly; three handsome, happy children blessed

their home. Their industry perfected whatever Providence bestowed;

nothing was wasted, nothing neglected; the best farmers in the

neighbourhood asked advice of Edward Lynne; and the "born ladies,"

as poor Mrs. Myles would have called them, would have forgotten that

Rose was only a farmer's wife, if wise Rose had been herself disposed

to forget it. But great as their worldly prosperity had been, it was

nothing to the growth and continuance of that holy affection which

cheered and hallowed their happy dwelling--the chief characteristic

of which was a freedom from pretension of all kinds. Rose suffered

appearances to grow with their means, but never to precede them;

and though this is not the world's practice, the duty is not on that

account the less imperative. They were seated one evening round their

table, Edward reading, while his wife worked, when the master of the

post-office brought them a letter.

"It has lain two days, Measter Lynne," said the man, "for you never

send but once a-week; only, as I thought by the seal it must be

something grand, whoy I brought it down myself."

It was from Helen!--from the ambitious cousin--a few sad, mournful

lines, every one of which seemed dictated by a breaking heart.

She was ill and wretched, and the physician had suggested change of

air; but above all her native air. Would Rose receive her for a little

time, just to try what its effect might be?--she was sure she would,

and she would be with her immediately.

"Strange," said Edward, "how nature will assert and keep its power;

when luxury, art, skill, knowledge, fail to restore health, they tell

you of native air, trusting to the simple, pure restorative, which

is the peasant's birthright, as infallible. I wonder, Rose, how those

fine people like to be thrown back upon the nature they so outrage."

"Poor Helen!" exclaimed Rose, "how dispirited she seems--how

melancholy! I ought to feel afraid of your meeting her, I suppose,

Edward; but I do not--you have grown satisfied with your poor Rose. We

shall be able to make her very comfortable, shall we not?"--and then

she smiled at the homeliness of the phrase, and wondered what Helen

would say if she heard her.

It was not without sundry heartbeatings that Rose heard the carriage

stop, and assisted Helen to alight; nor could she conceal her

astonishment at the ravages which not past years but past emotions had

wrought on her once beautiful face.

The habit of suppressing thoughts, feelings, and emotions, had

altogether destroyed the frank expression of her exquisitely chiselled

mouth, which, when it smiled now, smiled alone; for the eyes, so

finely formed, so exquisitely fringed, did not smile in unison; they

had acquired a piercing and searching expression, altogether different

from their former brilliancy.

The elevated manners, the polished tone which high society alone

bestows, only increased the distance between the two cousins, though

Rose was certainly gratified by the exclamation of pleasure which told

how much better than she anticipated were the accommodations prepared

by her humble relative.

"Such pretty rooms--such beautiful flowers! Rose, you must have grown

rich, and without growing unhappy. Strange, you look ten years younger

than I do!"

"Late hours, public life, and anxieties," said Rose.

"Yes, that last appointment his lordship obtained, the very thing

above all others I so desired for him, has completely divided him from

his home. We hardly ever meet now, except at what I may call our own

public dinners."

"And he, who used to be so affectionate, so fond of domestic life!"

involuntarily exclaimed Rose.

"And is so still; but the usages of society, the intrigues and bustle

of public business, quite overthrow every thing of that kind. Oh, it

is a weary, wearying world!"

"But to a mind like yours, the achieving an object must be so

delightful!"

"Ay, Rose, so it is; but that sort of thing soon passes away, and we

have no sooner obtained possession of one, than another still more

desirable presents itself. How peaceful and happy you seem. Well, an

idle mind must be a perpetual feast."

"But I have not an idle mind, not an idle moment," replied Rose,

colouring a little; "my husband, my children, my humble household, the

care of the parochial schools, now that poor Mr. Stokes has grown so

infirm"--

"Yes, yes!" interrupted Helen; "and yet, Rose, when I look at you,

even now, I cannot but think you were fitted for better things."

"Better than learning how to occupy time profitably, and training

souls for immortality!" she replied; "but you are worn and tired, let

me wait upon you this one night, as I used long, long ago to do--let

me wait upon my own dear cousin, instead of a menial, this one night,

and to-morrow you shall see Edward and the children."

The worn-hearted woman of the great world laid her face upon her

cousin's shoulder, and then fairly hid it in her bosom. Why it was, He

only, who knows the mysterious workings of the human heart, can tell;

but she wept long and very bitterly, assigning no cause for her tears,

but sobbing and weeping like a sorrowing child, while the arms she had

flung round her cousin's neck prevented Rose from moving. Their tears

once more mingled, as they had often done in childhood--once more--but

not for long.

"Leave me alone for a little, and I will ring for my maid," she said

at last; "I am too artificial to be waited upon by you, Rose. It was

otherwise when you used to twine gay poppies and bright flowers in my

hair, telling me, at the same time, how much wiser it would have been

to have chosen the less fading and more fragrant ones."

"Her husband--and her children!" thought Helen; "if she had neither

children nor husband, she would have been of such value to me now;

noisy children, I dare say, troublesome and wearying. Native air!

native air, indeed, _ought_ to work wonders." It would be hardly

credited that Helen--the beauty--the admired--the woman of

rank--bestowed quite as much trouble upon her morning toilette as

if she had been in London. Such was her aching passion for universal

sway, that she could not bear to be thought faded by her old lover,

though he was only a farmer; and this trouble was taken despite bodily

pain that would have worn a strong man to a skeleton.

It would be difficult to say whether Helen was pleased or displeased

at finding Edward Lynne what might, without any flattery, be termed a

country gentleman, betraying no emotion whatever at the sight of one

who had caused him so much suffering, and only anxious to gratify her

because she was his wife's relative. She thought, and she was right,

that she discovered pity, and not admiration, as he looked upon her.

"You think me changed," she said.

"Your ladyship has been ill and harassed."

"Ah! we all change except Rose."

"Ah!" replied the country bred husband, "she, indeed, is an exception;

she could not even change for the better."

And then the children, two such glorious boys, fine, manly fellows.

"And what will you be?" inquired her ladyship of the eldest.

"A farmer, my lady."

"And you?"

"A merchant, I hope."

"Your boys are as unambitious as yourself, Rose."

"I fear not," she answered; "this fellow wants to get into the middle

class; but Mr. Stokes says the prosperity of a country depends more

upon the middle class than upon either the high or the low."

To this Helen made no reply, for her attention was occupied by

the loveliness of Rose's little girl. The child inherited, in

its perfection, the beauty of her family, and a grace and spirit

peculiarly her own. Rose could not find it in her heart to deprive

her cousin of the child's society, which seemed to interest and amuse

her, and the little creature performed so many acts of affection

and attention from the impulse of her own kind nature, that Helen,

unaccustomed to that sort of devotion, found her twine around

her sympathies in a novel and extraordinary manner; it was a new

sensation, and she could not account for its influence. After a

week had passed, she was able to walk out, and met by chance the

old clergyman. He kissed the child, and passed on with a bow, which,

perhaps, had more of bitterness in its civility than, strictly

speaking, befitted a Christian clergyman; but he thought of the

neglect she had evinced towards old Mrs. Myles, and if he had spoken,

it would have been to vent his displeasure, and reprove the woman

whose rank could not shield her from his scorn. She proceeded towards

the churchyard. "Look, lady!" said little Rose; "father put that stone

over that grave to please mother. The relation who is buried there

took care of my mother when she was a _littler_ girl than I am now,

and he told me to strew flowers over the grave, which we do. See, I

can read it--'Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. Margaret Myles, who died

the seventeenth of June, eighteen hundred'--and something--I can

hardly read figures yet, lady. 'This stone was placed here by her

grateful relatives, E. and R.S.,' meaning Rose and Edward Lynne."

The coldness of the clergyman was forgotten in the bitterness of

self-reproach. "I was a fool," she thought, as she turned away, "to

fancy that my native air could be untainted by the destiny which has

mocked me from my cradle."

"Ah! lady dear," exclaimed a crone, rising from a grave where she

had been sitting, "don't you remember old Betty? They all said in the

village you'd be too proud to look on your grandmother's grave; but

you're not, I see. Well, that's good--that's good. We had a funeral

last week, and the vault of the old earl was broken in. The stupid

sexton stuck his pick in amongst the old bricks, and so the great

man's skull came tumbling out, and rolled beside the skull of Job

Martin, the old cobbler; and the sexton laid them both on the edge of

the grave, the earl's skull and the cobbler's skull, until he should

fetch a mason to mend the vault, and--what do you think?--when the

mason came, the sexton could not tell which was the earl's skull and

which was the cobbler's! Lady, you must understand how this is--it's

all the same in a hundred years, according to the saying; and so

it is. None of them could tell which was the earl's, and which the

cobbler's. My skull may lie next a lady's yet, and no one tell the

difference."

The lady and child hastened from the churchyard, and the old woman

muttered, "To see that! She's not half as well to look at now as the

farmer's wife. Ah! 'All is not gold that glitters!'" How happy it is

for those who believe in the truth of this proverb, and from it learn

to be content!

It might be a week after this occurrence that Helen sent for Rose. The

lady either was, or fancied herself better, and said so, adding, it

was in her (Rose's) power to make her happier than she had ever been.

Reverting to the period when her cousin visited her in London, she

alluded to what she had suffered in becoming a mother, and yet having

her hopes destroyed by the anxiety and impetuosity of her own nature.

"At first," she said, "the trouble was anything but deep-rooted, for I

fancied God would send many more, but it was not so; and now the title

I so desired must go to the child of a woman--Oh, Rose, how I _do_

hate her!--a woman who publicly thanks God that no plebeian blood will

disgrace _my_ husband's title and _her_ family. I would peril my soul

to cause her the pain she has caused me."

