Waverley Library (Octavo Edition) (no. 14) (1884 08 26)
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gd eee ee ee Oe ep eee ee RRA LTD _“pyrighted, 1884, by BeapiE bp ADAMS. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Mail Matter. August 26, 1884. VoL. Il, 2352 PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, _ Price, No. 14 dds a Year. No. 98 William Street, New York. Five Cents. a 2 “ BY THO “TIME I SEH YOU AGAIN, YOU WILL BE GROWN A YOUNG LADY} MIND YOU LOVE ME THEN AS Now.” ALONE IN THE WORLD ' and [, Everybody knows where that is now, y thanks to the kind offices and good works of the Or men who, ee et Fer ago, took their charity >i . into its degraded precincts. sens aba tap ide ee But at the ‘fie of which I write, few ever By the author of ‘* Clifton,” “Pride and Passion,” ete, | ventured into those gloomy haunts, except the ; | utterly degraded, the starving and altogether CHAPTER I. | wretched, who had been dragged lower and PARADISE SQUARE. lower into vice and infamy, and finally landed in Paradise Square—Nan Brigg | in Paradise Square, I am not about to enter, < WE lived * ‘e: in Ps
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ae 2 ALONE IN THE WORLD. into any. description of its appearance, or of its miserabl9 inhabitants—God knows I have not any desire to call up more memories of that time than are absolutely needful to my sto’ It is hea there, the “Old Brewery” flourished as in its most iquitous days—riot and» murder walked openly r and crime fought for dominion over the lost souls gathered within it, and there were no ' good angels to fight upon tbe other side. : “In the darkest corner, and in one of the most miserable rooms of all the dark dens in the straggling row of decayed nanos, Awel old Nan Briggs and ‘She was not my mother—thank heaven for that! She had noclaim upon me nor [on her, My mother died in her room, and Nan had kept me with her from that time; perhaps to further ends of her own => bly from one of those undefined impulses of humanity which sometimes actuate the most hardened and degraded. -Who I am, I really never knew—I never shall. When drink had made Nan good-natured, she used to tell me that my mother was a “real lady;” but want and misery, perhaps sin, I cannot tell, had brought her down to Paradise Square to die. ere she it die, and old Nan kept her for the sake of a few valuables—a gold cross and ring, a broken ornament or two, which still remained to her—relics of atime gone by, of which during her last hours, she raved brokenly, but without throwing any light upon her history. ee cre tke on itor L waa ont i she taught me, oug. was but a little child. During her illness I learncd to read out = of an old book that appertained to Nan, who pro- nounced “‘l'arnin’ a fine thing,” and prophesied that 4 one day I should be a grand lady. ; My poor mother died at last, though, in her cross na beers: Nan used to tell her it took her a great ee oe ask the city council where paupers are put. My mother found rest at length, and whatever her sins may have been I have no fear to leave her in the hands of Him “whose judgment is not as the judg- : ment of men.” : * For a year after her death—at least I think it must have been rbout that time, although I had nomeans or knowledge of keeping count—I swept the street- } crossings. All fo ad wielded my broom on busy old . Broadway, wai the splendid carriages go by, and the magnificently dressed ladies—who never would see. me, however urgent I might be—saunter past; peering my hunger by staring at all manner o delicacies in the confectioners’ casements; for- etting my chilled limbs by marveling at the beauti- - Ful sights on every side, or trotting up and down the pavement to keep the blood from freezing in my shrunken veins. " When night came, I carried home toNan my day’s | earnings. Sometimos they consisted only of a few ; pennies; but onalty atiny bit of silver gleamed | out among the coin, and when the old woman saw - that, she would clutch it with a terrible cae ‘of a praising me as a bright, honest girl. Sometimes I was so unfortunate as to receive noth- : ing, or little store would be wrested from me 5 by some sister sweeper, stronger and wickeder than I, and under such circumstances Nan used to beat me; but Ido not remember that I cared much for it —indeed,;-the most brutal treatment would have been preferable to the loathsome taresses she occasionally d upon me in her fits of maudlin intoxication. She was terribly filthy; so, I ag was I; but I thought very little about those things. One duty Nan would insist upon, but it was because it was for her own benefit, My was very long and singu- larly black; she made me smooth it carefully every morning with an old brush she had by some means become possessed of, and which had once evidently been devoted to household purposes, and leave the tresses to stream down my shoulders, hanging far _ below my waist in a waveless, heavy mass. T he- y ° + to know that wien fate flung me and they buried her—where I do not know— : in at the great windows of the shops; | lieve Nan and I occasionally battled over that inter- ance.gained me many extra COppSES, as Nan well knew—and Nan was very acute where her interests were concerned—therefore I was not permitted in any way to change it. oI swept the crossings day after day, while m long hair grew longer, and I waxed thin and tall, till I must have been twelve years old, or somewhere - about that age. I donot suppose that I was an better than the degraded children around me; but é recollect that no fear of a beating would induce me ; to tell a lie or commit a theft, though Nan often warned me that if Idid not learn “to prig,” I might expect a terrible punishment, had nothing to do with the little imps of my own ; Lhated them, and they returned the sentiment with interest, taking their revenge. by shoutin: names as I passed, and flinging mud at me, an assailing me in every way that. their miserable fancies could suggest; but sometimes old Nan would sally out from some eee corner where she in wait, and scatter my foes to the if and left, giving me a final cuff as she drove me Into the house, by the way of teaching me to avoid quarrels in future. After all, I have to thank old Nan—iy her way she cared for me as well as she was apie. She was , hardly human, either in mind or body—a mass of ignorance and uncleanness—but I do believe that somewhere in her anatomy she had once possessed certain womanly impulses, dwarfed, crushed, and alvogether blighted during her long, sir ful life, But a change awaited me in the iniist -f that vant and ie though Isupp seJ Ad r> warning of its approach—it le of a higher grade an street-sweepers who cae! Tfrord or suritien- stand the luxury of presentiments. But a change ree 24 hand, and this was the way in which it came I was one morning standing at the corner of Broadway and one of the cross-streets, watching the busy crowd that swept heedlessly past like the varied i of a phantasmagoria, when a youn man reined his horse up to the curbstone where I stood, and, dismounting, flung the bridle to a ragged boy and entered a shop near. I stood looking at the noble animal as he champed his bit impatiently, tossed his aise head and scattered the specks of foam over the torn coat of the urchin who held him. Several moments passed, and I, careless of every- thing else in my a at the impatient move- ments and restless spirit of the horse, remained mo- tionless on the curbstone until his rider again ap- peared. He hurried by, of course, without noticing me; but my eyes fastened themselves upon his face with an interest and degree of observation which would have impressed those features upon my memor for years—even in that depth of ignorance in whic all my faculties were locked, I had a wild admira- | tion for everything beautiful that crossed my path, He was stilla mere youth; but his frame was so slender and lithe, his face so full of pride and boyish race, his garments s0 tasteful and rich, that if I ad ever heard of kings, I should immediately have <Thas adil windeeicas Saal Dell ec nd swept t my thin garments blo my hair about my face; but r was un- mindful of the cold, a stood watching him as he took the bridle from fhe boy’s hand, and flung him a piece of silver as his reward, He laid his hand upon the glossy neck of the horse, put one foot into the stirrup, and was just giving a vigorous spring which should place him in F a — a
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and would have thrown the _ ALONE IN THE WORLD. 3 his seat when a, loaded omnibus drew up suddenly in front. The horse started, gave a quick plunge outh under his feet I not sprung forward and caught the bridle in my hand, holding it firmly in spite of the animal’s struggles, until the rider could extricate himself. I, was unconscious that I had done anything worthy of praise, and was greay surprised at the encomiums which all around bestowed upon the act. T heeded no one else, however, when he turned to- ward me with his quick, flashing glance. “My brave girl!” he exclaimed, his aay, face Stine Rae a smile so bright and beautiful that it Seeme to his features; but he was very pale, and his right arm h motionless at his side. “Here is some money,’’ he continued, in a fainter tone; “take it; I can’t stop, for Ifind that I have sprained my wrist— pe ie not been for you I might have been killed out- mei I don’t want the money,” I replied, wie: ieved that he should have offered it to me. d Nan , can’t beat me for not having taken it, because she Wwon’t know I could have earned so much,”’ For the first time he really looked at me, and with a glance of astonishment either at my singular ap- pearanee, or my unexpected refusal of the money. I must have been a strange-looking child. My complexion was dark, sallow from unwholesome food and ill health; my eyes of a deep blue, appear- | ing unnaturally large from the attenuation of m features, and the contrast with my long, blac unde Gat floated loose over my neck and tattered 0: ** Who is old Nan?” he asked, suddenly. € question surprised me! Ever y in our alley knew Nan Briggs, and most people feared. her. t never occurred to me that the rest of the world Could be ignorant of ber existence, «. You don’t know Nan?” I said, wonderingly; why, I have lived with her for ever so long.” a ery possible,” he replied, with a light laugh, but I never had the honor of hearing her name bet fore, Is she your mother?” ’ Ishook my head, and tears came into my eyes; I never could think of my lost parent without crying. My mother was a lady,” I said, indignantly, for Thad always prided myself upon the fact of which Nan had informed me, and held myself better than my fellow-beggars in consequence—“ but she died a great while ago.” (ave you any friends?” - I've nobody ‘but old Nan; she whips me some- hike Idon't mind that—she says it’s good for He muttered somethi i f, i - nanes changed. hing to himself, and his coun I cannot stay now,” he said. ‘Come here to- morrow, = little wild Indian—if I am not here, ‘come a He attempted to mount his h orse, but grew ve wie and leaned against a lamp-post cies ane alloa, Amory!” exclaimed a young man sev- is 7 eae older, halting opposite; *' @ at the deuce Rs rey, here?’ “eg ave hurt my wrist confoundedly,” he replied. into noose you ride my horse home and ill get shail conte ad Y Neo nd complied, an ad a consciousness, b we wax? that the youth turned from me as if he’ did Ver 8h the other to observe that he had been con- now. hme, I did not marvel thereat—I do not brave have learned that it requires great courage to #¥® the world’s sneer! Remember what I told you, children,” he said, aang toward me again after the horse and its must ac disappeared. “You are an odd e,. 