"What are you doing there, Clemence?" asked her friend; "not destroying
that pretty article, I hope."
"Yes and no," was the reply. "Upon examination, I find that it has
become quite soiled, and thought I would make another frame to put these
same flowers into."
"Now, that is really too bad, making you so much extra trouble when you
are feeling so ill. I noticed, though, that it had lost its freshness
and purity--looking, in fact, as if some careless servant had swept on
it."
"I presume that is the case," said Clemence; "any way, it is completely
ruined now."
"What can this mean?" she exclaimed, a moment after, holding up a lady's
gold pin. "Is it not somewhat remarkable to find an article of this
description here?"
"No," said Ulrica Hardyng, coming forward, with an expression of
contempt upon her fine features. "I can't say as I consider it so. I can
understand precisely the motive that induced that woman to plot this
piece of mischief. She meant to ruin you, Clemence, in the estimation of
the whole community; in short, to brand you as dishonest. If you had
effected a sale of the article, without examining it closely, you would
never have detected the proximity of this valuable ornament, and when it
was called for, which would surely have occurred, you could not, as a
matter of course, have produced it. Do you not see the whole trap at a
glance?"
"What have I not escaped?" ejaculated Clemence, pale with agitation.
"What motive could possibly have led a comparative stranger to act
thus?"
"There are numberless reasons," replied her friend. "The woman had
placed herself, to a certain extent, in your power, by her uncalled for
revelations of their domestic affairs, and she wished to have something
to hold as a rod over you."
"Don't you think it might have been an accident?" willing, as usual, to
believe every one but herself in the right.
"No," said Mrs. Hardyng, indignantly, "it was a premeditated act, as
deliberate as it was infernal. My innocent darling, God has protected
you, and vanquished your enemy."
"What base, designing people there are in the world," sighed the girl,
sinking down by the couch upon which her friend reclined, upon her
return from a walk the next evening. "You were right, Ulrica. I read in
that woman's guilty face, to-night, the confirmation of my doubts."
"She did not admit it?" said the other, starting up eagerly.
"Not in words, but her looks proclaimed her part in the transaction more
eloquently than any form of speech. She knew that I read her craven soul
as I stood before her."
"This is too much?" said Mrs. Hardyng, rising and pacing the floor in
violent agitation. "I will see to this matter myself, for it is too
great an insult to be borne patiently without the charge of cowardice."
A few days after, as Clemence was walking, with downcast eyes, in the
direction of her friend's residence, she met in the narrow pathway two
gentlemen, one of whom raised his hat respectfully, and paused to speak
with her.
It was Mr. Gilman, one of the school committee. Clemence respected and
venerated him, and had on many an occasion felt grateful that his
influence was generously exerted in her behalf.
The gentleman paused now to say that he had nothing to do with her
dismissal from school, having used every argument in her favor, in vain.
He concluded by professing himself more than satisfied with her
services, and convinced of her ability as a teacher; desired her to
refer to him for a recommendation to any situation that she might have
in view.
Clemence thanked him gratefully, and walked on with a lightened heart.
She remembered, afterwards, that this gentleman's companion had been
introduced by the name of Burton.
This latter personage had a little burly figure, with head carried very
erect upon a short, thick neck, that looked still shorter from the long,
flowing beard, thickly sprinkled with gray.
He did not look like a "wretch," nor yet, as if he had sufficient energy
or capacity for any deep scheme of villainy. Still she felt sure this
was the individual whose shortcomings and misdeeds generally, she had
heard descanted upon.
Clemence laughed, as she wondered how it was possible for any one to be
so carried away by their feelings, as to be jealous of a submissive
looking little man like this. Yet, having fallen in love with him once
herself, and forgetting that youth had flown, and that the husband of
her youth was only a plodding, middle-aged family man, it was not so
very remarkable that a naturally jealous woman, like Mrs. Charles
Burton, should imagine that her especial property was coveted by all
those of her own sex who were not similarly blessed.
"Poor woman!" thought Clemence, "she is a victim to her own unhappy
temper."