"You do so now," said Rose, gently but solemnly. "Oh! think that this

violence and revenge sins your own soul, and is every way unworthy of

you."

Helen did not heed the interruption. "To add to my agony," she

continued, "my husband cherishes her son as if it were his own; the

boy stands even now between his affections and me. He has reproached

me for what he terms my insensibility to his perfections, and says

I ought to rejoice that he is so easily rendered happy--only imagine

this! Rose, you must give me your daughter, to be to me as my own.

Her beauty and sweetness will at once wean my husband's love from

this boy; and, moreover, children brought up together--do you not

see?--that boy will become attached to one of the 'plebeian blood,'

and wedding _her_ hereafter, scald to the core the proud heart of his

mother, as she has scalded mine!"

"I cannot, Helen," replied Rose, after a pause, during which her

cousin's glittering inquiring eyes were fixed upon her face--"I

cannot; I could not answer to my God at the last day for delivering

the soul he gave to my care to be so tutored (forgive me) as to forget

Him in all things."

"Forget God!" repeated Helen once or twice--"I forget God! Do you

think I am a heathen?"

"No, cousin--no--for you have all knowledge of the truth; but

knowledge, and profiting by our knowledge, are different. My little

gentle-hearted girl will be happier far in her own sphere. I could not

see her degraded to bait a trap for any purpose; she will be happy,

happier in her own sphere."

The lady bit her compressed lips; but during her whole life she never

gave up a point, nor an object, proving how necessary it is that the

strong mind should be well and highly directed. Small feeble minds

pass through the world doing little good and little harm, but to train

a large mind is worth the difficulty--worth the trouble it occasions:

its possession is either a great blessing or a great curse. To Helen

it was the latter, and curses never fall singly. "You have boys to

provide for," she said, "and if I adopted that child, I would not

suffer their station to disgrace their sister."

"I am sure you mean us kindly and generously; nor am I blind to the

advantages of such an offer for my boys. Their father has prospered

greatly, and could at this moment place them in any profession they

chose--still influence would help them forward; but the advancement of

one child must not be purchased by"--Rose paused for a word--she did

not wish to hurt her cousin's feelings--and yet none suggested itself

but what she conceived to be the true one, and she repeated, lowly

and gently, her opinion, prefacing it with, "You will forgive in this

matter my plain speaking, but the advancement of one child must not be

purchased by the sacrifice of another."

"Your prejudices have bewildered your understanding," exclaimed the

lady. "Whatever my ambition may be, my morality is unimpeached; a

vestal would lose none of her purity beneath my roof."

"Granted, fully and truly; woman's first virtue is untainted, but that

is not her only one; forgive me. I have no right to judge or dictate,

nor to give an unasked opinion; I am grateful for your kindness;

but my child, given to me as a blessing for time and a treasure for

eternity, must remain beneath my roof until her mind and character are

formed."

"You are mad, Rose; consider her future happiness"--

"Oh, Helen! are you more happy than your humble cousin?"

"She would be brought up in the sphere I was thrust into, and have

none of the contentions I have had to endure," said Helen.

"A sphere full of whirlpools and quicksands," replied the mother. "The

fancy you have taken to her might pass away. She might be taught the

bitterness of eating a dependant's bread, and the soft and luxurious

habits of her early days would unfit her for bearing so heavy a

burden; it would be in vain then to recall her to her humble home;

she would have lost all relish for it. It might please God to take

you after a few years, and my poor child would be returned to what she

would then consider poverty. Urge me no more, I entreat you."

Helen's face grew red and pale by turns. "You mock at and mar my

purposes," she said. "My husband was struck by the beauty of that

child, and I longed to see her; but I am doomed to disappointment. I

never tried to grasp a substance that it did not fade into a shadow!

What am I now?" Her eyes rested upon the reflection, given by the

glass, of the two cousins. "Look! that tells the story--worn in heart

and spirit, blighted and bitter. You, Rose--even you, my own flesh and

blood--will not yield to me--the only creature, perhaps, that could

love me! Oh! the void, the desert of life, without affection!--a

childless mother--made so by"--She burst into tears, and Rose was

deeply affected. She felt far more inclined to yield her child to the

desolate heart of Helen Marsh, than to the proud array of Lady ----;

but she also knew her duty.

"Will you grant me this favour," said Helen at last; "will you let the

child decide"--

"I would not yield to the child's decision, but you may, if you

please, prove her," answered her mother.

The little girl came softly into the room, having already learned that

a bounding step was not meet for "my lady's chamber."

"Rosa, listen; will you come with me to London, to ride in a fine

coach drawn by four horses--to wear a velvet frock--see beautiful

sights, and become a great lady. Will you, dear Rosa, and be my own

little girl?"

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed the child, gleefully; "that I will; _that_ would

be so nice--a coach and four--a velvet frock--a great lady--oh! dear

me!" The mother felt her limbs tremble, her heart sink. "Oh! my own

dear mother, will not _that_ be nice? and the beautiful sights you

have told me of--St. Paul's and Westminster--oh! mother, we shall be

so happy!"

"Not _me_, Rosa," answered Mrs. Lynne, with as firm a voice as she

could command. "Now, listen to me: you might ride _in_ a coach

and four, instead of _on_ your little pony--wear velvet instead of

cotton--see St. Paul's and Westminster--but have no more races on

the downs, no more peeping into birds' nests, no more seeing the old

church, or hearing its Sabbath bells. You _may_ become a great lady,

but you must leave and forget your father and me."

"Leave you, and my father and brothers! You did not mean _that_

surely--you could not mean that, my lady--could they not go with me?"

"That would be impossible!"

"Then I will stay here," said the little girl firmly; "I love them

better than every thing else in the world. Thank you, dear lady, but I

cannot leave them."

"Leave _us_, then, Rosa," said Helen, proudly. The child obeyed with a

frightened look, wondering how she had displeased the "grand lady."

If Helen had been steeped to the very lips in misery, she could not

have upbraided the world more bitterly than she did, giving vent to

long pent-up feelings, and reproaching Rose, not only for her folly

in not complying with her wish, but for her happiness and contentment,

which, while she envied, she affected to despise.

"You cannot make me believe that the high-born and wealthy are what

you represent," said her cousin. "A class must not be condemned

because of an individual; and though I never felt inclined to achieve

rank, I honour many of its possessors. It is the unsatisfied longing

of your own heart that has made you miserable, dear Helen; and oh!

let me entreat you, by the remembrance of our early years, to suffer

yourself to enjoy what you possess."

"What I possess!" she repeated; "the dread and dislike of my husband's

relatives--the reputation of 'she _was_ very handsome'--a broken

constitution--nothing to lean upon or love--a worn and weary heart!"

"You have a mine of happiness in your husband's affection."

"Not now," she answered bitterly; "not now--not now." And she was

right.

The next day she left the farm, where peace and prosperity dwelt

together; despite herself, it pained her to witness such happiness.

It is possible that the practical and practised theories she had

witnessed might have changed her, had she not foolishly thought it

too late. Her disappointment had been great; from the adoption of that

child she had expected much of what, after all, is the creating and

existing principle of woman's nature--natural affection; but this was

refused by its mother's wisdom. Her worldly prospects had been doomed

to disappointment, because she hungered and thirsted after vanities

and distinctions, which never can afford sustenance to an immortal

spirit; and even when she desired to cultivate attachment, it did not

proceed from the pure love of woman--the natural stream was corrupted

by an unworthy motive.

Again years rolled on. In the records of fashionable life, the

movements and fetes of Lady ---- continued to be occasionally noted

as the most brilliant of the season; then rumours became rife that

Lord and Lady ---- did not live as affectionately as heretofore;

then, after twenty years of union, separation ensued upon the public

ground of "incompatibility of temper"--his friends expressing their

astonishment how his lordship could have so long endured the pride

and caprice of one so lowly born, while hers--but friends! she had no

friends!--a few partizans of the "rights of women" there were, who,

for the sake of "the cause," defended the woman. She had been all her

life too restless for friendship, and when the sensation caused by

her separation from her husband had passed away, none of the gay world

seemed to remember her existence. Rose and her husband lived, loved,

and laboured together. It was astonishing how much good they did, and

how much they were beloved by their neighbours. Their names had never

been noted in any fashionable register, but it was engraved upon every

peasant heart in the district. "As happy as Edward and Rose Lynne,"

became a proverb; and if any thing was needed to increase the love

the one felt for the other, it was perfected by the affection of their

children.

"I think," said the old rector, as they sat round the evening

tea-table, "that our school may now vie with any in the

diocese--thanks to the two Roses; twin roses they might almost be

called, though Rosa hardly equals Rose. I wonder what Mrs. Myles would

say if she were to look upon this happy group. Ah dear!--well God is

very good to permit such a foretaste of heaven as is met with here."

And the benevolent countenance of the good pastor beamed upon the

happy family. "I have brought you the weekly paper," he continued;

"the Saturday paper. I had not time to look at it myself, but here

it is. Now, Edward, read us the news." The farther people are removed

from the busy scenes of life, the more anxious they are to hear of

their proceedings; and Edward read leading articles, debates, reviews,

until, under the head of "Paris," he read as follows--"Considerable

sensation has been excited here by the sudden death of the beautiful

Lady ----."

Rose screamed, and the paper trembled in Edward's hand. "This is too

horrid," he said.

"Do let me hear it all!" exclaimed his wife.

It was many minutes before Edward Lynne could tell her, that there

was more than an insinuation, that, wearied of existence, she, the

brilliant, the beautiful, the _fortunate_ Lady ----, wearied of life,

had abridged it herself.