1 reathe rep LOW comes such a ooking bird with those hailed i as an omnibus, and, with a parting glance was do, remind me of his command, entered it and €n rapidly from my sight. . } bring all the charm of early boyhood back | | brushed ag CHAPTER IL. ; A GREAT CHANGE. No more, that day, did I sweep the bape I walked down the crowded thoroughfare complete! oblivious to everything around. Several times ainst ladies, who pulled their rich gar- * ments away with harsh words, as if there had been fear of contagion in my very touch, At last sat down upon the stone steps which lead to St. Paul’s stately church, and the afternoon had worn away before I stirred. : : What my thoughts were I cannot tell—a strange jumble, doubtless; I know I often had such as per- plexed me mere I went home that night with no money; and Nan’s good humor was not increased when she learned what a sum I might have earned. Iwas, of course, too wise to have told her, but she heard the cireum- stances from an old ragman who, unseen by me, had witnessed_ the whole probable that I might have another beating to record, had not her anger been appeased by my telling her that I was to meet the gentleman on the following day. i I was only dispatched to bed without having re- ceived my accustomed crust; but I soon forgot hunger and cold in recalling the wonderful event of the day, and looking eagerly forward to the mor- row. Ihad no project—no idea of what might happen, as a less ignorant child would have had; to me, even the — of again seeing and speaking with any human being so elegant and marvelous as that youth, was dream enough. , as. Famine and cold had often kept me awake, but never so long as did those vague fancies which fol- lowed me into my dreams, and lent them a beauty they had never known before—as far removed from the dull misery of my existence as would have been some wonderful Eastern tale. 2 The next morning I was stationed on the corner long before the appointed hour; but I waited in vain—the stranger did not appear. I was going away a overcome with grief, when some one touche a arm, “What do you want?” I asked, sullenly. : aes you live with old Nan?” questioned the voice. I turned quickly and saw an elderly man ina - livery—I learned afterward it was so called--stand- ing beside me. Yes, I live with her,’ I replied; ‘‘and I caught the gentleman’s horse,’ I added, for it occurred to my mind that he had been sent in search of-me. — *You’re the very one I want then,” he continued; “Master Easton couldn’t come out, so he must needs send me, and a nice errand it is, 1don’t think! You are just to follow me, you young blackamoor— at a respectful distance, mind, though, for I don’t care about being seen in this sort of company.” Without a word I obeyed him, careless of his,rude ness, following in his footstepsa long distance up Broadway, until he went down the basement-s' of a large, magnificent house. He bade me stay the hall, and went up-stairs. pease Ina few moments he returned and again ordered me to follow him. I ascended the stairs, 5 poe through a broad hall, which looked more iy than my vague ideas of heaven, mounted another stair- case, and entered a room in the upper story, I paid no attention to its splendor, for before me, on a low couch, lay the young stranger, “So, here you are!” he exclaimed, throwing down a book he had been reading. ‘Well, we must make a change in your eae before any one else sees you. Rollins,” he continued to the man, “have somebody find her adress, Tell them to wash her ane make her tidy; then ask my aunt to come ere. The man bowed respectfully, darted a look of dis- gust at my appearance, took me out and consigried me to the hands of a wondering and indignant housemaid. ete oer It is very © q 4
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& ALONE IN THE WORLD. / ur I was led back to that magnificent | put an end to the conversation. The man who had jpicane dre my face clean, my fait aiooth conducted me to the house hoy gi in answer to and shining, but still falling in heavy masses about | her summons, and was ordered to go with me to my shrunk waist. TI back at the eshold, for @ lady was sitting there, and near her stood a proud- loo J, who surveyed me with unqualified dis- his voice reassured me. then exclaimed: “T don’t wonder you were struck, Easton; upon | my word, I believe she’s a name, eg a “Madge Wylde,” I answered, unawed by her man- ner, for I was not timid after the first moment of “A very fit name,” she said. .“* Would you like to live with me, and learn to read and sew?’ a Peng wait on me,”’ put in the girl; “you said she ould, mamma,”’ _. “Yes, yes, my dear,” returned the lady quickly, for the youth on the sofa made a hasty movement; “that can be easily settled hereafter. Would you like to live here?’ she added to me. _ “Tf old Nan is willing,’ I replied; ‘but, if ycu don’t pay. her, she wi get me away from you, Don’t let her do that—oh, don’t!” “You need not be afraid,” said the boy. ‘“ Be a good girl, and try to learn every thing you are bid, and old Nan shall never have you.” : He whispered a few words to the lady, who reriied _ .. “You are such a willful creature—however, u _ your own way! Indeed, I dare say we shall find the Tittie quite useful. Louise,’’ she continued to arrange your cousin’s cushions; he is not . Lam grateful, Easton, that you es- caped with a sprain and a slight lameness.” Gipsy. What is your “Tam-very ful to her,” he replied, carelessly, and gry hg ey is position withayawn. ‘* How tire- ' some it is to has seemed like a wee ; “ But this: child ’’—said the lady, as if suddenl “ yeturning to a consciousness of my presence. ‘ Rol- ’ nd e young gentleman bade me advance, ai | snostnene tonite simmer ae F The lady regarded me for an instant through her | | tious of m | where her | mein the rich chamber where | entering a festal hall. shut oe the house—this morning old home for the purpose of with old Nan concerning my departure. “Don’t leave the child,” said the, youth. ‘ Pay the old hag whatever she asks, so that there may be The man promised wre sey oe obedience, and took me down-s' again to the housemaid, who put on me a pretty bonnet and shawl, and then we set forth. Old Nan no objection to parting with me, pro- vided she was paid her price. Indeed, she gener- ously gave me my mother’s cross, a moment after demanding to be paid its full value, patted my head while she vowed that I might thank her and the bringing-up she had given me for my good fortune, and allowed me to depart. Nan anil metnomore, From that day my des- tiny took unto itself new paths, spreading out in a far different direction--whether for happiness or misery the future only could tell. I returned to that stately mansion and its haughty occupants, almost stupefied by the suddenness and magnitude of the change which had come over me. Of course, I did not speculate as an older person would have done; but I was full of strange, wild thouzhts, and among others would come recollec- mother’s death, and the dismal room 6 went out, pte | themselves upon sat, like beggars I was startled at the see around me; I thought there were many Madge Wyldes beside me as the mirrors reflected my image. The soft car- pets seemed never meant to be trodden—every thing was so at hcg: and beautifu] that I could not believe it real ut, young as I was, and dolefully ignorant, too, something fold me that Louise was wate! my amazement with and Loatetully repressed it. CHAPTER Il, MY NEW. HOMBP. Tures days after, we left the city, and for the first time in my life I enjoyed the delight of riding in a carriage, I went in the vehicle with Mrs. Amory, her daughter and nephew, although at first the lady ) had been at a loss where to put me. It was Easton's . decision that settled the matter, as it appeared to pe | every thing in which he chose to interest him- self, “You do not mean her to associate with the ser- vants. She is to be brought up a companion for Louise—a sort of usefully useless ornament to your boudoir; therefore, keep her where she may learn ot manners—though they seem natural enough er So I went in the carriage with them. TI can look scornful pleasure, lins must go with her to her home and pay the hor- rid creature she has lived with her price, and get her back upon no season of such keen enjoyment as that ‘away. We leave town so.soon that she can obtain 6 Sehy no clew _in which I then reveled, I had never been in the to our whereabouts, if she repents,”’ country before, and our jai Ha along that most o Si tics ae ot think she would be likely to do | majestic river of our New World, .every step re- aan th Pare the young girl. ly vearing some unexpected beauty and marvel, dling c es tke cousin glanced at her again. ’ my eyes with tears and my heart with emotions hee aod co a ou on i head is exquisi shaped. The- inl ciavted a spiteful glance at me, and ’ outright, but her mother interposed be- - tween the two, } _ “She had better go back at once, had she not, | urillo’s’ pictures; her sana x from their very sweetness, until I leaned oack in my seat sick, and faint with excitement, I knew that we were going to Mrs, Amory’s coun- {ry-seat, where she intended to pass at least a por- fion of the summer, and my , undeveloped soul panted with joy at the thought of spending whole Easton? months among the green trees and. beau flow- - “Jthinkso,madam. I must tell Rollins to learn | ers, Iwas not noticed a great deal, though, when, every thing he can about her,” | several times, I clasped my hands and uttered some “Oh, I've no doubt you will hear some wonderful | ejaculation of astonishment or admiration at the romance,” rejoined Louise; ‘perhaps she is an en- | princess.” j “She looks like oné,’’ replied her cousin, coolly; “such an out-of-the-way face—really it is quite re- mene 8e6 something so picturesque and origi- The lady rose and rung the bell, as if anxious to varied scenes presented to my gaze, Easton would look smilingly at me, and the languid iad: , long past admiring any thing, would say: ks te “Ts not her enthusiasm delicious?—so out-of-the- way and piquant.” " Miss Louise occasionally indulged in a few words of contempt, or a little sneering laugh; but somer ’ 4 é P on ’ , . ee . P rs Pale’. Se |
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=> .2 3 baer how her cousin always checked her vapid insolence ormerriment, and I was allowed to indulge my ex- cited feelings in any way I saw fit. We rode all day; then the young lady chose to fancy herself ill, and we were obli to spend the night at a littletown whose name I do not remem- ber, The next morning Amory proposed to his aunt that we should pursue our journey in the steamboat that touched there, and she at once consented, I shall never forget my emotions as we drove down to the landing and went on board of the boat. Since then I have seen noble ships of ay nation upon the broad ocean—have looked on all that is grand or ama: Bo our country—all that is famed or wonderful in the old world—but nothing ever awak- ened such feelings as I experienced when I felt my- ieee smoethly over the watersinthat grace- ul boa: Miss Louise erage: gave me her and sev- eral books to hold, while, at her pag A est, her cousin offered her his arm for a promenade on deck, Mrs. Amory retired to the cabin, and I was left to gaze in silence on the beautiful views which every momeut opened in a new loveliness before us, How I longed to stand upon the summits-of the mountains rising so blue and distinct in the distance —to let myself gently down among the foam-crested waters and float softly along after the white-winged. birds skimming about us like shadows, Heaven 7 peared very tear those lofty peaks; and all my life had such wild fancies of going thither in Search of my lost mother. The boat swept rapidly on, and in a few moments we reached the landing where we were to leave it. We again entered the carriage, passed “anes | pee og the little village and along the smooth roa until I saw the jutting wings and lofty chimneys of 4 large house upon our right hand. It proved to be our place of destination; for, quit- ting the highway, we passed through the great iron gates, up a winding drive, bordered on either side with trees that interlaced their branches over- head, sometimes losing sight of the house and river altogether; then, upon reaching a sudden rise of ound, the gray roof would loom up again and the right waters dance in the sunlight, while my heart leaped at the sight of them. house stood upon an eminence, built of dark- Gay stone, with spreading wings and broad veran- » perfectly covered with fragrant vines just burst- ug thto bloom, smooth, broad Jawn swept from the steps down to the beginning of the avenue; on the right hand Was an immense flower. garden, while at the left and .back a fine old wood, stately with primeval pines and hemlocks, spread down toward the river. I could catch glimpses of the waters from the ve- randa, sweeping away ina succession of beautiful gs until a sudden curve and rd cliff shut the last gleam from view, miles and miles above. The interior of the dwelling was in keeping with its surroundings. A great hall divided it in the cen- ter, widening in the middle to an arched room yuere a sparkling fountain threw up its spray, an ell with a sweet, ringing sound into a mar a4 below. doors, at the further end, gave egres alawn corresponding with the one in front, giv- ing beautiful glimpses into the old woods, while near t © entrance of the hall a vast marble pile rose in | Poy ongo windings—I could hardly believe it to be a | There were many spacious apartments, crowded with all the luxuries that wealth could provide or & ie fancy suggest. Pictures lined the walls; haqwtul statues, from which I shrunk as if they && n spirits, were grouped around; and wher- er the eye turned, it fell upon_objects of almost senyouke veliness. My-course of life soon became I was regarded half as a pet, treated kindly, pro- vided with pretty on aan igen such things pe it or «eee : ALONE IN THE WORLD. 