She forgot the circumstance altogether, and it was only recalled to mind
when the village postmaster handed her a letter, which read thus:
MISS CLEMENCE GRAYSTONE:
Miss--On Thursday, the 23d instant, you were seen by certain
parties, on a secluded avenue of this village, in earnest
conversation with two gentlemen,--one of whom was Mr. Charles
Burton. Report gives him the character of a perfidious and
unfaithful husband. How then does it look for a young lady, whose
name is now the subject of idle gossip, to indiscreetly hazard her
reputation still more by such intercourse. There could be but one
object in this, which was, doubtless, _revenge_. But, let me ask,
what will it profit you, to add still greater pangs to that already
suffered by one who mourns the loss of her husband's affections?
Know that, through all, she will cling to him, for she loves him
still, and is a devoted wife and mother. Nothing of coldness or
neglect on _his_ part can change _her_ feelings, or turn her from
the path of duty. As a friend and a Christian, the writer of this
would calmly advise you to abandon all efforts either to see or
communicate in any manner with the gentleman, upon any subject
whatever; not even in the presence of a third party, as there is
said to be an official who watches over the interests of a wronged
and heart-broken wife. WATCHER.
"Really, this is assuming a tragical character," said Mrs. Hardyng, to
whom Clemence went at once for advice. "'The plot thickens,' as the
story-books say. Why, child, take courage; you will be a heroine yet,
and I shall be thrown completely in the shade--left disconsolate and
forlorn."
"Don't jest," said Clemence, shuddering. "You can't think, Ulrica, how
all this pains me. I never dreamed of such a result of my efforts, but
rather supposed, if we tried to do 'what their hand found to do,'
patiently, they would be borne out in their undertakings. I am innocent
of premeditated wrong to any one."
"There, don't cry!" said Mrs. Hardyng. "This is only a passing cloud,
and your future will be all the brighter for the shadow which now
threatens to envelop you in its gloomy folds."
"I wish I could think so," said Clemence. She took her hat mechanically
as she said this, and went out, hardly knowing whither to bend her
steps, but feeling stifled, and wanting to be alone.
By-and-by she found herself seated by a new-made grave. A memory of the
pale, patient little face, that used to haunt her footsteps, came to
her, and she thought sadly of the child's unhappy fate.
The daylight faded slowly out of the western heavens; the shades of
evening gathered round. Suddenly, as the girl sat absorbed, a tiny hand
stole into hers, and two sorrowful, tear-filled eyes sought her own. It
was little Ruth, who had missed her, and whose loving heart would not
allow her to rest while one she loved suffered.
They walked homeward together, under the starlit canopy, and Clemence
thought that, whatever might come to her, there was one whose pure
affection was wholly her own.
"Here, child, is another letter for you!" said Mrs. Hardyng, coming in
from the village the following day. "You are getting to be a personage
of some importance, I perceive."
"Why, who can it be from?" queried Clemence. "I have no correspondents."
"Perhaps another anonymous communication," said her friend. "Open it and
see, for I am dying of curiosity."
"It is from dear Mrs. Linden," said Clemence. "Here is what she writes:"
"MY ABSENT DARLING: Why have you not written or come to me? By your
long silence I have been led to infer that you may not have
anything pleasant to communicate, and, therefore, fear to disturb
me with the narration of your misfortunes. I have looked for your
return for shelter from the home from which you went forth, like
some weary bird with drooping wing and plaintive song. That home is
always open to you, with its fond welcome. Can you have found new
friends who have grown dearer than her who bade you good-bye with a
prayer in her heart for your future? If you are happy, which God
grant, then I am content. But I have a strong presentiment of evil;
and I fear, I know not what, when my thoughts turn to you. There
was a promise about coming back when tired of your experiment. I
mean to hold my wayward one by that promise. Do you recollect
being accused of too much independence? If I remember correctly,
Mrs. Bailey thought that one of your greatest faults, that needed
speedy correction. I don't want you to exercise it towards your old
friend. Some of these days, if I do not hear from or see her, I
shall come and claim my daughter.
"It can't be possible that you have found anybody in that
out-of-the-way locality to feel particularly interested in--eh,
Clemence? I have sometimes thought that some other more famed
mortal engrossed the affection that belongs, by prior claim, to me.
Don't encourage any of those rustics, for I have somebody here so
infinitely superior to any one whom I ever met before that I have
decided that there is only one girl in the world worthy of him.
Now, if I have aroused your curiosity sufficiently to have you call
for 'more,' I will change the subject, and give you a little of the
gossip that I know will interest you.