Before they separated that evening, the Holy Word was read with more

than usual feeling and solemnity by Mr. Stokes, and yet he could not

read as much as usual. "All flesh is grass," brought tears into his

eyes. His prayer that all might long enjoy the perpetual feast of a

contented mind, was echoed by every heart; and the gratitude all felt

for God's goodness to them was mingled with regret for Helen; all

intermediate time was forgotten, and the elders of that little party

only remembered the bright and beautiful girl, the pride of Abbeyweld.

"God bless my beloved pupil!" said the venerable clergyman, as he

departed; "without a holy grace all is indeed vanity. May Rosa learn,

as early as her mother did, that

'ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS.'"

* * * * *

THERE IS NO HURRY.

CHAPTER I.

I do not tell you whether the village of Repton, where the two

brothers, John and Charles Adams, originally resided, is near or far

from London: it is a pretty village to this day; and when John Adams,

some five-and-thirty years ago, stood on the top of Repton Hill and

looked down upon the houses--the little church, whose simple gate was

flanked by two noble yew trees, beneath whose branches he had often

sat--the murmuring river in which he had often fished--the cherry

orchards, where the ripe fruit hung like balls of coral; when he

looked down upon all these dear domestic sights--for so every native

of Repton considered them--John Adams might have been supposed to

question if he had acted wisely in selling to his brother Charles the

share of the well-cultivated farm, which had been equally divided at

their father's death. It extended to the left of the spot on which he

was standing, almost within a ring fence; the meadows, fresh shorn

of their produce, and fragrant with the perfume of new hay--the crops

full of promise, and the lazy cattle laving themselves in the standing

pond of the abundant farmyard; in a paddock, set apart for his

especial use, was the old blind horse his father had bestrode during

the last fifteen years of his life; it leant its sightless head

upon the gate, half up-turned, he fancied, to where he stood. It

is wonderful what small things will sometimes stir up the hearts of

strong men, ay, and what is still more difficult, even of ambitious

men. Yet he did not feel at that moment a regret for the fair acres he

had parted with; he was full of the importance which the possession

of a considerable sum of money gives a young man, who has been fagging

almost unsuccessfully in an arduous profession, and one which requires

a certain appearance of success to command success--for John Adams

even then placed M.D. after his plain name; yet still, despite the

absence of sorrow, and the consciousness of increased power, he

continued to look at poor old Ball until his eyes swam in tears.

With the presence of his father, which the sight of the old horse had

conjured up, came the remembrance of his peculiarities, his habits,

his expressions; and he wondered, as they passed in review before him,

how he could ever have thought the dear old man testy or tedious;

even his frequent quotations from "Poor Richard" appeared to him,

for the first time, the results of common prudence; and his rude but

wise rhyme, when, in the joy of his heart, he told his father he had

absolutely received five guineas as one fee from an ancient dame who

had three middle-aged daughters (he had not, however, acquainted his

father with _that_ fact,) came more forcibly to his memory than it had

ever done to his ear--

"For want and age save while you may,

No morning sun shines all the day."

He repeated the last line over and over again, as his father had done;

but as his "morning sun" was at that moment shining, it is not matter

of astonishment that the remembrance was evanescent, and that it did

not make the impression upon him his father had desired _long_ before.

A young, unmarried, handsome physician, with about three thousand

pounds in his pocket, and "good expectations," might be excused for

building "des chateaux en Espagne." A very wise old lady said once

to me--"Those who have none on earth may be forgiven for building

them in the air; but those who have them on earth should be content

therewith." Not so, however, was John Adams; he built and built, and

then by degrees descended to the realities of his position. What power

would not that three thousand pounds give him! He wondered if Dr. Lee

would turn his back upon him now when they met in consultation; and

Mr. Chubb, the county apothecary, would he laugh and ask him if he

could read his own prescriptions? Then he recurred to a dream--for

it was so vague at that time as to be little more--whether it would

not be better to abandon altogether country practice, and establish

himself in the metropolis--London. A thousand pounds, advantageously

spent, with a few introductions, would do a great deal in London, and

that was not a third of what he had. And this great idea banished all

remembrance of the past, all sense of the present--the young aspirant

thought only of the future.

CHAPTER II.

Five years have passed. Dr. John Adams was "settled" in a small

"showy" house in the vicinity of Mayfair; he had, the world said, made

an excellent match. He married a very pretty girl, "highly connected,"

and was considered to be possessed of personal property, because,

for so young a physician, Dr. Adams lived in "a superior style." His

brother Charles was still residing in the old farm-house, to which,

beyond the mere keeping it in repair, he had done but little, except,

indeed, adding a wife to his establishment--a very gentle, loving,

yet industrious girl, whose dower was too small to have been her only

attraction. Thus both brothers might be said to be fairly launched in

life.

It might be imagined that Charles Adams, having determined to reside

in his native village, and remain, what his father and grandfather

had been, a simple gentleman farmer, and that rather on a small than

a large scale, was altogether without that feeling of ambition which

stimulates exertion and elevates the mind. Charles Adams had quite

enough of this--which may be said, like fire, to be "a good servant,

but a bad master"--but he made it subservient to the dictates of

prudence--and a forethought, the gift, perhaps, that, above all

others, we should most earnestly covet for those whose prosperity we

would secure. To save his brother's portion of the freehold from going

into the hands of strangers, he incurred a debt; and wisely--while

he gave to his land all that was necessary to make it yield its

increase--he abridged all other expenses, and was ably seconded in

this by his wife, who _resolved_, until principal and interest were

discharged, to live quietly and carefully. Charles contended that

every appearance made beyond a man's means was an attempted fraud upon

the public; while John shook his head, and answered that it might

do very well for Charles to say so, as no one expected the sack that

brought the grain to market to be of fine Holland, but that no man in

a profession could get on in London without making "an appearance."

At this Charles shrugged his shoulders, and thanked God he lived at

Repton.

The brothers, as years moved rapidly on--engaged as they were by their

mutual industry and success in their several fields of action--met but

seldom. It was impossible to say which of the two continued the most

prosperous. Dr. Adams made several lucky hits; and having so obtained

a position, was fortunate in having an abundance of patients in an

intermediate sort of state--that is, neither very well nor very ill.

Of a really bland and courteous nature, he was kind and attentive

to all, and it was certain that such of his patients as were only in

moderate circumstances, got well long before those who were rich; his

friends attributed this to his humanity as much as to his skill; his

enemies said he did not like "poor patients." Perhaps there was a

mingling of truth in both statements. The money he had received for

his portion of the land was spent, certainly, before his receipts

equalled his expenditure; and strangely enough, by the time the farmer

had paid off his debt, the doctor was involved, not to a large amount,

but enough to render his "appearance" to a certain degree fictitious.

This embarrassment, to do him justice, was not of long continuance;

he became the fashion; and before prosperity had turned his head by

an influx of wealth, so as to render him careless, he got rid of his

debt, and then his wife agreed with him "that they might live as they

pleased."

It so happened that Charles Adams was present when this observation

was made, and it spoke well for both the brothers that their different

positions in society had not in the smallest degree cooled their

boyhood's affection; not even the money transactions of former times,

which so frequently create disunion, had changed them; they met less

frequently, but they always met with pleasure, and separated with

regret.

"Well!" exclaimed the doctor triumphantly, as he glanced around his

splendid rooms, and threw himself into a _chaise longue_--then a new

luxury--"well, it is certainly a charming feeling to be entirely out

of debt."

"And yet," said his wife, "it would not be wise to confess it in our

circle."

"Why?" inquired Charles.

"Because it would prove that we had been in it," answered the lady.

"At all events," said John, "now I shall not have to reproach myself

with every extra expense, and think I ought to pay my debts first; now

I may live exactly as I please."

"I do not think so," said Charles.

"Not think so!" repeated Mrs. Adams in a tone of astonishment.

"Not think so!" exclaimed John; "do I not make the money myself?"

"Granted, my dear fellow; to be sure you do," said Charles.

"Then why should I not spend it as pleases me best? Is there any

reason why I should not?"

As if to give the strongest dramatic effect to Charles's opinion, the

nurse at that moment opened the drawing-room door, and four little

laughing children rushed into the room.

"There--are four reasons against your spending your income exactly as

you please; unless, indeed, part of your plan be to provide for them,"

answered Charles very seriously.

"I am sure," observed Mrs. Adams, with the half-offended air of a weak

woman when she hears the truth, "John need not be told his duty to his

children; he has always been a most affectionate father."

"A father may be fond and foolish," said Charles, who was peculiarly

English in his mode of giving an opinion. "For my part, I could not

kiss my little Mary and Anne when I go to bed at night, if I did

not feel I had already formed an accumulating fund for their future

support--a support they will need all the more when their parents are

taken from them, as they must be, in the course of time."

"They must marry," said Mrs. Adams.

"That is a chance," replied Charles; "women hang on hands now-a-days.

At all events, by God's blessing, I am resolved that, if they are

beauties, they shall never be forced by poverty to accept unworthy

matches; if they are plain, they shall have enough to live upon

without husbands."

"That is easy enough for you, Charles," said the doctor, "who have

had your broad acres to support you, and no necessity for expenditure

or show of any kind; who might go from Monday morning till Saturday

night in home-spun, and never give any thing beyond home-brewed and

gooseberry wine, with a chance bottle of port to your visiters--while

I, Heaven help me! was obliged to dash in a well-appointed equipage,

entertain, and appear to be doing a great deal in my profession, when

a guinea would pine in solitude for a week together in my pocket."