5 ‘was necessary I should learn, ther with a few showy accomplishments; yet made all the while to feel that between me and my benefactor there was an immense gulf, over which I could nevir cross. pe A portion of each day was spent in Mrs. Amory’s dressing-room, sometimes following the bent of my oe inc nae logeane books of e : or aying c e, as my fancy sugg' ; at othe pubsont to the caprice of Louies: who was one moment kind and good-na tured, the next so irri- | table and exacting that-I could do nothing to please. her, ‘ . She was completely spoiled by her mother's indul- gence; accustomed to the gratification of eve caprice, however extravagant and ridiculous it rs vege i Sage: it was — phinn Ng Gore her uu at she was growing prou y a vain; for, under the best and most ghey oe ee arg she would always have been a weak, volous character. + a Easton Amory remained several weeks at Wood- brook, then he left us quite unexpectedly. Fr him always received kindness and attention; although, after a time, he ceased noti me much in his aunt’s presence, as it was evidently unpleas- ant to her. But very often I encountered him in the one then he would sit down by me, and talk in less, dashing way, fg ee not regarding me as & child; and, indeed, though orant, and younger than Louise, I was, in many t! s, her superior—I felt it even then, The governess; who I learned had been on A to her family, now returned, and she gave me les- sons daily, when those. of Louise were over; as she was a kind woman, and devoted herself assiduously to my improvement, I made a progress that was perfectly astonishing, and was soon quite the equal of Louise in all such studies at it was considered proper for me to pursue. I was passionately fond of pictures, and, whenever T could steal into the gallery, where a fine collection hung, I spent hours in g upon them, w often, and talking to them as if they could under- stand my love and admiration. I had received no instruction in drawing, but I used to sit for hours with a pene and paper, m sketches, which, though rude and ill-formed, showe more than an ordinary degree of talent for one so young. I was sitting in a window-seat, in the uppe® hall, one day, busily occupied with some marvelous pro- duction, when Easton chanced to pass. ‘* What on earth are you about?” he asked. — “ Had it been any one else who made the " ch “ x ree : I should have hidden the sheet; but mu him, I did not dare, for I was a perfect slave to his wishes; sol replied faintly: : ‘Nothing at all.” “Nothing at all,’ he replied; “ you certainly have a very industrious way of working at nothing. Let — tig: you are at—nonsense, child, don’t be raic He took the paper from me with a manner he ha even in the slightest act, which clearly showed how entirely he had been accustomed to have every one around submit to his least wish. ’ He looked at the drawing for a moment without speaking; claimed others which lay in my lap; glanced at those in the same unusual silence; while sat watching him with anxious eyes, as if sentence of life or death hung upon his ag “Who gp ied you ?” he asked, at length; “Miss Western, I suppose. *Nobod an me,” Ireplied; “I only do them because I like to, oh, 80 much,” as apne mit pagers of ** Don’t e them away from me, ** please don’t—it doesn’t do any you know ” “J should think not, indeed. live genius—I suppose you know what that is.”” # '. is reck- “why you are alittle —
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“Of course I 40—T was reading about one the other day.” ‘* And you are pattern after him?” “T don’t know what you mean—please give me my picture, Easton, I want to finish it before some- heey calls me away to do something else.” At this Moment Mrs. Amory came up-stairs, I _ maade a movement to seize and hide my drawing, but Easton held it above my reach. “ Aunt,” he said, “look at this.” She took the sketches with her usual stately deliberation, looked at them for a moment, and said ~complacently: “Lonise r draws very well; she has immense talent in every thing she undertakes. Did she give you these, Madge?’ * Louise!” exclaimed Easton, almost contempt- uously. “Excuse me, ma’am, but she could not draw so well to save her soul.” _ Who did them then?’ she asked, in a tone which betrayed her — displeasure. “They exhibit tal- ent, to be sure, but Miss Western couldn’t have drawn these crude things.” “here sits the artist,” replied Easton, pointin: ' tome, laughing a little bit, with a certain degree 0) Fea ety aike os 1 hile th Mrs. ra) ‘ave me an angry glance, while the color shot into hor ale cheeks. ‘ “Who gave you lessons?” she asked. “No one, madam,” I answered. ‘Please don’t be angry—indeed, I didn’t mean any harm,” _ She gave me the drawings without a word, and turned away, but Easton did not follow. _j sweetest smiles, “I thought you promised to make \ on calls with Louise and cas cave you for- “Ah, here is Miss Western,’? pursued Easton, heedless of his aunt’s impatience, as the governess came down from the school-room. ‘ Look at these ‘* drawings,” he continued, placing them in her hand Pi A dap ee take great pains with her—perhaps we “have found an artist,’ “Do you wish me to give Madge lessons in draw- ing, madam?” asked the governess, turning toward Mrs. Amory, with her accustomed composure. - “Of course, of course,” replied Easton, before his aunt could speak; ‘that is what I am saying.” Mrs. Amory looked excessively annoyed; but there was something in Haston’s face which she did not choose to contradict. __ “Thave no objections,” she said coldly. ‘ Madge, Ido not like your choice of a seat; please remove yourself to the school-room—or no, you may go to apatite and wind the silk that lies on the ble. _ As Easton Amory handed his aunt down-stairs, I heard him laugh in a tantalizing way, and she re- ed to it in a low, quick voice; but I did not catch e words. I knew there was ere i amiss, al- though I hardly understood what, for Miss Western was regarding me with the sad look she often be- stowed upon my face. ‘ ce iss Western,’ I exclaimed, tmpetuously, “isn’t it nice! I want.tobeginright away—this very moment,” 3 “You have the silk to wind first. 7 t won’t take any time at all, you know, and I to begin so bad, wprine he skeins into the school-room,” she re- plied, kindly; ‘‘as soon as you have wound them I will [oe you a first lesson.” oa h Tam so glad! Let me kiss you, Miss West- ern, let me kiss you right off.”’ é@ governess bent down to receive my caress, aud, standing up an instant, with her hand lightly placed on my head, she continued: — ALONE IN THE WORLD. "Do not forget to be 5 ps to the kind friends among whom you have fallen—let it be your study to please them—and above all, thank God heartily ET Ga! one cy teplys “8 esay tol Mako cil all 0,” was my ; “I pray for m an of them every night.” : “Mr. Easto: sted , i,” “No,” returned t sare eall him so only the other day.” “When you are a little older you will learn that it is not a r,"? she said. “But I like it best.” “I think Mrs, Amory would not like it.” she re- plied, ‘“‘and you would be sorry to displease her.” I did not understand at all why it could offend Mrs. roe! § but I was too busy with my proposed studies to think much about the matter, After that I received instruction daily, and before many — Miss Western predicted wonderful ‘or me. the governess, gently. ie Shepate Te bate to CHAPTER IV. THE YOUNG STRANGER, Easton Amory left Woodbrook soon after that little scene; and as, during several weeks following, the house was crowded with company, I was al- lowed to wander about at my pleasure. I received lessons regularly from Miss Western, but Louise could hardly be induced to look at a book, Young as she was; a love for every species of dissi- pation was the strongest feeling in headers: Her soul was not more than half formed; such faculties as she possessed would never be more than partially developed, but she loved flattery and excitement, and was never in good humor unless her mother permitted her to be dressed and among the visitors. I was, of course, sent for but seldom, Occasion- ally, Louise would take it into her wise head to use her embroidery-frame, and would have me at hand to sort and, wind silks; but that was from a desire to make me feel my dependence, I knewit would have pleased her I revolted, and been coerced into obedience; so never, by word or look, did I betray how, child though I was, such servitude galled my proud spirit. At other times,.after my lessons were over, I de- voted several hours to drawing; then Miss Western would insist on my leaving it; so I would take a book—choosing thos : fullest of picftures—wander off into the depths of the woods, an ce some favorite thicket, lie and lose myself in that delight- ful companionship, while the summer light flickered . through the branches of the old trees, danced mer- rily upon the greensward, or linge ce a blessing, upon my forehead, that ached from the strangeness and intensity of thoughts which I had no power to comprehend, One day [had nearly reached the boundaries of the estate; for, on that side, Mrs. Amory’s lands ter- minated with the woods. I had been annoyed by one of Louise’s displays of temper, and, as soon as I could release myself, hurried off into that lonely retreat. ‘ I threw aside my bonnet, let my hair stream once more after its old untidy fashion, which was no longer permitted, and raced wildly up and down, scaring the rabbits from their retreat, and chasi the butterflies as they glanced past. I tired myse fairly out at length, and lay down ppon the grass to rest, idly hides my hair round and round my fin- rs, after a habit I had, and lazily watching the sun- eams kiss the tree-tops, At last, a step sounded faintly on the gzeen : but I did not look uP, oe eng it to be one of the men em loyed about the p ce, “Really,” said a voice I did not know, “I wonder if the grove is haun‘ed? This is the first time in years that I have set my foot here, and I didn’f ex- pect to be treated to tho sight of a wood-n; ve, I sprung to my feet at once, and stood looking at the speaker in astonishment, but without any fear. He was a youth, apparently about the age of
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“~ 47'S ae Are ECT ee Re ee, ae oe ee Easton Amory, but unifke him in every respect, He was rather pale than air, with lange, © -& mouth that ke mi ‘hation, and soft, wavy pen hue so seldom seen, but which is so beautiful. have seen such hair but once since; then it adorned the forehead of genius, The face was not hand- some until he smiled; then it lit up so brightly, and his great eyes were so soft and varied in their expression, that it lent his features something nobler mere beauty. “You need not look at m~ with so much wonder,”’ he said, “nor be at all afraid.” “ Afraid!” repeated I, with a considerab'e show of contempt in my tone; “why should I be?” He laughed a little, in a subdued sort, and stooped to pat a beautiful black and tan dog, that lay at hir feet, panting with the fatigue of a sharp run. From his manner I suppose he thought me older then T really was, for I was tall and slender, and my hair @ woman might have envied. “1 thought at first you were my cousin Louise,”’ he continued; “‘ but when I saw you pipots! Cl a deer, I knew you could not be; she is altogether too languid and fine for such exertion.” ‘Your cousin Louise?’’ I returned, staring at him in new astonishment, ‘‘ How comes she to be your cousin?” ae - ** Very easily; but did you never hear me spoken of?” he continued, with much earnestness. ‘Indeed, Iam astonished at my aunt’s neglect. I wish she could see me here this moment—what a way she would be in!” : , “Who are you?’ I asked, abruptly, quite losing sight of the principles of courtesy, which Miss estern so diligently instilled into my mind, in my wonder at his sudden appearance and singular words, “You like tne lady of the manor,” said he, laughing at the air I had unconsciously assumed; then, taki 4 off his cap, he made ine a low bow, and “Be it known to you, worshipful maiden, led sweetn ‘ss and determi- added: that Iam your unworthy servant, Walter Stuart.” “* And you are Louise’s cousin?” “T have that honor; and add thereto that of being nephew to her serene mother, whom I conclude you are visiting.’’ “No,” I replied, not caring how quickly any one learned my real position; ‘I live with her—she took me away from old Nan Briggs, and I have been here ever since.”’ The smile faded from his lips, and a graver ex- pression stole over his face; somehow, young as he was, it seemed more natural to it than the merry look it had worn a moment before. “ Better have left you with old Nan!’’ he muttered. ** How came she to find you?” “} saved Easton from falling off his horse, so he persuaded his aunt to take me,’ I said. “Hum!” was his doubtful rejoinder, ‘I remem- ber hearing that my delectable cousin had met with an accident. ‘Ts he your cousin, too?” I asked, “We have the happiness to hold that relationship to each other,” he replied.. ‘Do you think him handsome?” a yet See “Yes; much handsomer than you,” I replied, angrily, so irritated by his tone that T grew het and *“t'We won't quarrel about looks, Miss. What shall uu?’ “ appropria) ne e not give the aad get. T conclude.” v give you “ Certainly not. Isuppose I may have a name as er people. ; bi Ni fe sorry to prevent you,” he replied, eg uw Bove na interesting conversation upon a variety of topics. Y eyes, | rown hair, of that peculiar | —-, N e . oe eS _ALONE IN THE WORLD. § = ee oa ee ™Do you live near here?” I asked, at length. | “The next place to this; those are our grounds upon the other side of the wall.” rand Sate olan do youn ever visit your aunt?” I questioned, ss y. “Tf does seem strange that I should live so near such charming relatives, and never see them,” he returned, in his old. bentonite tone,;~ “ Why do you?” I persisted. * Because I don’t wish v0,” he answi bluntly; “Nor would they thank me for my visit, if I made one. Indeed, I gurpece if Mrs. Amory could see me 3 here this moment, she would order the dogs set upon me.”’ ' ‘““What have you done?” I asked, looking suspici- ously at him. 7 “So it follows that the fault must be mine, does it?” he asked.