"The last sensation is nothing else than the elopement of Melinda
Brown with a curly-haired hotel waiter. Imagine the scene when the
fact became known to the disconsolate Brown _mere_. The girl has
found her level at last, my dear. It was all time and trouble
thrown away trying to make anything of her. Melinda could not be a
lady, because, as I always contended, it wasn't in her. She is now
in her proper sphere. I hear that her husband has set up in the
same business in which his worthy papa-in-law began life. Melinda
lives in apartments over the grocery, and enjoys life hugely, as
she never did in the elegant mansion she has left forever.
"I've still another wedding to chronicle. You surely have not
forgotten our fair Cynthia, the former confidante of Mrs. P.
Crandall Crane, but now, alas! her friend no longer, but that
lady's deadliest foe. But to 'begin at the beginning:'
"Some months ago Mrs. Crane made the acquaintance of some new
people, whom she hastened to describe and present to her dearest
friend. One of them was a young gentleman, of fair, effeminate
beauty and manners, and extreme youth. In fact, he had but just
been emancipated from the strictest discipline of stern tutors.
This fortunate youth was the sole heir of a wealthy and indulgent
step-father, who had followed the remains of a second 'dear
departed' to the grave, and was said to be inconsolable, living but
to secure the happiness of this only son of his cherished and lost
Amelia. The gentleman, whose name was Townsend, purchased an
elegant villa at a convenient distance from the city, and installed
therein a faraway cousin as housekeeper. This worthy person was
immediately surrounded by the Crane clique, who made her long and
oft-repeated visits, until, no doubt, she wondered greatly at the
cause of her popularity. Of course, being only a poor dependent on
the bounty of her relative, she was naturally pleased and flattered
at being the object of so much friendly regard, and she took every
pains to make herself agreeable to her new-found friends. Another
fact proved the gratitude of her disposition, and that was the
praises which were continually lavished upon the gentleman over
whose mansion she presided. In this poor woman's estimation, Mr.
Townsend was a model man. It had been her valued privilege to visit
him occasionally during the lifetime of the second Mrs. T., and
nothing from her description could have been more beautiful than
his devotion to the lady during her long and lingering illness.
Besides, he had taken her son to his home and heart, and had given
every one to understand that this young Addison Brayton was to be
the future possessor of that vast wealth. To come to the point at
once, Mrs. P. Crandall Crane 'sighted them,' and mentally
appropriated the young gentleman for her own Lucinda. To that end,
she schemed and labored, and, just as the darling prospect seemed
about to be brought to a final consummation, fate, in the person of
her friend Cynthia, interfered to put a stop to the proceedings by
marrying the young gentleman herself! Words are inadequate to
describe the scene that followed upon this denouement. Mrs. Crane
was in absolute despair for a time, until a new idea entered her
fertile brain. Mr. Townsend, in the first paroxysm of rage, had
disowned the recreant youth, and turned him from his doors without
a farthing of the wealth that was to have been his princely
inheritance. That much abused gentleman had no nearer relations
than the far-removed cousin before referred to, and consequently
here was a magnificent fortune, with only the encumbrance of a
fine-looking, well-preserved gentleman, actually going a begging.
The thing was not to be thought of for a moment.
"'Many a heart is caught in the rebound.' 'It would be a pretty
piece of revenge!' soliloquized Mrs. Crane, complacently, 'if
Lucinda should yet reign mistress of that mansion, for all Mr.
Addison Brayton. How it _would_ spite Cynthia!' With renewed
energy, but this time more cautiously, the sagacious lady laid her
trap for the unwary footsteps of the unconscious Townsend. He was a
frequent visitor at the house, feeling always sure of a warm
welcome from the urbane hostess. The plan worked admirably, and at
last the gentleman called to solicit a private interview with the
contractor.
"'Mr. Crane is not at home,' said his smiling lady, 'but you can
leave the message with me.'
"'Ah, yes!' said Mr. Townsend, with evident embarrassment; 'no
doubt you will do equally as well. I called, my dear madam,
to--ah--solicit a great boon at your hands. You are aware how
bitterly I have been betrayed by those whom I trusted.'
"'Yes,' put in Mrs. Crane, sympathetically.
"'And you have, I know, felt for my lonely and desolate situation.'
"'I have, indeed,' said the lady.
"'Since I have been intimately acquainted with your charming
family, I have learned to value, and, in short, feel a deep
attachment, for one whom, I believe, fate intended to fill the
place of my lost loves!'