"I do not want to talk with you of the past, John," said Charles; "our

ideas are more likely to agree now than they were ten or twelve years

ago; I will speak of the future and present. You are now out of debt,

in the very prime of life, and in the receipt of a splendid income;

but do not, let me entreat you, spend it as it comes; lay by something

for those children; provide for them either by insurance, or some of

the many means that are open to us all. Do not, my dear brother, be

betrayed by health, or the temptation for display, to live up to an

income the nature of which is so essentially precarious."

"Really," murmured Mrs. Adams, "you put one into very low spirits."

Charles remained silent, waiting his brother's reply.

"My dear Charles," he said at last, "there is a great deal of truth in

what you say--certainly a great deal; but I cannot change my style of

living, strange as it may seem. If I did, I should lose my practice.

And then I must educate my children; _that_ is an imperative duty, is

it not?"

"Certainly it is; it is a _part_ of the provision I have spoken of,

but not the whole--a portion only. If you have the means to do both,

it is your duty to do both; and you _have_ the means. Nay, my dear

sister, do not seem angry or annoyed with me; it is for the sake of

your children I speak; it is to prevent their ever knowing practically

what we do know theoretically--that the world is a hard world;

hard and unfeeling to those who need its aid. It is to prevent the

possibility of their feeling _a reverse_."

Mrs. Adams burst into tears, and walked out of the room. Charles was

convinced that _she_ would not uphold his opinion.

"Certainly," said John, "I intend to provide for my children; but

_there is no hurry_, and"--

"There should be no hesitation in the case," interrupted Charles;

"every man _intends_ to provide for his children. God forbid that I

should imagine any man to be sufficiently wicked to say--I have been

the means of bringing this child into existence--I have brought it up

in the indulgence of all the luxuries with which I indulged myself;

and now I intend to withdraw them all from it, and leave it to fight

its own way through the world. No man could look on the face of the

innocent child nestling in your bosom and say _that_; but if you do

not appropriate a portion of the means you possess to save that child

from the 'hereafter,' you act as if you had resolved so to cast it on

the wild waters of a turbulent world."

"But, Charles, I intend to do all that you counsel; no wonder poor

Lucy could not bear these words, when I, your own and only brother,

find them stern and reproachful; no wonder that such should be the

case; of course I _intend_ to provide for my children."

"Then DO IT," said Charles.

"Why, so I will; but cannot in a moment. I have already said there is

no hurry. You must give a little time."

"The time may come, my dear John, when TIME will give you no time. You

have been spending over and above your debt--more than, as the father

of four children, you have any right to spend. The duty parents owe

their children in this respect has preyed more strongly on my mind

than usual, as I have been called on lately to witness its effects--to

see its misery. One family at Repton, a family of eight children, has

been left entirely without provision, by a man who enjoyed a situation

of five hundred a-year in quarterly payments."

"That man is, however, guiltless. What could he save out of five

hundred a-year? How could he live on less?" replied the doctor.

"Live upon four, and insure his life for the benefit of those

children. Nay," continued Charles, in the vehemence of his feelings,

"the man who does not provide means of existence for his helpless

children, until they are able to provide for themselves, cannot

be called a reasonable person; and the legislature ought to oblige

such to contribute to a fund to prevent the spread of the worst sort

of pauperism--that which comes upon well-born children from the

carelessness or selfishness of their parents. God in his wisdom, and

certainly in his mercy, removed the poor broken-hearted widow of the

person I alluded to a month after his death; and the infant, whose

nourishment from its birth had been mingled with bitterness, followed

in a few days. I saw myself seven children crowd round the coffin

that was provided by charity; I saw three taken to the workhouse, and

the elder four distributed amongst kind-hearted hard-working people,

who are trying to inure the young soft hands, accustomed to silken

idleness, to the toils of homely industry. I ask you, John Adams, how

the husband of that woman, the father of those children, can meet

his God, when it is required of him to give an account of his

stewardship?"

"It is very true--very shocking indeed," observed Dr. Adams. "I

certainly will do something to secure my wife and children from the

possibility of any thing like _that_, although, whatever were to

happen to me, I am sure Lucy's family would prevent"--

Charles broke in upon the sentence his brother found it difficult

to complete--"And can you expect distant or even near relatives to

perform what you, whose duty it is, neglect? Or would you leave those

dear ones to the bitterness of dependence, when, by the sacrifice or

curtailment of those luxurious habits which, if not closely watched,

increase in number, and at last become necessaries, you could leave

them in comfort and independence! We all hope for the leisure of a

death-bed--awful enough, come as it may--awful, even when beyond its

gloom we see the risen Sun of Righteousness in all his glory--awful,

though our faith be strong in Him who is our strength; but if the

consciousness of having neglected those duties which we were sent on

earth to perform be with us then, dark, indeed, will be the Valley of

the Shadow of Death. I do not want, however, to read a homily, my dear

brother, but to impress a truth; and I do hope that you will prevent

the possibility of these dear children feeling what they must feel,

enduring what they must endure, if _you_ passed into another world

without performing your duty towards them, and through them to

society, in this."

Mrs. Adams met her brother-in-law that day (people five-and-twenty

years ago did dine by day) at dinner, with an air of offence. She was,

of course, lady-like and quiet, but it was evident she was displeased.

Every thing at table was perfect according to its kind. There was

no guest present who was not superior in wealth and position to the

doctor himself, and each was quite aware of the fact. Those who climb

boldly sometimes take a false step, but at all times make dangerous

ones. When Charles looked round upon the splendid plate and stylish

servants--when the children were ushered in after dinner, and

every tongue was loud in praises of their beauty--an involuntary

shudder passed through his heart, and he almost accused himself of

selfishness, when he was comforted by the remembrance of the provision

made for his own little ones, who were as pretty, as well educated,

and as happy in their cheerful country home.

CHAPTER III.

The next morning he was on his return to Repton, happy in the

assurance his brother had given him before they parted, that he would

really lay by a large sum for the regular insurance of his life.

"My dear John," said the doctor's wife, "when does the new carriage

come home? I thought we were to have had it this week. The old chariot

looked so dull to-day, just as you were going out, when Dr. Fitzlane's

new chocolate-colour passed; certainly that chocolate-coloured

carriage picked out with blue and those blue liveries are very, very

pretty."

"Well, Lucy, I think them too gay--the liveries I mean--for an

M.D.; quieter colours do best; and as to the new carriage, I had not

absolutely ordered it. I don't see why I cannot go on with the jobs;

and I almost think I shall do so, and appropriate the money I intended

for _my own_ carriage to another purpose."

"What purpose?"

"Why, to effect an insurance on my life. There was a great deal

of truth in what Charles said the other day, although he said it

coarsely, which is not usual with him; but he felt the subject, and

I feel it also; so I think of, as I said, going quietly on with the

jobs--at all events till next year--and devoting this money to the

insurance."

It is difficult to believe how any woman, situated as Mrs. Adams was,

could have objected to a plan so evidently for her advantage and the

advantage of her family; but she was one of those who never like to

think of the possibility of a reverse of fortune--who thrust care off

as long as they can, and who feel more pleasure in being lavish as to

the present than in saving for the future.

"I am sure," she answered, in the half-petted half-peevish tone that

evinces a weak mind--"I am sure if any thing was to happen to you, I

would break my heart at once, and my family, of course, would provide

for the children. I could not bear the idea of reaping any advantage

by your death; and really the jobs are so very inferior to what they

used to be--and Dr. Leeswor, next door but one, has purchased such a

handsome chariot--you have at least twice his practice; and--Why, dear

John, you never were in such health; there will be no necessity for

this painful insurance. And after you have set up your _own_ carriage,

you can begin and lay by, and in a few years there will be plenty for

the children; and I shall not have the galling feeling that any living

thing would profit by your death. Dear John, pray do not think of this

painful insurance; it may do very well for a man like your brother--a

man with out refinement; but just fancy the mental torture of such a

provision."

Much more Mrs. Adams talked; and the doctor, who loved display, and

had no desire to see Dr. Leeswor, his particular rival, or even

Dr. Fitzlane, better appointed than himself, felt strongly inclined

towards the new carriage, and thought it would certainly be pleasanter

to save than to insure, and resolved to begin immediately _after_ the

purchase of his new equipage.

When persons are very prosperous, a few ten or twenty pounds do not

much signify, but the principle of careless expenditure is hard to

curb.

Various things occurred to put off the doctor's plan of laying by.

Mrs. Adams had an illness, that rendered a residence abroad necessary

for a winter or two. The eldest boy must go to Eton. As their mamma

was not at home, the little girls were sent to school. Bad as Mrs.