- ‘““Was it?” I persisted, with all the earnestness of m e. X Nothing at all; I have not exchanged a word with any.of them since I was a little child.” “Then you can’t have any quarrel with them,” I argued. "RT am. afraia yn are not very worldly wise, Miss Madge,” he said, smiling. “I cannot explain the affair to you, although you do demand it in such an imperious way. Mrs. Amory and we have not been friends for years, Unless you wish to have your ears soundly boxed, I would not advise you to men- tion my name.” . _ The conversation passed to other themes, and, as was natural at my age, very soon became as confi- dential as possible. i “Do you come here often?” he asked. * Almost every day, when it is pleasant. I like to be in the woods, don’t hess eet “Indeed I do. I fairly live in our of this old forest. Come with me, and I show you my work. We must often have been neighbors without being aware of it.” : : I followed him to the low wall that separated the grounds, and sprung over after him, before he could make a movement to assist me. ; “4 uh Upon my word,” he said, ‘you can jump like a eer, X “Louise says it isn’t ladylike,” I said, blus a pad forI was a sensitive child, in spite of my wild spirits. : “Never mind her; it would be a good thing for her to run about a little, and get some color in her wax- doll face.”’ z ‘She says it is aristocratic to be pale,”’ ‘ “With all my heart tocratic as she likes, only do not let her make ou so. ; ae She iS not likely to try it,” I replied. “Bus where is your favorite place?” “Very near here. Come this w We took a windin goon came to a rustic summer-house, covered ” . “What a pre lace,” I sai He eeadaned as into the arbor. There were low seats covered with moss—a fantastic table of the books and papers were scattered about, all making up the ee charming retreat possible to imagine. - like it?” he asked. “Obit is beautiful! There is nothing like this in our woods. I wish there was—such a pretty place to sit and read.”’ “JT hope you will come here very often, then, and bring your books,” he answered. “Oh, may I? oa urse you may, you little fairy.” : “Then I will, ‘You will see me almost every pleasant da: ften. 2 And you live so near here?” Tasked. “Yes: you can see the house through the trees.” ; and she shall be as aris- path through the woods, and blossoming vines and Cg a the great trees. © : same rustic manufacture as the summer-house— ” “Very wells Iam sure that I cannot see you too”
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hed « Ries -) iv. a. hes eee. a” 6 ae 6 ALONE IW THE WORLD. ‘use We are deadly enemies.” “How can that be?” I said, wonderingly. ‘Rela- tives are never enemies.”’ “ Are ag fa he returned, laughing scorn- omg nt nk they are very seldom any thing ‘But it isn’t right,” I expostulated. _ “Nor is it my fault, little Madge. But don’t. talk nbout them; I never wish even to think of their names. I would not have set foot in those grounds, but Brownie, my dog here, ran away, and I heard her moaning so piteously that I thought she must be hurt, and came after her without thinking where ~ J was.” ‘What a pretty pe she is,’ Isaid. ‘I found one last week, a nice little thing, and Mrs. Amory told that I ht keep it, but Louise pretended that was-afraid of the poor doggie, and screamed so every time it came near her, that they made me send it away.” “Horrid little wretch!” he murmured. ‘Never mind, Madge, you shall come here and play with Brownie whenever you please; see, she has taken a fancy to you already, and Brownie seldom ‘does to pirap eens. She pays you a high compliment.” é little creature had leaped into my lap, and, licking my hands for a time, curled herself comfort ably up, and went fast to sleep. ‘And you come here often?” I inquired. “Oh, yes: Istudy here; you will always find me when the weather is fine. Do you like picture books, Madge?” I was insane about them, and when he put a vol. ume.of colored hy ge s in my hand, the measure of my delight was full, He talked very kindly to m evinced an interest in my childish conversation, an explained the fo Pang to me, until I came to the conclusion that he must be very learned indeed— almost as wise as Easton; of course, no one could on quite equal him in my mind. and! stayed there until late in the afternoon. I had geurey orgotten that I might be wanted in the use. “T must go home, now,’ I said, when I remem. bered how one I had been gone. ‘‘ Miss Western wil scold me if I don’t.” “ Who is she?” “The bes ernees, you know.” **T did not; is she nice?” "Oh, very nice; I love her so much.” ‘Well, if she is kind to you, all right.” _ “T will Jay Brownie on the moss,’’I said; “she sleep there as nice as possible. Good-by, now, Walter Stuart; what a pretty name you have “Thank you, Madge; good-by. I shall expect you very soon. again,”’ ‘*May I come to-morrow?” “The sooner the better, If I am busy, you can amuse yourself with a book.” at Oh, I won't disturb you; I'll be as still as a “So be it! To-morrow then, little fairy.” “Yes, Pll come to-morrow,” and¥away I bounded, quite delighted with my new friend. , CHAPTER V. 4 _. MIDSUMMER HAPPINESS, Srverat days passed without my again seeing \. alter Stuart, forI was kept so busy in the house that I found no time for my accustomed rambles in the woods, Louise detained me, constantly waiting ares ane had a slight illness, which she mag- fied, as she always did her ailments, into sickness, I was kept near to gratify her whims. I think ise dislike passed her in natural oe gare and, like all mean natures, she never omitted an opportunity of grati- tying her malicious disposition. _ Among other trials, [was doomed to complete a me because.I so far sur- | ’ a « why ever com your | lece of-worsted-work that she had begun—a many- aunt?” nr ee aio polored dog, tectaiog a basket of flowers in is mouth, of hues and shades that would have aston- ish ofa could she haveseenthem. ‘The girltook delight in watching me and finding fault with my pe tor forcing me to pick out the stitches a ozen times in succession, though, on each separate trial, they had been set exactly as she di Passionate and fiery I was, but I had early learned that nothing vexed Louise so much as to see me per- fectly unmoved by her taunts; so I heeded herill- humor not at all, singing gayly at my work, and loo quite happy and unconcerned, though, all the while, I was ready to spring out of the window with restlessness an impatience. Her blue eyes would fairly blaze, and her delicate complexion grow purple with passion, and several times she struck me with her whole force, calling me by every insulting name that her mean imagina- tion could suggest. : the we , and the beautiful midsum mer came on. oodbrook put on all its beauties, and to me the place was like Paradise I missed Easton exceedingly, and his absence was a source of great grief to me: but I never mentioned his name, though night after night I lay in bed ecry- ing with a sort of vague unrest, and whenever T could gain access to the picture- allery unperceived, spending hours before his portrait—talking to it, bape counsel of it, calling it my best, my only en When the clustering vines were most t, the flower-gardens in their richest beauty, the depths of the great wood greenest and most lovely, Mrs. Amory was seized with a sudden fever to de Cees I heard her oe of a trip to Saratoga and earned from Miss Western what and where it was, watching with silent wonder the bike 9 sare that went on, and marveling how she could tear herself from that beautiful spot. Louise was to accompany her, and I feared [ should be compelled to go; but certain that the ill- natured piu would force me to act contrary to my desires, I occasionally whispered in her ear of the happiness she would enjoy, and left her to infex, if she pleased, that I énvied her anticipated pleasure. So Louise decided that I should remain where I was, although, once or twice, Mrs, Amory spoke of taking me. “I won’t have her!” said her daughter; “indeed I won't! People will be asking if she is any relation of mine—though, to be sure, we might dress her in a Turkish costume, and they would take her for a mulatto—she is black enough, in all conscience!” I made no reply, although I was furious. I did not hate the miserable creature; I felt too strongly her immeasurable inferiority, and despised her tennis as mouch as the weak spirit that instigated em. So they went away, and Miss Western went to visit her relatives—I was alone, with the exception of the servants. But Mrs. Amory saw fit to impose certain restrictions upon me; she had never quite forgotten her annoyance about the drawings. She decided, properly enough, that I must be taught to sew, and the housekeeper was instructed, during certain hours of each day, to induct me into the mysteries of needlework, was t peimor 3 happy during the month that fol- lowed. 1 attended to my sewing every marae, and the rest of the day was at my own disposal; I could read, study, and, better than all, draw as constantly as I saw fit. I know that I improved ve ney 3 and I was so anxious that Easton should be p with my success when he returned. During those weeks I pe cae | saw Walter Stuart. When I sought my old haunt in the woods he would come to the division wall that separated Woodbrook from his home, and call my name, always gladly obeyed his invitation to visit the sum- mer-house, for I li him, although I should no more have thought of comparing him with Easton
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a ee” ee Amory than earth with heaven. He was kind, gen- tle, pleasant; but, in my mind, Haston was some- ng so superior to any other human being, that it would have been sacril ‘ge to my faith to have com- pared the two. : ‘Tl wager my head that Mademoiselle Louise set you at that work,” said he, as we sat, one day, in the arbor—he with a book, from which he had been reading to me, and I occupied in embroidering a handkerchief. «, You are quite mistaken,” I replied, haughtily; I _ doing it because I wish to; it is for Miss estern, ” He laughed mischievously at my irritation, flung his book aside, and es playfully teasing the little dog that lay at his feet. * When is Easton Amory coming back?” was the next question. ‘Not at all thissummer, Miss Western toldme. He will return to college in the fall.” “So shall I, Miss Madge. Idon’t think he will be. hurt with the preparation he makes; he is off on a yachting excursion with a party of Southerners.” “T should imagine,” I replied, “that he would er rd little preparation to do any thing he Walter Stuart smiled—his old, pained smile. I Went on with my work, and he looked at me for a lor time, then turned away, drawing adeep breath _“* Poor Madge!” he murmured, pityingly. “Poor little Madge! .. Don’t!” I said, while the tears rose to my eyes; my mother used to say that—it makes me cry.” He stroked ee softly, as a brother might ae done, and his voice took its sweetest tone as he “I wish you knew my mother; I wish you lived with hor.” ¥ y ; Bf ; ‘“* As much as Easton?” be asked. I would not tell:a lie, and I told him “No,” He was not angry, not vexed, only sorrowful. He —— at me in the way that always brought tears my eyes. * Poor Madge!” he sighed; “ poor little Madge!” He looked wistfull om my tobtiond: in a manner which, had I Keen older, would have told me that he longed to press a kiss there; buthe made no move- ment to do so, t “Yes,I am sorry you are poing,” I said, glanc- ing forward to the loneliness of the weeks that lay betore me, ‘* I wish peop never would go away-— it’s very stupid of them, I am sure.” ALS He laughed a little, then repeated, more sorrow- than before: : His hand lingered, for a moment, upon hair, his eyes looker with an cerned!” seats Wibeee own, then, before I could move or find words to speak from the tide of emotions that choked he was gone, and I sat within the vine-wreathed ar dorvowtl and alone. : . I was very sad for several days. I think I eried many times, though it would have gone hard with me if I had been forced to declare wherefore, be- cause I myself did not know. < I thought of Easton Amory, and yearned to see him. I would have gladly gone out into the world in search of him, just as, years before, 1 longed to go up to heaven and find my lost mother. weg About that time, romance and poetry began to have a new charm for me—I lived and reveled in the glorious imaginings which they depicted. I idled no longer in the real world—I formed for myself a beaut: realm, peopled with the beings of my own fancy, and dwelt there blessed in their companion- ship. So I lived and dreamed, sometimes sorrowful, sometimes glad—equally unable to assign a reason for either emotion, In a few weeks Mrs. Amory and her daughter re- barsieds and for a time, the household resumed its old ways. a It was now autumn; for, after leaving the water- ing-place, they had spent some time in traveling. I was growing old enough to discover that Mrs. Am- ory needed constant change and excitement. She became restless and dissatisfied d ed of those mental stimulants to which she had 80 long ac- customed that she could no more have nade 4 existence without their aid than an o rao de- prived of his baleful but Miss Weste considered it necessary to ster sundry lectures upon the folly of a beggar being reared as I was, and quoted a_ certain jae concerning their equestrian tendencies when placed on horseback; but I despised her more than ever. 4 You took as much like a Hindoo as you always did,” was nearly her first salutation. ‘Are you sure you haven't 8 C that you worship in delightful secrecy? “Yes, I have, but you will never see them,” I re- plied, filled still with my romance and poetry. “T wouldn’t advise you to be inipertinent,” sho said, sharply. - some outlandish idols hid away © ve —= a SS Poe 7 nas ee Nf