"'My own Lucinda!' interrupted the other, raising her handkerchief
to conceal her satisfaction. 'Dear girl, it will be hard to part
with her. You cannot realize a mother's feelings, Mr. Townsend!'
"'But,' cried the gentleman, in tones of surprise and alarm, 'I do
not call upon you for so great a sacrifice. It was not Miss Lucinda
that I meant, but another, to whom I have reason to think I am not
altogether disagreeable. Surely you cannot be ignorant of my
profound affection for your self-sacrificing sister, the widow of
my late respected friend, Deane Phelps!'
"'Oh!' tittered Mrs. Crane, starting with great violence from her
seat; 'you mean Jane. Well, I'm glad she's got somebody to think
something of her at last. I congratulate you upon the prize you've
won. I shall make all haste to impart the agreeable intelligence.'
"'You artful specimen of an underhand nobody!' said Mrs. P.
Crandall, bursting into the room where the little widow stood,
looking really pretty with her soft flush of happy expectation in
her face. 'You'll rue this day, if I live!'
"'Oh, sister, don't!' said the low, grieved voice of the other. 'I
do so want your love and sympathy.'
"'Love and sympathy be d-d-darned!' sputtered Mrs. Crane, working
her long fingers convulsively. 'Walk out of this room in a hurry,
before I scratch your eyes out, you soft little caterpillar!'
"'Ruined! ruined! ruined!' she cried, sinking down and bursting
into a passionate flood of tears. 'Everything goes crossways. This
is a doomed family. Crane can't keep up appearances a week longer,
and Lucinda will be washing dishes in Jane Phelps' kitchen yet.'
Which prophecy will, in all probability, yet become literally true.
"I had these facts from Mrs. Jane Phelps Townsend, who told me that
her brother-in-law had lost all of his ill-gotten gains, and,
unless her husband assisted them, they would sink into the lowest
depths of poverty.
"I'm just hateful enough to feel glad of it, too, Clemence. I never
knew, until lately, that I could be wicked enough to rejoice over
other people's calamities. But I can't help it. Last week I took a
roll of fine sewing to Mrs. Addison Brayton. 'What are you crying
about now, Cynthia?' I asked of the disconsolate figure that sat
crouched over a sewing machine.
"'Oh, Mrs. Linden, I'm so unhappy,' she whined. 'There is a cold
winter coming on, and I don't know but we shall actually starve to
death before spring.'
"I remembered the insolent remarks of this lady, and the rest of
her set, when a certain little bright-haired pet of mine was
similarly situated, and tormented, like Martha, about 'many
things.'
"It needed all my Christian charity and forbearance to keep from
actually twitting her on the spot. I can't help but pity the
forlorn creature, though. She's married that little spendthrift,
who was brought up in idleness to rely on his expectations. They
don't either of them know anything about work, now they are thrown
upon their own resources. That is not the worst of it. The boy has
dissipated habits, that I fear will cause Cynthia yet to bitterly
regret the step she has taken against the advice of their best
friends. However, they must make the best of what cannot be
recalled. Then, too, she is married; and, if it be true that
happiness consists in securing the objects that allure us, then
should Cynthia be happy that she has at length attained the object
of her life-long ambition, and can at last write _Mrs._ to her
name. She is no longer an old maid, which is something gained, in
her estimation.
"The youthful husband seems the most to be pitied of the two. On my
way home I met him, shabby and forlorn enough, and _what_ do you
suppose he was doing? Positively in the capacity of errand boy,
carrying parcels to deliver. He is an under-paid drudge in a retail
grocery, on starvation wages. He turned purple with mortification,
and pretended not to see me. 'Oh, my countrymen, what a fall was
there!'
"But I am afraid I have shocked your forgiving spirit by my
hardness of heart until you are ready to deplore the depravity of
human nature. My tender one! I am not like you. It comes hard for
Alicia Linden to overlook injustice or forgive her enemies.
"She has always a place in her heart, though, for absent dear ones,
and she often thinks regretfully of one sweet face that used to
smile at her hearthstone.
"Can you not come to me, Clemence?
"Last Sabbath I went to place my offering of flowers at the graves
of our buried dead. The golden glory of the autumn day poured its
heavenly radiance into the far depths of my soul. How lovely looked
the silent resting-place of our dear ones. I thought sadly of you,
and wished you were near me, to mingle your tears with mine.
"As it is, I can only pray that God will guard you with loving
care. Your affectionate ALICIA."