Adams's management was, it was better than no management at all. If

the doctor had given up his entertainments, his "friends" would have

said he was going down in the world, and his patients would have

imagined him less skilful; besides, notwithstanding his increased

expenditure, he found he had ample means, not to lay by, but to spend

on without debt or difficulty. Sometimes his promise to his brother

would cross his mind, but it was soon dispelled by what he had led

himself to believe was the impossibility of attending to it then. When

Mrs. Adams returned, she complained that the children were too much

for her nerves and strength, and her husband's tenderness induced him

to yield his favourite plan of bringing up his girls under his own

roof. In process of time two little ones were added to the four, and

still his means kept pace with his expenses; in short, for ten years

he was a favourite with the class of persons who render favouritism

fortune. It is impossible, within the compass of a tale, to trace the

minutiæ of the brothers' history; the children of both were handsome,

intelligent, and in the world's opinion, well educated; John's eldest

daughter was one amongst a thousand for beauty of mind and person;

hers was no glaring display of figure or information. She was gentle,

tender, and affectionate; of a disposition sensitive and attuned to

all those rare virtues in her sphere, which form at once the treasures

of domestic life and the ornaments of society. She it was who soothed

the nervous irritability of her mother's sick chamber and perpetual

peevishness, and graced her father's drawing-room by a presence

that was attractive to both old and young, from its sweetness and

unpretending modesty; her two younger sisters called forth all

her tenderness, from the extreme delicacy of their health; but her

brothers were even greater objects of solicitude--handsome spirited

lads--the eldest waiting for a situation, promised, but not given; the

second also waiting for a cadetship; while the youngest was still at

Eton. These three young men thought it incumbent on them to evince

their belief in their father's prosperity by their expenditure, and

accordingly they spent much more than the sons of a professional man

ought to spend under any circumstances. Of all waitings, the waiting

upon patronage is the most tedious and the most enervating to the

waiter. Dr. Adams felt it in all its bitterness when his sons' bills

came to be paid; but he consoled himself, also, for his dilatoriness

with regard to a provision for his daughters--it was impossible to lay

by while his children were being educated; but the moment his eldest

sons got the appointments they were promised, he would certainly save,

or insure, or do something.

People who only _talk_ about doing "something," generally end by doing

"nothing." Another year passed; Mrs. Adams was still an invalid, the

younger girls more delicate than ever, the boys waiting, as before,

their promised appointments, and more extravagant than ever; and Miss

Adams had made a conquest which even her father thought worthy of her.

The gentleman who had become really attached to this beautiful girl

was of a high family, who were sufficiently charmed with the object

of his affections to give their full sanction, as far as person

and position were concerned; but the prudent father of the would-be

bridegroom thought it right to take an early opportunity of waiting

upon the doctor, stating his son's prospects, and frankly asking what

sum Dr. Adams proposed settling on his daughter. Great, indeed, was

his astonishment at the reply--"He should not be able to give his

daughter anything _immediately_, but at his death." The doctor, for

the first time for many years, felt the bitterness of his _false

position_. He hesitated, degraded by the knowledge that he must sink

in the opinion of the man of the world by whom he was addressed; he

was irritated at his want of available funds being known; and though

well aware that the affections of his darling child were bound up in

the son of the very gentlemanly but most prudent person who sat before

him, he was so high and so irritable in his bearing, that the fathers

parted, not in anger, but in any thing but good feeling.

Sir Augustus Barry was not slow to set before his son the

disadvantages of a union where the extravagant habits of Miss Adams

had no more stable support than her father's life; he argued that a

want of forethought in the parents would be likely to produce a want

of forethought in the children; and knowing well what could be done

with such means as Dr. Adams had had at his command for years, he was

not inclined to put a kind construction upon so total a want of the

very quality which he considered the best a man could possess; after

some delay, and much consideration of the matter, he told his son that

he really could not consent to his marriage with a penniless bride.

And Dr. Adams, finding that the old gentleman, with a total want of

that delicacy which moneyed men do not frequently possess, had spoken

of what he termed too truly and too strongly his "heartless" want of

forethought, and characterised as a selfishness the indulgence of a

love for display and extravagance, when children were to be placed in

the world and portioned--insulted the son for the fault of the father,

and forbade his daughter to receive him.

Mary Adams endeavoured to bear this as meekly as she had borne the

flattery and the tenderness which had been lavished on her since her

birth. The bitter, bitter knowledge that she was considered by her

lover's family as a girl who, with the chance of being penniless,

lived like a princess, was inconceivably galling; and though she had

dismissed her lover, and knew that her father had insulted him, still

she wondered how he could so soon forget her, and never write even a

line of farewell. From her mother she did not expect sympathy; she

was too tender and too proud to seek it; and her father, more occupied

than ever, was seldom in his own house. Her uncle, who had not been in

town for some years, at last arrived, and was not less struck by the

extreme grace and beauty of his niece, than by the deep melancholy

which saddened her voice and weighed down her spirits. He was

evidently anxious to mention something which made him joyous and

happy; and when the doctor entered the library with him, he said, "And

may not Mary come in also?" Mary did come in; and her gentle presence

subdued her uncle's spirits. "I had meant to tell the intended change

in my family only to you, brother John; but it has occurred to me we

were all wrong about my niece; they said at home, 'Do not invite my

cousin, she is too fine, too gay to come to a country wedding; she

would not like it;' but I think, surrounded as she is by luxuries,

that the fresh air of Repton, the fresh flowers, fresh fields, and

fresh smiles of her cousins would do my niece good, great good, and

we shall be quite gay in our own homely way--the gaiety that upsprings

from hearts grateful to the Almighty for his goodness. The fact is,

that in about three weeks _my_ Mary is to be married to our rector's

eldest son! In three weeks. As he is only his father's curate, they

could not have afforded to marry for five or six years, if I had not

been able to tell down a handsome sum for Mary's fortune; it was a

proud thing to be able to make a good child happy by care in time.

'Care in time,' that's my stronghold! How glad we were to look back

and think, that while we educated them properly, we denied ourselves

to perform our duty to the children God had given to our care. We have

not been as _gay_ as our neighbours, whose means were less than ours;

we could not be so, seeing we had to provide for five children; but

our pleasure has been to elevate and render those children happy and

prosperous. Mary will be so happy, dear child--so happy! Only think,

John, she will be six years the sooner happy from our _care in time_!"

This was more than his niece could bear. The good father was so

full of his daughter's happiness, and the doctor so overwhelmed with

self-reproach--never felt so bitterly as at that moment--that neither

perceived the death-like paleness that overspread the less fortunate

Mary's face. She got up to leave the room, staggered, and fell at her

father's feet.

"We have murdered her between us," muttered Dr. Adams, while he raised

her up; "murdered her; but _I_ struck the first blow. God forgive me!

God forgive me!"

That night the brothers spent in deep and earnest converse. The

certainty of his own prosperity, the self-gratulation that follows

a just and careful discharge of duties imposed alike by reason and

religion, had not raised Charles above his brother in his own esteem.

Pained beyond description at the suffering he had so unconsciously

inflicted on his niece--horror-struck at the fact, that thousands

upon thousands had been lavished, yet nothing done for hereafter, the

hereafter that _must_ come, he urged upon John the danger of delay,

the uncertainty of life. Circumstances increased his influence. Dr.

Adams had been made painfully aware that gilding was not gold. The

beauty, position, and talents of his beloved child, although fully

acknowledged, had failed to establish her in life. "Look, Charles," he

said, after imparting all to his brother, absolutely weeping over the

state of uncomplaining but deep sorrow to which his child was reduced,

"if I could command the necessary sum, I would to-morrow insure my

life for a sum that would place them beyond the possible reach of

necessity of any kind."

"Do not wait for that," was the generous reply of Charles Adams; "I

have some unemployed hundreds at this moment. Come with me to-morrow;

do not delay a day, no, nor an hour; and take my word for it you will

have reason to bless your resolve. Only imagine what would be the

case if God called you to give an account of your stewardship." But he

checked himself; he saw that more was not necessary; and the brothers

separated for a few hours, both anxious for the morning. It was

impossible to say which of the two hurried over breakfast with the

greatest rapidity. The carriage was at the door; and Dr. Adams

left word with his butler that he was gone into the city on urgent

business, and would be back in two hours.

"I don't think," exclaimed Charles, rubbing his hands gleefully, "I

don't think, that if my dear niece were happy, I should ever have been

so happy in all my life as I am at this moment."

"I feel already," replied John, "as if a great weight were removed

from my heart; and were it not for the debt which I have contracted

to you--Ah, Charles, I little dreamt, when I looked down from the

hill over Repton, and thought my store inexhaustible, that I should

be obliged to you thus late in life. And yet I protest I hardly know

where I could have drawn in; one expense grows so out of another.

These boys have been so very extravagant; but I shall soon have the

two eldest off; they cannot keep them much longer waiting."

"Work is better than waiting; but let the lads fight their way;

they have had, I suppose, a good education; they ought to have

had professions. There is something to me awfully lazy in your

'appointments;' a young man of spirit will appoint himself; but it is

the females of a family, brought up, as yours have been, who are to

be considered. Women's position in society is changed from what it

was some years ago; it was expected that they must marry; and so they

were left, before their marriage, dependent upon fathers and brothers,

as creatures that could do nothing for themselves. Now, poor things,

I really don't know why, but girls do not marry off as they used.

They become old, and frequently--owing to the expectation of their

settling--without the provision necessary for a comfortable old age.

This is the parent of those despicable tricks and arts which women

resort to to get married, as they have no acknowledged position

independent of matrimony. Something ought to be done to prevent this.

And when the country steadies a little from the great revolution

of past years, I suppose something may be thought of by improved

teaching--and systems to enable women to assist themselves, and be

recompensed for the assistance they yield others. Now, imagine your

dear girls, those younger ones particularly, deprived of you"--

"Here is the patient upon whom I must call, _en route_" interrupted

the doctor.

The carriage drew up.

"I wish," said Charles, "you had called here on your return. I wanted

the insurance to have been your first business to-day."

"I shall not be five minutes," was the reply. The servant let down

the step, and the doctor bounded up towards the open door. In his

progress, he trod upon a bit, a mere shred, of orange-peel; it was the

mischief of a moment; he slipped, and his temple struck against the

sharp column of an iron-scraper. Within one hour, Dr. John Adams had

ceased to exist. What the mental and bodily agony of that one hour

was, you can better understand than I can describe. He was fully

conscious that he was dying--and he knew all the misery that was to

follow.

CHAPTER IV.