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muc: » 10 *¥ only answered your question,” I replied. **You have no business to do that unless you are orderec. < T€ yeu look at me like that Ill tell ima. *“T am sorry if my looks don’t please you.” “Tshouldn’t think they would please anybody,” she said, with a sneer. ‘They do though,” I retorted, pertly. She had sense enough to know that I referred to Easton, and his frequently expressed admiration of my appearance. ‘Leave this room!” she exclaimed furiously. “Tf you come here again to-day I'll box your ears.” I retired triumphant and exulting, as any other gir) of my oot a have done, in my victory. Mrs. A ory waited anxiously for the time to re- turn to the city; she was weary of the Re F its repose bored her; and I used to look at her in un- disguised astonishment, as she exclaimed against the dullness of everything and everyb around; I would have asked no greater happiness than never ‘to have left that beautiful place which she valued only as conducing to her position and importance. - Thad, even at that age, a keen perception of the beautiful—strong artistic and poetic tastes, which if rig developed, would be to me a source 0 ee benefit. Western saw all that, and, un- ke. others in her position, she was willing to bend her whole powers to the task of developing my faculties. Her father had been an artist of no mean reputa- tion, she inherited much of his talent, and had received from him thorough and honest principles & to art, which she made the basis of her But I will nig no longer over these unimportant periods in my history; I ony wish to seize and pre- sent the features, though if was necessary that I should dwell somewhat upon this season. CHAPTER VI. LOUISE AND I. Ws were settled in New York. I was now thirteen, and Louise over fourteen; but ance I was her elder, as in all mental ments and natural talents I was her su- or, §he had a slight, willowy figure, such as American teeters possess, very graceful and elegant, but acking strength and vigor, and her movements were always languid and indolent. She had light, almost flaxen hair, delicate and finely cut features, but lacking character, and when she was not ani- mated they had a peevish expression which de- tracted from their loveliness. As for myself, Ido not know if I was handsome— I think not. I was tall and siender, my step springy and elastic; the crimson of health mantled in my . cheeks, and I certainly had magnificent eyes and hair; my mouth wac never good—it expressed too resolution, even self-will, to be agreeable in its expression. Wea were as unlike in character as in personal ap- p v9 ig Jag fact, Louise had very little, while I was onh independent and self-reliant. She was else I sh from her and dislike. The mos 1 masters were provided for her, but she wenefited little by their instructions. She had a, few showy accomplishments—she danced beautifully—played well, and sung in a sweet sopresno voice that lacked expression as much as Ts face, She had no taste for books; even novels djid not please her, unless they were the most vapid #,nd unmeaning records of fashionable life. /ran. ski _s# As for me, the love of books was one of the ri t est passions—I can use no other word—in my whole nature. Miss Western's watchfulness pre- vented my reading works that would have irretriev- ALONE IN THE WORLD. my mind. I cannot be sufficiently to her for.that and all the other kindnesses residence ably grate which she bestowed upon me during her in the family. The house was constantly filled with peg oe | oe i Mrs. Amory was one of the queens of the fashion- able world. Still young, she had lost nothing of the beauty for which, from her earliest girlhood, she had been celebrated, and her manners oF spanner fascination which I never saw equaled except by one other—that was her nephew, Easton oT In appearance, the two resembled each other, and there must have been many similar points in their characters—the same unyielding will, strong assions; all hidden under the charm of that de- ightful manner, but gaining new force from their very concealment. . I was always in Mrs. Amory’s boudoir of a morning; it pleased her that I should sit there dressed in a somewhat fanciful costume, engaged with her netting silks, while she received her guests. People used to stare at me a good deal, and praise my singular beauty—that always enraged me. Mrs, Amory was sufficiently kind to me—it was her way. She treated me as as she might have done a pet animal—regarded me in the same light that she did the ornaments purchased to room, When she found that I ed: good elocution: ary powers, she acquired a habit of making me read her to sleep on a rainy Sunday, or after the fatigues of a ball. Many a time have I been called out of bed at four o’clock in the morning, because she had just come home restless and weary, and fancied that the sound of my voice would soothe her. She meant no cruelty by such conduct; it never occurred to her that I could have any will but her own—ai feeling but such as she graciously saw fit to permit me to indulge. et A. love of admiration was a great weakness in her nature, strong and passionate as it was, and I, alwa; enth tic, could not conceal how superhumanly grand and beautiful I considered her. T-verily be lieve that my innocently uttered flatteries made her more kindly disposed toward me than she would otherwise have been, Very often, when dressed to go out, she would make some excuse for soni | me to her presence, that she might please herge with my artless admiration. “A really poetic and artistic taste this child ssesses,’’ she said to Miss Western, as if in apology ‘or her own weakness; ‘‘ she certainly has a remark- able eye for color. After a while 1 must have her design all my costumes—I can judge of their effect so nicely.” ; A fine use, truly, to have devoted any artistic power I possess most assuredly; but it never would have occurred to Mrs. Amory that it could have been better employed than in gratifying her eaprices, and I woul gladly have done that, or any thing else, to gave given her pleasure, for I was very, very grateful to her, ‘ So the winter passed—flew I should say—for verily it had wings! My life went on smoothly enough, but Louise fret- ted and rebelled. Sho longed to be out in the world —the, amusements ad eta proper for her age afforded her no satisfaction, She was in the draw- ing-rooms a great deal—always exquisitely dressed, and, of course, greatly petted admired by her mother’s cage I think Mrs. Amory percent See her. She was the only person, except Kaston, whose will had any influence * her. I cannot fancy Louise capa- ble of having felt affection for any one but her- self. She was often impertinent and ungrateful to her mother. I never heard her speak carelessly, or even look dissent to a wish, that I did not marvel how it was possible when her own, own parent had desired it, Louise would doubtless have laughed at my fancies had I expressed them; there was no such sentiment as reverence in her nature, and, i ecorate her - a
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ALONE IN THE WORLD. — a her mother had so fondled and humoréd het, that if | But while I worked, my brains were puzzling them- Was to be expected she would haye grown as selfish and overnable as she proved herself in every act of her life. I cannot write much about that season; no one event stands out in sufficiently prominent relief to | make its record interesting. I did not see Easton Amory, although he was sev- eral times expected in town; but, upon each oc- i am he sent some excuse instead of coming Lim- Self, He was at college, I knew, and so was Walter Stuart; although; of course, I never heard the name of the latter mentioned. Once I astonished *Miss Western quite out of her proprieties, and almost out of her senses, by abruptly making him a topic of conversation as we sat in the school-room one eve- ning while Louise was gone to some fancy ball, given’ for young persons of her age. \ “Does Walter Stuart never visit his aunt?” I asked, looking up from the drawing upon which I was engaged. Miss Western’s book from her hand, and she sat regarding me with an expression of horror and astonishment which convulsed me with internal dopghter. ‘What did you say?” she exclaimed. . I very coolly repeated the question, while she stared at me more wonderingly before. “Ts there any thing so remarkable in it?” I asked, at length somewhat vexed by her manner. “I am sure it is a yery natural question to ask, as I never see him here, and know to be her nephew.” “Miss Madge Wylde,” returned the governess, leaning back in her chair, and recovering her wits and breath, “‘ will you have the goodness to tell me where you ed thatinformation?” — “From himself, to be sure,” I replied, greatly amused by the commotion I had excited. “Are you a witch?” asked the governess, laying down her book;“‘you certainly appear to learn every thing by intuition.” “TY don’t know how that oa A be—Easton often told me that I was one; but this morning, Miss Louise informed me. that she thought it was my mother who had attained that honor.” Miss Western smiled a little—she was too precise for any thing further, but in spite of her decorum and wisdom, she enjoyed any sly hit at other sx en follies, _ “How do you happen to know Mr. Stuart?” she inquired; ‘‘ tell me at once.” _ “Thave no wish to make a secret of it. I met him In oF oe at Woodbrook—he was after his dog, and We had a long talk. Isaw him several times, and I like him very well, although not as well as Easton.” ‘My dear child,” returned that kind friend, ‘‘ Mrs. Amory would be very angry if she knew of this; it must never occur again. It-.was not my fault, Miss Western; besides, how wr to —, it was wrong to speak with _ £° am not blaming you, on ving you ce as RE bey cod aaa ly sy 8 “Why does she dislike him?” I asked. “Circumstances have separated the two families forever, and Mrs, Amory allows no communication between her household and that of Mrs. Stuart. ou must that command, or you will forfeit r protection at once.” h them?”’ I demanded, sharply. “I ty always wondered what the reason could have thes: can not enter into details; indeed, I am not oroughly acquainted with. them, and if I were, it Would not be proper to relate them to any one. But tmember what I have told you! I not men- f On this conversation to Mrs. Amory, though I shall in gompelied to inform her if I know of your see- & Mr. Stuart again.” Very well, ma'am, I will remember,” was my prtihag and there the matter dropped. I returned took half-finished drawing, and Miss Western again uD her book. : | home. selves, as they had so often done, for a solution to the mystery, though with no more success than usual; and before long Miss Western sent me to bed to dream out the affair at my leisure. As, about that time, I had taken to composing or fad sores, Deas a poo ae was ae, an © WOR mys' it was long before I fell asleep, wry, i ; CHAPTER VIL. WALTER STUART. Spring came again, I had been ayear in well clad, as much ad y studies as most girls of my age, would have recognized me as the street-sweeper of cabot 2 Mrs. Amory’s amiable daughter occasionally re- minded me of my former suicbee Seeree revolting memories into the pleasantness of my new life; but otherwise, there was nothing to recall the darkness of that season. To my extreme delight, we returned to Wood- brook in.the latter part of 4 en the. ; | rolled along the broad avenue, I fairly cla; . my hands and uttered an exclam.tion of Louise curled her lip, but Ma. Amo with good-humored contempt—she liked such exhi- bitions—they were tributes to her might and wealth. Imentally determined that she should never again witness a similar one, We had only been a few weeks at Woodbrook when an urgent summons calied Mrs. Amory back to town, and Louise accompanied her. knew there was some business connected with their af- fairs, for [heard Mrs. Amory say so, and likewise that they were to meet Easton in the city. That latter fact accounted for the petted doll’s tak- ing the journey too! How I lo: to accompany them; but I think Louise fancied that such was the _ case,-for I was left behind. “When the pextags disap from view, I hur- ried into the woods, and, inging myself upon the ground, eStower, to a passion of tears. But I had e one hope ton might accompany them home. So I awaited their return with what patience I could, but was doomed to still deeper ppoint- ment. Amo At the ex ange a week, Mrs. and Louise came, but m was not with them. Mrs. Amory looked tired and troubled—something had evidently gone wrong with her, for she ap- peared quite unlike herself. _, A few days after, however, her banker came up to Woodbrook, and was closeted with her for several hours. After that interview, she recovered her spirits and customary manner, The only clew I had to the matter was when Miss Louise danced into my room the next morning, exhibiting.a goodly supply of gold and bank-notes. ** Look here,”’ she said, to visit the Livingston girls very soon, and this is to spend as I rich as she is, roper. : & wee ast—the ids of b Sk. know shah he mat all united, lagued about money! ‘aston both were, for their affairs are uni and they quarreled horribly. Hictgeee ! she con- tinued, throwing herself upon m. , and flinging the pillows at my favorite cat, ‘*when I marry my cousin, I will set all these trifles right.” She marry Easton! I ees under pretense of caressing my poor kitten, but in reality to conceal my face, where a mingling of passion and grief were ling for mastery. or ° I made no <7 , nor did Louise volunteer any further information concerning either matter. Louise went to make her visit, and Mrs. Amory accompanied her, full of life, and as in Jp nai beautiful as ever. I was left behind that time also —Louise was fearful that I might desire and enjoy the visit. Her delusion was a great relief to mé. Thera was nothing I go much dreaded as heing ~ new... Replete with interest and iaerweioane had | that year been tome. Who,to have seen me then, vanced in m looked at me