"Mary my dear niece," said Charles Adams, as he seated himself by her

side; "my dear, dear niece, can you fix your thoughts, and give me

your attention for half an hour, now that all is over, and the demands

of the world press upon us. I want to speak about the future. Your

mother bursts into such fits of despair that I can do nothing with

her; and your brother is so ungovernable--talks as if he could command

the bank of England, and is so full of his mother's connexions and

their influence, that I have left him to himself. Can you, my dear

Mary, restrain your feelings, and give me your attention?"

Mary Adams looked firmly in her uncle's face, and said, "I will try.

I have been thinking and planning all the morning, but I do not know

how to begin being useful. If I once began, I could go on. The sooner

we are out of this huge expensive house the better; if I could get

my mother to go with the little girls to the sea-side. Take her away

altogether from this home--take her"--

"Where?" inquired Mr. Adams; "she will not accept shelter in my

house."

"I do not know," answered his niece, relapsing into all

the helplessness of first grief; "indeed I do not know; her

brother-in-law, Sir James Ashbroke, invited her to the Pleasaunce,

but my brother objects to her going there, his uncle has behaved so

neglectfully about his appointment."

"Foolish boy!" muttered Charles; "this is no time to quarrel about

trifles. The fact is, Mary, that the sooner you are all out of this

house the better; there are one or two creditors, not for large sums

certainly, but still men who will have their money; and if we do

not quietly sell off, they will force us. The house might have been

disposed of last week by private contract, but your mother would not

hear of it, because the person who offered was a medical rival of my

poor brother."

Mary did not hear the concluding observation; her eyes wandered from

object to object in the room--the harp--the various things known from

childhood. "Any thing you and your mother wish, my dear niece,"

said her kind uncle, "shall be preserved--the family pictures--your

harp--your piano--they are all hallowed memorials, and shall be kept

sacred."

Mary burst into tears. "I do not," she said, "shrink from considering

those instruments the means of my support; but although I know the

necessity for so considering, I feel I cannot tell what at quitting

the home of my childhood; people are all kind; you, my dear uncle,

from whom we expected so little, the kindest of all; but I see, even

in these early days of a first sorrow, indications of falling off. My

aunt's husband has really behaved very badly about the appointment of

my eldest brother; and as to the cadetship for the second--we had such

a brief dry letter from our Indian friend--so many first on the list,

and the necessity for waiting, that I do not know how it will end."

"I wish, my dear, you could prevail on your mother, and sister, and

all, to come to Repton," said Mr. Adams. "If your mother dislikes

being in my house, I would find her a cottage near us; I will do all

I can. My wife joins me in the determination to think that we have six

additional children to look to. We differ from you in our habits; but

our hearts and affections are no less true to you all. My Mary and you

will be as sisters."

His niece could bear no more kindness. She had been far more bitterly

disappointed than she had confessed even to her uncle; and yet the

very bitterness of the disappointment had been the first thing that

had driven her father's dying wail from her ears--that cry repeated

so often and so bitterly in the brief moments left after his

accident--"My children! My children!" He had not sufficient faith

to commit them to God's mercy; he knew he had not been a faithful

steward; and he could not bring himself from the depths of his

spiritual blindness to call upon the Fountain that is never dried up

to those who would humbly and earnestly partake of its living waters.

It was all a scene as of another world to the young, beautiful,

petted, and feted girl; it had made her forget the disappointment

of her love, at least for a time. While her brothers dared the

thunder-cloud that burst above their heads, her mother and sisters

wept beneath its influence. Mary had looked forth, and if she did

not hope, she thought, and tried to pray; now, she fell weeping upon

her uncle's shoulder; when she could speak, she said, "Forgive me;

in a little time I shall be able to conquer this; at present, I am

overwhelmed; I feel as if knowledge and sorrow came together; I seem

to have read more of human nature within the last three days than in

all my past life."

"It all depends, Mary, upon the person you meet," said Mr. Adams, "as

upon the book you read; if you choose a foolish book or a bad book,

you can expect nothing but vice or foolishness; if you choose a

foolish companion, surely you cannot expect kindness or strength." The

kind-hearted man repeated to her all he had before said. "I cannot,"

he added, "be guilty of injustice to my children; but I can merge all

my own luxuries into the one of being a father to the fatherless."

But to all the plans of Charles Adams, objections were raised by his

eldest nephew and his mother; the youth could not brook the control

of a simple straight-minded country man, whose only claim to be

considered a gentleman, in his opinion, arose from his connexion

with "his family." He was also indignant with his maternal uncle for

his broken promise, and these feelings were strengthened by his

mother's folly. Two opportunities for disposing of the house and its

magnificent furniture were missed; and when Mrs. Adams complained to

her nearest and most influential connexions that her brother-in-law

refused to make her any allowance unless she consented to live at

Repton--expecting that they would be loud in their indignation at his

hardness--they advised her by all means to do what he wished, as he

was really the only person she had to depend upon. Others were lavish

of their sympathy, but sympathy wears out quickly; others invited her

to spend a month with them at their country-seat, for change of air;

one hinted how valuable Miss Adams' exquisite musical talent would

be _now_. Mary coloured, and said, "Yes," with the dignity of proper

feeling; but her mother asked the lady what she meant, and a little

scene followed, which caused the lady to visit all the families in

town of her acquaintance, for the purpose of expressing her sympathy

with "those poor dear Adamses, who were so proud, poor things, that

really there was nothing hut starvation and the workhouse before

them!" Another of those well-meaning persons--strong-minded and

kind-hearted, but without a particle of delicacy--came to poor Mary,

with all _prestige_ of conferring a favour.

"My dear young lady, it is the commonest thing in the world--very

painful but very common; the families of professional men are

frequently left without provision. Such a pity!--because, if they

cannot save, they can insure. We _all_ can do _that_, but they do

_not_ do it, and consequently everywhere the families of professional

men are found in distress; so, as I said, it is common; and I wanted

you to suggest to your mother, that, if she would not feel hurt at it,

the thing being so common--dear Dr. Adams having been so popular, so

very popular--that while every one is talking about him and you all,

a very handsome subscription could be got up. I would begin it with

a sum large enough to invite still larger. I had a great regard for

him--I had indeed."

Mary felt her heart sink and rise, and her throat swell, so that

she could not speak. She had brought herself to the determination of

employing her talents for her own support, but she was not prepared

to come with her family before the world as paupers. "We have no claim

upon the public," she said at last. "I am sure you mean us kindly, but

we have no claim. My dear father forwarded no public work--no public

object; he gave his advice, and received his payment. If we are not

provided for, it is no public fault. Besides, my father's children are

able and willing to support themselves. I am sure you mean us kindly,

but we have no claim upon public sympathy, and an appeal to it would

crush us to the earth. I am very glad you did not speak first to my

mother. My uncle Charles would not suffer it, even suppose she wished

it."

This friend also departed to excite new speculations as to the

pride and poverty of "poor dear Dr. Adams's family." In the world,

however--the busy busy London world--it is idle to expect any thing

to create even a nine days' wonder. When the house and furniture were

at last offered for sale, the feeling was somewhat revived; and Mary,

whose beauty, exquisite as it was, had so unobtrusive a character as

never to have created a foe, was remembered with tears by many: even

the father of her old lover, when he was congratulated by one more

worldly-minded than himself on the escape of his son in not marrying

a portionless girl, reproved the unfeeling speaker with a wish that he

only hoped his son might have as good a wife as Mary Adams would have

been.

CHAPTER V.

The bills were taken down, the house purified from the

auction-mob--every thing changed; a new name occupied the doctor's

place in the "Court Guide"--and in three months the family seemed

as completely forgotten amongst those of whom they once formed a

prominent part, as if they had never existed. When one sphere of life

closes against a family, they find room in another. Many kind-hearted

persons in Mrs. Adams's first circle would have been rejoiced to be

of service to her and hers, but they were exactly the people upon whom

she had no claim. Of a high but poor family, her relatives had little

power. What family so situated ever had any influence beyond what

they absolutely needed for themselves? With an ill grace she at

last acceded to the kind offer made by Mr. Charles Adams, and took

possession of the cottage he fixed upon, until something could be done

for his brother's children. In a fit of proud despair the eldest son

enlisted into a regiment of dragoons; the second was fortunate enough

to obtain a cadetship through a stranger's interference; and his

uncle thought it might be possible to get the youngest forward in

his father's profession. The expense of the necessary arrangements

was severely felt by the prudent and careful country gentleman. The

younger girls were too delicate for even the common occupations of

daily life; and Mary, instead of receiving the welcome she had been

led to expect from her aunt and cousins, felt that every hour she

spent at the Grange was an intrusion.

The sudden death of Dr. Adams had postponed the intended wedding of

Charles Adams's eldest daughter; and although her mother agreed that

it was their duty to forward the orphan children, she certainly felt,

as most affectionate mothers whose hearts are not very much enlarged

would feel, that much of their own savings--much of the produce of

her husband's hard labour--labour during a series of years when

her sister-in-law and her children were enjoying all the luxuries

of life--would now be expended for their support; this to an

all-sacrificing mother, despite _her sense of the duty of kindness_,

was hard to bear. As long as they were not on the spot, she theorised

continually, and derived much satisfaction from the sympathising

observations of her neighbours, and was proud, _very_ proud, of

the praise bestowed upon her husband's benevolence; but when her

sister-in-law's expensive habits were in daily array before her (the

cottage being close to the Grange,) when she knew, to use her own

expression, "that she never put her hand to a single thing;" that she

could not live without port wine, when she herself never drank even

gooseberry, except on Sundays; never ironed a collar, never dusted

the chimney-piece, or ate a shoulder of mutton--roast one day, cold

the next, and hashed the third. While each day brought some fresh

illustration of her thoughtlessness to the eyes of the wife of the

wealthy tiller of the soil, the widow of the physician thought herself

in the daily practice of the most rigid self-denial. "I am sure,"

was her constant observation to her all-patient daughter--"I am sure

I never thought it would come to this. I had not an idea of going

through so much. I wonder your uncle and his wife can permit me to

live in the way I do--they ought to consider how I was brought up."

It was in vain Mary represented that they were existing upon charity;

that they ought to be most grateful for what they received, coming as

it did from those who, in their days of prosperity, professed nothing,

while those who professed all things had done nothing. Mary would so

reason, and then retire to her own chamber to weep alone over things

more hard to bear.

It is painful to observe what bitterness will creep into the heart

and manner of really kind girls where a lover is in the case, or even

where a common-place dangling sort of flirtation is going forward;

this depreciating ill nature, one of the other, is not confined by any

means to the fair sex. Young men pick each other to pieces with even

more fierceness, but less ingenuity; they deal in a cut-and-hack sort

of sarcasm, and do not hesitate to use terms and insinuations of the

harshest kind, when a lady is in the case. Mary (to distinguish her

from her high-bred cousin, she was generally called Mary Charles) was

certainly disappointed when her wedding was postponed in consequence

of her uncle's death; but a much more painful feeling followed, when

she saw the admiration her lover, Edwin Lechmere, bestowed upon her

beautiful cousin. Mary Charles was herself a beauty--fair, open-eyed,

warm-hearted--_the_ beauty of Repton; but though feature by feature,

inch by inch, she was as handsome as Mary, yet in her cousin was the

grace and spirit given only by good society; the manners elevated by a

higher mind, and toned down by sorrow; a gentle softness, which a keen

observer of human nature told me once no woman ever possessed unless

she had deeply loved, and suffered from disappointed affection;

in short, she was far more refined, far more fascinating, than her

country cousin: besides, she was unfortunate, and that at once gave

her a hold upon the sympathies of the young curate: it did no more:

but Mary Charles did not understand these nice distinctions, and

nothing could exceed the change of manner she evinced when her cousin

and her betrothed were together.

Mary thought her cousin rude and petulant; but the true cause of the

change never occurred to her. Accustomed to the high-toned courtesy

of well-bred men, which is so little practised in the middle class of

English society, it never suggested itself, that placing her chair,

or opening the door for her to go out, or rising courteously when she

came into a room, was more than, as a lady, she had a right to expect;

in truth, she did not notice it at all; but she did notice and feel

deeply her cousin's alternate coldness and snappishness of manner. "I

would not," thought Mary, "have behaved so to her if she had been left

desolate; but in a little time, when my mother is more content, I will

leave Repton, and become independent by my talents." Never did she

think of the power delegated to her by, the Almighty without feeling

herself raised--ay, higher than she had ever been in the days of her

splendour--in the scale of moral usefulness; as every one must feel

whose mind is rightly framed. She had not yet known what it was to

have her abilities trampled on or insulted; she had never experienced

the bitterness consequent upon having the acquirements--which in the

days of her prosperity commanded silence and admiration--sneered at

or openly ridiculed.--She had yet to learn that the Solons, the

law-givers of English society, lavish their attentions and praise upon

those who learn, not upon those who teach.

Mary had not been six months fatherless, when she was astonished,

first by a letter, and then by a visit, from her former lover; he came

to renew his engagement, and to wed her even then if she would have

him; but Mary's high principle was stronger than he imagined. "No,"

she said, "you are not independent of your father, and whatever I

feel, I have no right to draw _you_ down into poverty. You may fancy

now that you could bear it; but a time would come--if not to you,

to me--when the utter selfishness of such conduct would goad me to

a death of early misery." The young man appealed to her uncle,

who thought her feelings overstrained, but respected her for it

nevertheless; and in the warmth of his admiration, he communicated the

circumstance to his wife and daughter.

"Refuse her old lover under present circumstances," repeated her

cousin to herself as she left the room; "there must be some other

reason than that; she could not be so foolish as to reject such an

offer at such a time." Unfortunately, she saw Edwin Lechmere walking

by Mary's side, under the shadow of some trees. She watched them until

the foliage screened them from her sight, and then she shut herself

into her own room, and yielded to a long and violent burst of tears.

"It is not enough," she exclaimed, in the bitterness of her feelings,

"that the comforts of my parents' declining years should be abridged

by the overwhelming burden to their exertions--another family added

to their own; it is not enough that an uncomfortable feeling has grown

between my father and mother on this account, and that cold looks and

sharp words have come where they never came before, but my peace of

mind must be destroyed. Gladly would I have taken a smaller portion,

if I could have kept the affections which I see but too plainly

my cousin has stolen from me. And my thoughtless aunt to say, only

yesterday, that 'at all events her husband was no man's enemy but his

own.' Has not his want of prudent forethought been the ruin of his own

children? and will my parents ever recover the anxiety, the pain, the

sacrifices, brought on by one man's culpable neglect? Oh, uncle! if

you could look from your grave upon the misery you have caused!"--and

then, exhausted by her own emotion, the affectionate but jealous girl

began to question herself as to what she should do. After what she

considered mature deliberation, she made up her mind to upbraid her

cousin with treachery, and she put her design into execution that same

evening.

It was no easy matter to oblige her cousin to understand what she

meant; but at last the declaration that she had refused her old lover

because she had placed her affections upon Edwin Lechmere, whom she

was endeavouring to "entrap," was not to be mistaken; and the country

girl was altogether unprepared for the burst of indignant feeling,

mingled with much bitterness, which repelled the untruth. A strong fit

of hysterics, into which Mary Charles worked herself, was terminated

by a scene of the most painful kind, her father being upbraided by

her mother with "loving other people's children better than his own,"

while the curate himself knelt by the side of his betrothed, assuring

her of his unaltered affection. From such a scene Miss Adams hastened

with a throbbing brow and a bursting heart. She had no one to counsel

or console her; no one to whom she could apply for aid. For the first

time since she had experienced her uncle's tenderness, she felt she

had been the means of disturbing his domestic peace; the knowledge of

the burden she and hers were considered, weighed her to the earth; and

in a paroxysm of anguish she fell on her knees, exclaiming, "Oh, why

are the dependent born into the world! Father, father, why did you

leave us, whom you so loved, to such a fate!" And then she reproached

herself for having uttered a word reflecting on his memory. One of the

every-day occurrences of life--so common as to be hardly observed--is

to find really kind, good-natured people not "weary of well-doing."

"Oh, really I was worn out with so-and-so; they are so decidedly

unfortunate that it is impossible to help them," is a general excuse

for deserting those whose continuing misfortunes ought to render them

greater objects of sympathy.

Mr. Charles Adams was, as has been shown in our little narrative, a

kind-hearted man. Estranged as his brother and himself had been for

a number of years, he had done much to forward, and still more to

protect, his children. At first, this was a pleasure; but somehow his

"benevolence," and "kindness," and "generosity," had been so talked

about, so eulogised, and he had been so seriously inconvenienced

by the waywardness of his nephews, the thoughtless pride of his

sister-in-law, the helplessness of his younger nieces, as to feel

seriously oppressed by his responsibility. And now the one who

had never given him aught but pleasure, seemed, according to his

daughter's representations, to be the cause of increased sorrow, the

destroyer of his dear child's happiness. What to do he could not tell.

His daughter, wrought upon by her own jealousy, had evinced, under

its influence, so much temper she had never displayed before, that it

seemed more than likely the cherished match would be broken off. His

high-minded niece saved him any farther anxiety as far as she was

concerned. She sent for and convinced him fully and entirely of her

total freedom from the base design imputed to her. "Was it likely,"

she said, "that I should reject the man I love lest I should drag him

into poverty, and plunge at once with one I do not care for into the

abyss I dread? This is the common sense view of the case; but there

is yet another. Is it to be borne that I would seek to rob _your_

child of her happiness? The supposition is an insult too gross to be

endured. I will leave my mother to-morrow. An old school-fellow, older

and more fortunate than myself, wished me to educate her little girl.

I had one or two strong objections to living in her house; but the

desire to be independent and away has overcome them." She then, with

many tears, entreated her uncle still to protect her mother; urged how

she had been sorely tried; and communicated fears, she had reason to

believe were too well founded, that her eldest brother, feeling the

reverse more than he could bear, had deserted from his regiment.

Charles Adams was deeply moved by the nobleness of his niece, and

reproved his daughter more harshly than he had ever done before, for

the feebleness that created so strong and unjust a passion. This had

the contrary effect to what he had hoped for: she did not hesitate to

say that her cousin had endeavoured to rob her both of the affection

of her lover and her father. The injured cousin left Repton bowed

beneath an accumulation of troubles, not one of which was of her

own creating, not one of which she deserved; and all springing from

the unproviding nature of him who, had he been asked the question,

would have declared himself ready to sacrifice his own life for the

advantage of that daughter, now compelled to work for her own bread.

To trace the career of Mary Adams in her new calling, would be to

repeat what I have said before. The more refined, the more informed

the governess, the more she suffers. Being with one whom she had known

in better days, made it even more hard to bend; yet she did her duty,

and _that_ is one of the highest privileges a woman can enjoy.

CHAPTER VI.