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~ forced away from That beautiful spot to the homes of the insolent and great. . . The summer much as the other had done. I saw Walter Stuart once, but it was no fault of mine. I did not inform Miss Western of this fact. Lhad gone down to the river, and sat idly upon the shore, listening to the pee of the waters, and watching the white sails as they floated slowly past like great birds drifting down the current. I was humming, in a rich but uncultivated voice, a so! that I had caught from Louise, when I was startle by hearing another voice take up the refrain, and, reiing my eyes, I saw Walter Stuart standing be- ore me. “T am so glad to see you,” he said, holding out his hand with his beautiful, frank smile. ‘“‘I have been here a week, and, as I leave to-morrow, I was afraid os have to go without catching a single glimpse ou. quite forgot Miss Western’s | asongd of a Ah him, though ; ving experienced an instant’s disappointment, for a in the when I heard the voice, a thought that it might be | “You | Easton had flashed across my mind, “You have grown very much,” he said. will soon be a young lady, Madge—what then?” “What then?’ I repeated. “I don’t know what you mean.” eet wre are you going to do—what are you going | ere “Do—be!” I murmured. The’ words struck a chill to my heart; they had never before occurred to me. Now, I was bewildered by the suddenness with which they forced them- selves upon my mind. “Don’t look so troubled,” Stuart said, kindly; Ye aad ay it was not wise in me to rouse such tho in that little head at present—we will for- get them.’ “No, no!” I interrupted, e ee ** Let me think —let me think! You can not tell how strangely the words sound to me,” ‘ * “But I can," he answered, with asort of impa- tience, ‘for I have pondered them long and deeply in my mind, Ilikewise, Madge, have to be and todo! Jam almost a man now, and my decision must soon be made.” “ But rich people do nothing,” said I. “ Mrs, Am- never works, nor Louise, nor Easton.” st stamped restlessly upon some bits of sea- weed on the sand. : you speak of them, Madge?” he an, not make me feel bitter and bad. d Iam not-rich. The hour that sees leave mea beggar, and my poor mo- 0 “Why swered. ‘ eee to me of age ‘ther also.” “But you have a t house.” “On my twenty-t birthday we leave it forever, to seek a home where we can best find one.” I am very poor, Madge, but richer, nevertheless, than my roud relatives. I have an unsullied conscience, and love of a mother who is almost an angel.” ‘* Baston is not apo I said, with a rising of my old impatience, ‘if yon mean him—he is kind and Walter Stuart clenched his hands with sudden pas. sion; his eyes flashed and his lips compressed; but the storm vanished as speedily as it had th. eat- ened. “The last time I saw you, Madge,” he said, ‘I promised that when you were older I would tell you a true story—the time has not haw come, but it soon will. In the meanwhile, do not let us talk of Easton Amory.” “TI must not talk to you at all,” I said, suddenly recoll my governess’ commands. a ou mean?” - “T was forbidden to to you again, I had een all about it in my surprise at seeing you.” y bonnet was off. Walter Stuart stooped, and with the selfsame movement of old, stroked nvy hair, | which was braided smoothly back from my face, re- 7 must confess to | ALONE IN THE WORLD. a la te "Poor Madge, poor little Madge!” We did not speak again for several moments, and his fi grew soft and mournful with thoughts which I could not understand. f ; me poor Madge?” I ~ ““Why do you always call asked. c “Does it offend you?” “No, not that, but everybody else is always tell: ing me how fortunate I am—how happy I ought te e , ne SEIT ei sits aS0 18) es, almost always ve . Are you happy, Walter Stuart?” BE poate joe ed _‘* Oh, never mind, Madge; that ts a difficult ques- tion for any human being to answer.” “T don’t see why—” “You are very young yet, Madge—young, and se innocent. God keep you always the same, little one! But let us ey B ne now. en we meet again, each will be older—perhaps wiser.” “ Shall you not come soon to visit your mother?” “She will not be here—she goes with me. She would never have come near the place but for her, promise.” ““What promise?” “No matter now. AsI said, I shall have a sto for you hereafter—time only can tell whether it will “ Now you puzzle me again,” I said; ‘I can not tell at all what you mean, Walter Stuart.” “You need not know now,” he answered, slowly; “time, I suppose, will teach you that, as it must many a thing that I would gladly keep from_your knowledge forever. Good-by, Madge; you will not | interest you.” gi me?” ‘Indeed I will rot. I am sorry you are so gloomy. Good-by, Walter.” as Good-by, little Madge—good- in, He looked as if there was something he wished to say, but would not, gazing into my eyes as if trying to read my very soul, while his lips moved involun- tarily with thoughts that he did not utter, Suddenly he turned so as to have a view of the tall chimneys and pointed roofs of Woodbrook, that showed themselves through the trees, and a t change passed over his face. He lifted a hard, stern front, and walked proudly away, as if that old. _ house were some bitter enemy in whose presence he would exhibit neither fear nor pain; but his last look to me was one of kindness. The last words I heard him utter were: “Poor Madge—poor little Madge!” CHAPTER VIII. THE SECOND MEETING, ; I mad been two years in that house before I again saw Easton Amory. I was almost fifteen then, so much changed pom, the ragged child he had seen in Broadway, that it would have been difficult for any one to have recognized me as the same, i We were at Woodbrook; his aunt had been ex- pecting him for several weeks, but he so often dis- appointed her when she looked for his coming, and I myself had so many times wept till I was quite ill with the grief of not seeing him, that I had not, on that occasion, allowed myself to expect. him s0 eagerly—at least, I thought such was the case; probably if he had failed to arrive, I should have shed as many tears as before, although I considered such exhibitions very childish, out of tae wisdom which I believed myself to have attained. He came at last. I watched from the top of the stairs the meeting between him and his relatives, saw how tall, manly, and proud he had grown; and when they all entered Mrs. Amory’s sitting-room, to converse unrestrain- edly, I hurried out of the house, weeping passionately over my loneliness. After all, his soe brought me to tears— bitter, burning tears, was shut out from every one—I had no fricnds, no companions; I could not even approach him, whom I wWorshiped as some-
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walk, ALONE IN THE WORLD. 8 So re re ee re nT ED eres te eT Ty af thing high above all other human be the one Who had saved me from misery and want. At last I dried my tears, and wandered:into the flower-garden, where it was my great delight to e gardener had good-naturedly given me & flower-bed of my own, which I worked with the utmost, diligence, and watched my blossoms unfold With all the ecstasy which only a lover of nature can ha aaa hile I stood there, Easton Amory came down the steps of the terrace, smoking hiscizar, My fu'st impulse was to hide myself; muchasI had longed to See him, I felt a sudden fear for which I could not account, He walked leisurely into the garden, and evidently did not recognize me until he had 2 Ligier g quite hear to the place where Istood. He looked af me Sharply, then the expression changed to one of astonishment, while I remained trembling, unable either to speak or run away. “Ts it possible that you are Madge?” he ex- claimed, I could only look up with a sudden burst of tears; * Tay heart was so full of mingled emotions that they | could express themselves in no.other way. He hurried. to me and shook my hand eagerly, talk- ing rapidly all the while. . Why, you little Gipsy, you have grown handsome 4s a picture! How tall you are! and, Phidias! what eyes and hair! Can’t you speak, you wild Madge? Aren’t you at all glad to see me?’ “Oh, so glad, so glad!’ I exclaimed, between my 80bs, “ You can’t think—Oh, Easton! Easton!” “Well, don’t cry then; that is a strange way to show your joy,” and his merry laugh enabled me a: little to restrain my feelings. “IT know it is very foolish,” I said; “ but I couldn’t help erying—I thought of so many things,” Of what, you silty uss?” * All your goodness to me—how you took me away from that dreadful place, and—” “There, there, don’t think of it!” ho said, patting my hand kindly, Xy can’t hon it; I must, you know.” “But Ido not like it! hen I laughed quite ayly, for my spirits were always as easily excited yd iindn aa ess as they were dc NM 20, as that, But tort you remember it was you said T had so much alent for drawing? You saw my little sketches—” h, have you forgotten that?” “No, n oot Dinar G ted t ; 0, of course not; Lonly wanted to vex youa little, "I remember it very wal e «cy glad you did not forget—very glad.” ou must show me some specimens of your Work, What does my aunt Bay. to them?” th, T never showed her any—she would not care for em, higd eee she sees so many real pictures.” : uise ! am Oh, she never likes any thing Ido, Lalways put i Tawings out of sight when I hear her coming.” ‘ever deed! then I suppose she is as amiable as I did not answer. I was an honorable and atte not apex ill of my benefactress’ “e ter, y4gh I was quite old enough to see clearly her shallowness, her meanness, want of truth and tal- | “You don’t say any thing,” pursuéd Easton: “well, I perfectly Gnderstand withoue = , “She was very anxious to see you,” I replied, wishing to say something in her favor; “only the other day I heard her wondering if you would never come. 3 s Many thanks for her solicitude,” he said, with a _ sneer. ‘Tam sorry that I can not return the com: liment; nor does seeing at all change the opinion I hi ar tor& nist ike he my heart I was did not like and yet I pitied her; it seemed a terrible th he out of favor with Easton, and I th it how miser- able she would be if she could have heard his words. enone lg Wack tNe Une Nand oug’ £0! the e since I first “ee him, It seemed like pee upon another life to review the existence ch I had left so far behind, “Have you wanted to see me also?” he asked. _ “Very much; surely, Easton, you can not think me so ungrateful.” 3 ‘Now don’t use that word,” he interru: bed. euet one of his quick changes of humor; wer te it worse than any other in the English language. If I had to feel grateful to any one, I should want to _— his heart out, and I don’t wish you to hate me, adge. ac ici isnot much danger,” “T think not,” he said, with his proud smile; “TI think not.” “Shall you stay all summer here?” Tinquired, _ ‘That depends—I do not know how long,’ he’ re- plied, absently, then added, **No, not the whole summer, of course, but for several tee I find it pleasant, Shall you like having me here, my ei A ell ‘I shall be so happy!” I exclaimed, with my usual passionate abruptness, ‘But Louise will torment you life out if I even look at you,”’ he said, witha laugh. ‘“*T shall not mind her; if youspeak pleasantly she can not do any thing to annoy me,” * He gave me a quick, searc look. ; ‘Ilow old are you, Madge?” he asked, / **T shall soon be fifteen,” I replied. © ; ** You look full that,” he answered; “and you are very handsome, Madge—has any one told you so?” “No; Ithought Louise was hands I didn’t ome; think T could be with this brownface.” ’ ** Why, you are as bewite as only a brunette can be,” he returned; “ that brilliant and rich color are worth twenty times as much as Louise’s , baby face; but don’t always drag herinto the - rot Thave to see enough of her, xooditens Orsi I want to forget her when she is out of my 8 Ks ‘ At that moment Louise appeared be fy the ee of the terrace, and looked around as if searching for some one. : “She wants ”*T whispered, _ . “Deuce take her! I hope she will not see me! Is there no place to hide?” : But, as he spoke, Louise's eyes fell upon the spot - where we were standing. “Madge!” she called sharply; “* Madge!” “What do you want of her? " heked Easton, before I could speak. : pm want her to come into the house,” she re- ed, ek - ieee Fay d her & Pie ngs Berd ae coolly, gz out a volume ©: x Pie M: !” exclaimed Louise, fairly stamping her foot, ‘if you don’t come here this moment, I'll go one ana capi My answered, and moved forward “Tam coming,’’ I ; “Don’t go, whispered Easton; “what do you — ung her mother? I will see thas you get into no rouble.’ a “Please let me go,” I said, pleadingly; “I ought to obey, you know,” fe long, -. 3 - \ i ae aura oie s Not ‘or long,” I heard him mutter, “not for. f Pe wee He eS ee Oe eee eee ee eee eee ee} z i. 5 sy 2 , " ¥ PROT Aa ee ee) OR ee eek oe i ee ee
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me tumble a stone vase onto her head, but | knocked it away. The child’s arm must be te 14 which I did not comprehend, “Madge Wylde!” called Louise, ‘IT ask you once moreif you are coming?” *“ Yes—yes,’’ I said, h on. “There isno such great haste,’’ Easton said, fol- lowing me. When we reached the toot of the ter- race, he ad “Well, Louise, is the end of the world at hand? You called out as if nothing of less entice could be the ooeehag Ys lbants ancedh “I wan ,? return 4 Y> “she is never at. hand when she is needed.” “What do you want?” I asked. “Don’t Wins until you are told!” she exclaimed; ou more impertinent every day.” colored violently, and Easton laughed in a wa; t ated hee. F %: e “What is wrong now! he asked. “Dear me, Louise, don’t bite your lips so—it is said to be a sign of ill-temper.” “Go arg Madge!” she exclaimed, evidently “ giloved"t that I should be a witness to Easton raillery, ~ = Oh, nonsense,”’ returned he; “let her stay “She is to go into the house, I say! and another time, mis;, don’t let me catch you the garden— you have no business whatever there.” “Oh, ho, that is the head and front of her offend- ing, is it!” said Easton; ‘toh, poor Louise!” 6 was ready to cry with passion, and I said: : Fy a gave me leave to go there whenever She darted a furious look at me, and wheeled round; her arm struck a vase, placed upon the bal- uae 6; it had not been properly set in its ey and it tottered—was falling directly upon her head, when I darted forward, pushed her aside, and re- ceived the blow upon my arm. I Sepacved back from the violence of the shock, and Easton caught me, or I should have fallen. “Run for some water, Louise!” he called; “ good heavens, she has fainted!” I shook my head to show that I was not insensi- ble, but felt too sick and weak to open my eyes. “Can’t you stir, Louise?” he repeated. fit very faint,” she said; ‘I am soe fright- ened. “You are a fool,” I heard him mutter. He helped me to a seat, and I opened my eyes. He ran into the house and brought a glass of water, which he me to drink. ae be better?” he asked, anxiously. x ning eee net birt Lihink” ik Si Louise was just preparing fo: e hysterics cus- with her upon every possible occasion, when Mrs. Amory a ed, “What is the matter?” she asked. “ Louise, my ou hurt?” darling, are “Not in the least,” replied Easton; ‘she must broken.” It pained me excessively now, and was already badl a Mrs. Amory came toward me and oue , nS rained,” she said; *‘ Madge, you are a ioe eo 4 Louise, ‘come and thank her.” hat? I think if you would see if I am hurt, “ hea ‘of making a goose of her, it would be ag none ; ’ welt am as sick and faint as possible.’ Wee lease assist your cousin,’ said Mrs, einer “While I take Mei ge to the housekeeper, and have her arm bathed. “She is too weak to walk,” he said. Mrs. Amory’s angry luck, ean walk,” T’said; “indeed, IT am not much urt. “You are a very co eous, child,” she bega: warmly, but checked ake, at Louise’s ucverneet of anger; she was evidently divided between her foeling of kindness toward me and her fear of some outburst upon her daughter’s part. ALONE IN THE WORLD. He looked at me eagerly, and with an expression | “Come,” she said, “you must have something put : on your arm, Madge. aston followed me, “Stay with your cousin,” said his aunt; ‘I will return in @ moment,” “Excuse me,” he replied; “I have some feelings of humanity; I choose to know if she is injured.” “IT wish she had been killed!” exclaimed Louise. combate from her seat, she swept into the hall, and up the stairs. “Louise is so nervous,” said Mrs, proce ‘she © <4 will be obliged to Madge when she has time to think - the matter over.” “Do you think 80?” he asked, Madge,” she said, impatiently; “come said; ‘‘I will see that you have a cu **Oh, let her sit up,” Easton urged. She made me a sign which I understood, and I went at once = to the school-room, where Miss Western condoled with me upon my accident, and I chafed with anger and impatience, “You perhaps saved Ss Louise’s life,” said the governess, “She said she wished I had been killed,” I replied, hiss ire hes incredulously: e ? Why, M 3 : “She did! I would kill myself if I had so mean a disposition as hers.” ““Hush! hush!” she said, reprovingly. ‘You must not talk in that way. Is your arm better?” * A little; but it aches badly yet." “You and I will have a cup of tea,” she said: then you shall lie down on the sofa, andI will read to you.” “You are very good,” I answered, the tears rising to my eyes, but my pride gave me strength to keep them back. It was a long time before my arm got not think Louise ever forgave me for the rendered her, I suffered a great deal du that visit of Easton’s —a season to which I had looked forward with so much anxiety. But I seldom saw him; when I did, it was but for a few moments, and he would have a time to give me a look or a word. hen the day came for him to depart, Twas dé- termined to bid him well; Ido service I Iwas too \:1'¢ to -by; think there was an impropriety in the act. ] took my way through the park to the lodge-gaies, and waited there until the carriage drove down. He looked out and saw me, ordered the driver to stop. and sprung from his seat. There you are!” he exclaimed. “I hunted the house over to find you, and came to the conclusion that Louise must have shut you up.” — I shook my head and ed faintly through my Ars, “Did youcome here to bid me Goodby, Gipsy?” “Yes, I replied; ““Icould not let you go without seeing you.” “You are a little be he said, kissing my fore- head. ‘By the time I see you again, you will be grown a youn .” He bent nearer and nearer and ne ’ d you love me as wellthen as now!’ lad from view, then I wept my tears dry, and walked slowly toward the house,
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ALONE IN THE WORLD. 15 Prtrpcion san. Y met Louise in the avenue, and she demanded, With her usual imperiousness: “ Where have weg been, Madge Wylde?” a went to bid Easton good-by,” I replied, tou are an insolent, good-for-nothing littie tch! she exclaimed, raising her hand as if to sitthat is th th fell on,” L replied, : e arm the vase fell on, rep quietly; “you can hurt it if you 4) She dropped her hand, and walked away without &word. Perhaps even her dull nature felt a little shame at her own harshness and cruelty, CHAPTER IX. A MAIDEN DREAX. I pm not see Easton Amory until about two years after that time—two long, long years—for he did not keep his promise; some quarrel with his aunt separ- : I ape oc Mrs. Amory’s dressing: was one 8, ory’s -room one morning, busily occupied with my needlework, when 4 heard her voice in the hall, addressing a servant: “Tell Miss Louise that her cousin, Mr. Amory, is in the library.” aan Hag gave one bound and then stood still; the muslin dropped from my fingers, and Isat cold and rigid, as if the words had transformed me tostone, I caught the reflection of my face in @ mirror oppo- site—my cheeks were very pale, and my eyes.rest- less et | anxious as those of a wild animal seeking to break from its imprisonment. ; heard Louise descend the stairs with her usual listless step; I saw the flutter-of her silken gar- ments through the half open door, and I grew sick with the whirl of passion and emotion which the agus of her roused in my mind, ‘or the first time comprehended my. own feelmgs—I was blind no Pa, ge revelation suddenly dawned upon me, an heart thrilled to its new sensations like an amaryllis bursting suddenly to. bloom. ‘ I knew that I loved Easton Amory with all the intensity of a strong nature, all the fervor of a despotic and tameless as that of a tiger in an host of beautiful visions that came iooping ae like a troop restoring me to a ed an e crossing where I had long before met my fate— on, anxious to fee f was rei rf awake. __ It was quite dark whenI returned, and as I went Up-stairs, Louise opened the door of her chamber “nd called me in. * How do I look?’ she demanded, anxiously. conscientiously give an answer that pleased Was not good; but Louise’s persuasions, fretfulness, and determination to be ill unless allowed to have her own way, prevailed over Mrs, Amory’s judg- She was a great belle, owing to her beaut hee net Matitien ag an heiress, She was quite 4 Ber ie ae now, going out every night oe Bas : on 0; balls, living 0: upon excitement: and already a listless and J ed/as woman of | quired; so I had not a single friend to whom ul forty wherf the stimulant was for an hour with. awn, Her maid had just finished dressing her, and she stood beside me flushed and smiling, with a con- sciousness of her own charms, Her dress of India muslin, starred and spotted with gold, was extremely becoming to her delicate complexion, and the pearls twined among her light eee added to the effect, “We are going to the Ree and from there to Mrs. Addison ” she said, in explanation of her early toilet. ‘ is here, so weshall be very SO ro tha roosts aaegrieiety.as sical sh eft the room as yas had various trifling Sotles for me to Arh pty 09 she would release me, ie Ihave seldom felt so excited as on that night. There was'a fever in my veins, lighting my ¢yes, | crimsoning my cheeks, and leaving me without Wi been dianalerent moment’s rest, Miss Western had months before, as her services were no lo: r > d go for counsel or sym . Poor, dear old govern- ess! We never met py departure for Europe but I am glad to know that she married well, in | ahouse of her own found happiness enough to com- pensate for the trials of her earlier life, Iwas alone with my wild fancies, and I paced up and down the long gallery for nearty an hour, with- out even stopping to lay aside my bonnet. ; I heard the door of Louise’s chamber open at last, and shrunk into room to avoid meeting her. I waited until the er, was over; h _ Louise ascend the stairs to prepare for going gs when she had gone down-stairs, I stole into the I once more, 7 Ilistened to catch a tone of Easton’s voice, but did not hear it, though Louise’s laugh rung up to the landing where “I stood, as they passed y the hall below on their way to the carriage, There was @ mist before my eyes, so that I could distinguish nothing; once I clasped hands over. them with a quick fear thatI was Roe blin d before I removed them I hi outer door close kehing the ay. party. oy ae: retur: my room a an. dressing asif fora party. I braided my OUR aly in a eons sand tiny plaits, wound it about my head with kno: ts of crimson flowers, and puton a rich silk dress of the same_hue, relieved bars of white—a recent ift from Mrs, Amory. When I was dressed I looked n the mirror, and knew that I was beautiful. Never had the consciousness been so strong upon me - then. Iwas glad—not from any feeling of | | vanity, but a fierce, exulting Joy, for which no name. I went down to the gorgeous dra -roon where the snhdnad licht of the chandeliers lent mew richness to the surrounding objects, and flung my. self carelessly on a couch, I er have qened Here for honabr Oe exalt. men passed away, leaving me a& sweet, a cious which Thad Sy wer to hae A clock in the lower rooms s ten—at the same moment I h a key turn in the street door—it opened—there was a step in the hall to whicn my pulses kept time—the drawing-room was flung