Leaving Mary for a moment, let us return to Repton. Here discord,

having once entered, was making sad ravages, and all were suffering

from it. It was but too true that the eldest of the Adamses had

deserted; his mother clinging with a parent's fondness to her

child, concealed him, and thus offended Charles Adams beyond all

reconciliation. The third lad, who was walking the London hospitals,

and exerting himself beyond his strength, was everything that a youth

could be; but his declining health was represented to his uncle, by

one of those whom his mother's pride had insulted, as a cloak for

indolence. In short, before another year had quite passed, the family

of the once rich and fashionable Dr. Adams had shared the fate of

all dependents--worn out the benevolence, or patience, or whatever it

really is, of their "best friends." Nor was this the only consequence

of the physician's neglect of a duty due alike to God and society; his

brother had really done so much for the bereaved family, as to give

what the world called "just grounds" to Mrs. Charles Adams's repeated

complaints, "that now her husband was ruining his industrious family

to keep the lazy widow of his spend-thrift brother and her favourite

children in idleness. Why could she not live upon the 'fine folk'

she was always throwing in her face?" The daughter, too, of whose

approaching union the fond father had been so proud, was now, like

her cousin whom she had wronged by her mean suspicions, deserted; the

match broken off after much bickering; one quarrel having brought on

another, until they separated by mutual consent. Her temper and her

health were both materially impaired; and her beauty was converted

into hardness and acidity.

Oh! how utterly groundless is the idea, that in our social state,

where one human being must so much depend upon another, any man,

neglecting his positive duties, can be called only "his own enemy."

What misery had not Dr. Adams's neglect entailed, not alone on his

immediate family, but on that of his brother. Besides, there were

ramifications of distress; he died even more embarrassed than

his brother had at first believed, and some trades-people were

consequently embarrassed; but the deep misery fell upon his children.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Dr. Adams had left Repton with her younger children,

to be the dependants of Mary in London.

It was not until a fatal disease had seized upon her mother, that

Mary ventured to appeal again to her uncle's generosity. "My second

brother," she said, "has out of his small means remitted her five

pounds. My eldest brother seems altogether to have disappeared from

amongst us; finding that his unhappy presence had occasioned so fatal

a separation between his mother and you--a disunion which I saw was

the effect of many small causes, rather than one great one--he left

us, and we cannot trace him. This has broken my poor mother's heart;

he was the cherished one of all her children. My youngest brother has

been for the last month an inmate of one of the hospitals which my

poor father attended for so many years, and where his word was law. My

sister Rosa, she upon whom my poor father poured, if possible, more

of his affection than he bestowed upon me--my lovely sister, of whom,

even in our poverty, I was so proud--so young, only upon the verge of

womanhood--has, you already know, left us. Would to God it had been

for her grave, rather than her destroyer!--a fellow-student of that

poor youth, who, if he dreamt of her dishonour, would stagger like a

spectre from what will be his death-bed to avenge her. Poverty is one

of the surest guides to dishonour; those who have not been tempted

know nothing of it. It is one thing to see it, another to feel it.

Do not think her altogether base, because she had not the strength

of a heroine. I have been obliged to resign my situation to attend

my mother, and the only income we have is what I earn by giving

lessons on the harp and piano. I give, for _two shillings_, the same

instruction for which my father paid half a guinea a lesson; if I did

not I should have no pupils. It is more than a month since my mother

left her bed; and my youngest sister, bending beneath increased

delicacy of health, is her only attendant. I know her mind to be so

tortured, and her body so convulsed by pain, that I have prayed to

God to render her fit for Heaven, and take her from her sufferings.

Imagine the weight of sorrow that crushed me to my knees with such a

petition as that. I know all you have done, and yet I ask you now, in

remembrance of the boyish love that bound you and my father together,

to lessen her bodily anguish by the sacrifice of a little more;

that she, nursed in the lap of luxury, may not pass from life with

starvation as her companion. My brother's gift is expended; and during

the last three weeks I have earned but twelve shillings; my pupils

are out of town. Do, for a moment remember what I was, and think how

humbled I must be to frame this supplication; but it is a child that

petitions for a parent, and I know I have never forfeited your esteem.

In a few weeks, perhaps in a few days, my brother and my mother will

meet my poor father face to face. Oh! that I could be assured that

reproach and bitterness for the past do not pass the portals of the

grave. Forgive me this, as you have already forgiven me much. Alas! I

know too well that our misfortunes drew misfortunes upon others. I was

the unhappy but innocent cause of much sorrow at the Grange; but, oh!

do not refuse the _last_ request that I will ever make." The letter

was blotted by tears.

Charles Adams was from home when it arrived, and his wife, knowing the

handwriting, and having made a resolution never to open a letter "from

that branch of the family," did not send it after her husband "lest it

might tease him." Ten days elapsed before he received it; and when he

did, he could not be content with writing, but lost not a moment in

hastening to the address. Irritated and disappointed that what he

really had done should have been so little appreciated, when every

hour of his life he was smarting in one way or other from his

exertions--broken-hearted at his daughter's blighted health and

happiness--angered by the reckless wildness of one nephew, and what

he believed was the idleness of another--and convinced that Rosa's

fearful step was owing to the pampering and mismanagement of her

foolish mother--Charles Adams satisfied himself that, as he did not

hear to the contrary from Mary, all things were going on well, or at

least not ill. He thought as little about them as he possibly could,

no people in the world being so conveniently forgotten (when they are

not importunate) as poor relations; but the letter of his favourite

niece spoke strongly to his heart, and in two hours after his return

home he set forth for the London suburb from whence the letter was

dated. It so chanced, that to get to that particular end of the

town, he was obliged to pass the house his brother had occupied so

splendidly for a number of years; the servants had lit the lamps, and

were drawing the curtains of the noble dining-room; and a party of

ladies were descending from a carriage, which prevented two others

from setting down. It looked like old times. "Some one else," thought

Charles Adams, "running the same career of wealth and extravagance.

God grant it may not lead to the same results!" He paused, and looked

up the front of the noble mansion; the drawing-room windows were open,

and two beautiful children were standing on an ottoman placed between

the windows, probably to keep them apart. He thought of Mary's

childhood, and how she was occupied at that moment, and hastened

onward. There are times when life seems one mingled dream, and it is

not easy to become dispossessed of the idea when some of its frightful

changes are brought almost together under our view.

"Is Miss Adams at home?" inquired her uncle of a woman leaning against

the door of a miserable house.

"I don't know; she went to the hospital this morning; but I'm not sure

she's in; it's the second pair back; it's easy known, for the sob has

not ceased in that room these two nights; some people do take on so"--

Charles Adams did not hear the concluding sentence, but sought the

room; the door would not close, and he heard a low sobbing sound from

within; he paused, but his step had aroused the mourner--"Come in,

Mary; come in; I know how it is," said a young voice; "he is dead;

one grave for mother and son--one grave for mother and son! I see your

shadow, dark as it is; have you brought a candle? It is very fearful

to be alone with the dead--even one's own mother--in the dark."

Charles Adams entered the room; but his sudden appearance in the

twilight, and evidently not knowing him, overcame the girl, his

youngest niece, so much, that she screamed, and fell on her knees by

her mother's corpse. He called for lights, and was speedily obeyed,

for he put a piece of gold in the woman's hand. She turned it over,

and as she hastened from the room, muttered, "If this had come sooner,

she'd not have died of starvation or burdened the parish for a shroud;

it's hard the rich can't look to their own."

When Mary returned, she was fearfully calm. "No, her brother was not

dead," she said; "the young were longer dying than those whom the

world had worn out; the young knew so little of the world, they

thought it hard to leave it;" and she took off her bonnet, and sat

down; and while her uncle explained why he had not written, she looked

at him with eyes so fixed and cold, that he paused, hoping she would

speak, so painful was their stony expression; but she let him go

on, without offering one word of assurance of any kind feeling or

remembrance; and when she stooped to adjust a portion of the coarse

plaiting of the shroud--that mockery of "the purple and fine linen

of living days"--her uncle saw that her hair, her luxuriant hair, was

striped with white.

"There is no need for words now," she said at last; "no need. I

thought you would have sent; she required but little--but very little;

the dust rubbed from the gold she once had would have been riches:

but the little she did require she had not, and so she died; but

what weighs heaviest upon my mind was her calling so continually on

my father, to know _why_ he had deserted her: she attached no blame

latterly to any one, only called day and night upon him. Oh! it was

hard to bear--it was very hard to bear."

"I will send a proper person in the morning to arrange that she may be

placed with my brother," said Charles.

Mary shrieked almost with the wildness of a maniac. "No, no; as far

from him as possible! Oh! not with him! She was to blame in our days

of splendour as much as he was; but she could not see it; and I durst

not reason with her. Not with him! _She would disturb him in his

grave!_"

Her uncle shuddered, while the young girl sobbed in the bitter wailing

tone their landlady complained of.

"No," resumed Mary, "let the parish bury her; even its officers were

kind; and if you bury her, or they, it is still a pauper's funeral. I

see all these things clearly now; death, while it closes the eyes of

some, opens the eyes of others; it has opened mine."

But why should I prolong this sad story. It is not the tale of one,

but of many. There are dozens, scores, hundreds of instances of the

same kind, _arising from the same cause_, in our broad islands. In

the lunatic asylum, where that poor girl, even Mary Adams, has found

refuge during the past two years, there are many cases of insanity

arising from change of circumstances, where a fifty pounds' insurance

would have set such maddening distress at defiance. I know that

her brother died in the hospital within a few days; and the pale,

sunken-eyed girl, whose damp yellow hair and thin white hand are so

eagerly kissed by the gentle maniac when she visits her, month by

month, is the youngest, and, I believe, the _last_ of her family, at

least the last in England. Oh, that those who foolishly boast that

their actions only affect themselves, would look carefully abroad,

and if they doubt what I have faithfully told, examine into the causes

which crowd the world with cases even worse than I have here recorded!