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y Ow 16 a cry, which had heen a Vain elrort to pronounce his | h *Miss Western, while she stayed; name, and almost lost consciousness, Easton Amory’s bosom; his hear against my own, his kisses were hot upon my fore- on and lips—their fervor had recalled me to e Llay very still, my breath coming in quick sighs, while he murm ear than the tones of an an Look up;”’ he:whispered, in that voice whose mel- ody I never heard equaled, and which fire through my veins, “Speak to me, my darling, pn Si ie raised head upen his shoulder, and looked with his ng eyes far down the depths of my inthbralled soul, I could not stir—there was some- thing in his'glance which had a magnetic influence pepe m id left me powerless in his embrace as a arm é “Have you waited for me?” he asked; “have you wished for my coming?” oo sages A ina i mine—it seemed as if that earess unlock Shee nee I did not attempt to fr self ; I was happy, lying there; but I an- sweréd eagerly: a Waited! I thought I should neversee you again —never. why did you not come before?” - “*T could not, Madge; it was impossible! Do not f me; I, too, have longed and pined for this meeting. tho to see you this morning, but could not ask; so I stole away from that tiresome | A d hurried here without any one’s knowing it, cer- thatI should find my darling. Say, are you ppy, oh, so happy!’ I spoke only the truth—and in the innocence of my 50u ewas no song which could make me fear Ww. For some time I could not falk much; but at length my thoughts came back more collectedly, and en I, careless and impulsive as I was, had a feel- ing that I should not be sitting thus alone with any one, _ We walked slowly up and down those great rooms ~—Easton’s arm encircling my waist—and conversed of many things—every thing that had happened to me during our long nw ay hopes and fears —all that had now settled into a delicious happiness ress. ond the power of words to bey Basten asked at length. ‘ 7 to 9? “You? said, Mes. Amory is very kind; as for Louise, I never pay any attention to her humors.” _ “The fool,” muttered he; “ the little painted doll; does she dare to treat you badly?” * Not badly; but she is very capricious, and will be only a aes child all her days.” a ‘e is not of as much worth as the least of your smiles,” returned Easton, vehemently. “I pemoctly detest the creature, I wish—” He added something in a lower tone, which I did not understand, 3 That was a blessed vibes to — although my brain was in such a whirl that I could not taste h its happiness. I was like a sick man who has a cool- ght offered him, and spills # in his eager- ness to seize the refreshing beverage! _ Easton asked to see some of my paintings; and I led him to one that Mrs. Amory had placed in the parlor only a few davs before—I learned, afterward, as the work of Louise. It was a forest scene—the original sketch had been oodbrook, and it was the most ambitious le it is no matter,” I said. Indeed it seemed of very little consequence to me then. over me words sweeter in my | | ressed by every body.” thrilled like | | —Speak, I hate unfinished sentences.’’ When Lcame to myself I was clasped tightly to | doing her t throbbed full — “You have done wonders,” he returned; ‘“ who taught you?” ALONE IN THE WORLD. since then I while they were t woman ayer he said, laugh- own on us all.” you think the day near at hand?” I asked, ave watched Louise’s masters ‘ictures,”? _ “You will be a ingly, “and look 0 | laughing in turn at his jest. ‘* She is anxious for ft,” he continued; * she wants the whole world at her feet, to be petted and ca- “No, no,” I replied quick ; “I only care for—” * For what?’ he asked, when I hesitated. “Speak “For your approval,” I replied; and the answer seemed to please him. At that moment a carriage rolled —_ ment and stopped. before the house. It late; we had forgotten the passing hours. $6 My aunt!’ said Haston, “I must go; if they ree me here they would make you suffer for the pave- was very He clasped me again in a passionate embrace and then crossed the parlors, threw open one of the windows, stepped into the balcony, and leaped lightly down, : *““Good-night, Juliet!” I héard him whisper, as he ran along the garden path, I went up-stairs, and was in my chamber before the sleepy servant had opened the door to them. I had taken off my dress and put on a plainer one, when Mrs, Amory’s maid came to my chamber— aed mistress desired me to come at once and read to r. ‘ ‘ Mrs. Amory was thoroughly out of humor. I knew very well the cause—it was owing to Easton’s havi deserted them so unceremonio at the cpera, an not appearing at the ball during the whole evening. I amused myself with imagining what her feelings would have been could she have known that he had spent the intervening hours with me. I had to-read to her for a long time; but she fell asleep at last, and I stole away to my chamber, to upon my own exceeding happiness, The dawn struggled up into the sky, and found me still sitting there—dreaming—dreaming! I did not see Easton the next day, although he called; but I heard his step, his voice—it was some- thing! During the follo weeks he was there gat, although he no longer made his home at the ouse, Mrs. Amie te @ grand ball—the last of the season—for Lent was near at hand. I sat in my chamber liste: to the music as it floated up on the perfumed air, mingled with the tread of the dance: of the and the gay eg young ‘and thoughtless. Ihad no wish to join them; I felt no bitterness or resentment at being shut out from such pleasures, as if I had been a creature of another mold from those dainty, fortune-favored girls, not one of whom was superior either in mind or appear- ance. There was no craving in my soul for the uni- versal admiration which Louise desired—had it been placed within my reach, the excitement upon which she existed would soon have palled my spirit. I longed for something nobler, higher—for sympathy. appreciation, and for love—my heart panted an burned for that. They who have always had kind friends to lavish affection upon them, understand little the intensity: with which a lonely, passionate creature, such as I was, snatched at any glimpse of love offered. I had no thought but for him whom I loved—into whose eyes I had looked, until the rest of the world had passed from my sight, so that wherever I turned I could see only his aap The next day I was sitting with Mrs. Amory in her’ dressing-room, t: to amuse her with a novel, when Easton entered the apartment. I must have grown very pale, but Mrs. Amory did not |observe it, and he greeted me kindly enough, but as if I had been a child. I was ey n grieved, I felt that, had I been in his place, I a not have been unwilling to betray my affection, J
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Me oe ALONE IN THE WORLD. 17 should have had too mnel Joaious pride to have hesitated even an instant, But I did not blame him —oh no, I could not have done that, T longed to talk with him, but that was impossible; and there I sat in silence over some work I had taken up, while he conversed gayly with his aunt and - cousin, no one heeding me any more than if I had been a stick or a stone. I left the room and went to my chamber, but I could not be quiet while I knew that he was in the house. I went down-stairs into the library, and while I stood there Easton entered the room, giving me on Pad smaep aan hc a : Hl ‘Be happy,” he whispered; “you see me ai Woodhrook this summer,” There was no time to add anything further. He i the house, but I returned to my duties quiet and at ease. “Madge!” called Louise, as I entered the dress- ing-room, pick these out for me, I can’t!’ She threw a tangled mass of embroidery silks toward me as.she spoke. ‘“‘Oh, Madge, where is my smelling- bottle? Iam sure you had it! Ido wish you ‘woul let my things alone and be less disagreeable. Ob, here is the thing—well, no matter! ow Mamma’s work-box looks, I hee you prided yourself on your neatness. I should be ashamed of it if I were you. That was the usual style of the beauty’s conversa- tion to me, but I never paid the least attention, so we got on after a fashion. Spring came at last, and we went to Woodbrook, Mrs. Amory was fet tad sve and ap ed much troubled. Once, during the journey, she be- fan speaking of her affairs, but Louise would not sten. “Now, don’t bore me, mamma! Can’t you bor- row money if you haven't it? You must have, though,” “Borrow!” returned Mrs. Amory, with a bitter laugh, ‘How much do you suppose I owe?” “T neither know nor care. e live at a fearfu) expense, to be sure; but one must live! Ask Easton to help you,” The young lady sunk back and composed herself to slumber, while her mother lookad so anxious and wretched that I pitied her, but, of course, did_not venture to speak; for, although she liked me, Mrs. Amory never, in the slightest degree, admitted me into her confidence, CHAPTER X. THE PROMISED HISTORY. We had been at Woodbrook nearly two weeks when Easton Amory arrived. He looked thin and pale, and bis aunt was fearful that he had been un- well. : He denied there having been anything the matter with him, and seemed annoyed at her solicitude, whereat Louise laughed in her irritating way. He gave her one of his fiery looks— . “What do you ony tl he asked, **Oh, nothing, of course.” “Such is tooquenily the case,” he replied, with a sneer, but his actions affected her not at all. ‘Young men noted for their steady habits are apt to be ill at a moment's warning,” returned she. Easton’s dark cheek flushed slightly, but Louise left the room before he could give utterance to the sharp reply I saw flashing in his eyes. «Fou must excuse Louise,” said Mrs, Amory; “she is far from well; then, too, she has other causes for irritation—I donot wonder much at it.” She gave Easton a Spree and evenangry look, the meaning of which I did not at all comprehend; but he only: replied, indifferently: “Oh, that is it, eh?—I wish I had a book to read till luncheon Bane pr a not I think I will go the stables see the horses. © flashed a glance at me which I understood quickly enough. It bade me meet him in the grounds, but I found it impossible to comply with emand, Mrs. Amory was pacing the ro6m with k, un- even steps, after a habit she had when dis- turbed in her mind. She caught my eyes fixed upon her, but evinced no anger. rc ip even she, = tant and proud as she was, felt gla | of the sympathy which my face must have expressed if it was any in- dex to my heart. ¢ She threw herself upon a sofa with a faint sweeping her hands across her forehead as if t to dispel the thoughts that troubled her, ‘Read to me,” she said; “this dull place will kill me! I must have company in the house or I shall go mad.” Then she muttered to herself: “ After next week ev: thing will be settled.” . . I did not understand what she meant—it was not until long afterward that the. entire significance of her words was revealed tome. Anxious as I was to go out, of course there was no for it but to sit patiently down and do asI was bidden, _- I.read to her for several hours, but I could no more have told a single line in the book than if T had been puzzling over Sanscrit. After a time . Easton looked into the room and finding me thits engaged, came. in to listen; but Mrs. Amory soon fee an excuse for dismissing him, and sent him ouise, : I heard the oO pos Begs as I be the hall—those of Amory and | mn erce G) issed, I hurried off to Id hcents tee top m ,L hu rs) my old! I e 5 stile’ m my Own great how it was all to e mge fixedly at th light, and pam estge- “ ties edly at the sunli so my e y ; the fh I was now seventeen; my birth day had passed in years, my heart had gained womanhood, Isat on the turf watching the clouds thro the branches of the great trees, my heart ni eefully as the song of a bird, without a eyond the eke aren of my dream, ‘ Madge 1? a voice Tinew very well, though it awoke no echoes in my soul; “ be o I turned my head without s ng, and saw Walter paws leaning on the wal beckoning me to approac. T bad not seen him for a long, long time, but he was much less altered than I He was taller; his form had gained more breadth and ; but there was the same sunny gleam mn brown heals; the same bee» expression to his face was very see him, and, a’ summons, went quick] toaward to thim. We stood for a long time, ay | that our little pe when I rem: the revelations he had often promised to make, the Ore: which had long haunted me. wished to know, and his formation I desired. zh yaa Tad made he gazed at me for a little while in sile! features changed eye ” i ‘ man now,” he said, slowly. a Youare a@ Wo ~ d, ly, , mised to tell me, so long ago.” a have not forgotten my words then?” “Certainly not; I have often thought of them, and piiesied elf to find their meaning.” : “Who is at Woodbrook?”’ he asked. “No one but the family, and—and—Mrs, Amory’s he ” Ww * could not gS rem the name—my eyes fell under his, and I felt my cheeks grow hot,
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~ : tainly I shall not begin now w. 18 ALONE IN THE WORLD. “*T understand,” he said, in the sad tone his voice so frequently assumed; ‘‘1] understand! I see that you are still little Madge, poor little Madge!” Those words carried me back to our eet pee how far back in the past it looked! I lived much in that time, gone so far away from the old childishness that had Vg rwiy my spirits then, un- conscious of the spell which lay on my heart, and which had since awakened in its might. I fancied Walter Stuart unders + thoughts— he was very quick of comprehension. He shrouded his eyes for an instant with his and when he removed it, a great light had gone out of his face— it looked gloomy as ater when the sun has ceased “Come here,” I said, “ andatt down by me; I want to I know that he forgot where we were, or, in that mood, no persuasion could have induced him to bidding he sprung by my side. “ Now tell oe story," I ead. “T am so ‘Very soon I will; I want to ask you a few ques- om, reg deco you happy? Answer me that.’ “Very happy. The tone, ression of my face, must have been their own fi: omy of my sincerity. “And what have you been doing all these years since we ?” he questioned. “Very little; nothing worth repeating, or that I could put in words; my life has been always quiet.” “So much the better, so much the better.” “And you,’ I asked; “you are not still in col- ‘Oh, no; I graduated more than two years Ago. Since that time I have been at work, Madge, and the greater portion of it, very hard at work.” ‘ Have you been long i “We came yesterday, my mother and I—for the sattor the last time?” I repeated. “For the e?” I repea’ ** Yes, Madge; to-morrow will be my twenty-third birthday—then we leave this place forever.” “T cannot understand you at all; you puzzle me as much as you did when I was a d.”* “It is very easy to understand, nevertheless.” “Then do explain—I hate mysteries—please clear up this one of yours, for it seems there is a mys- |- ‘Before I say a word,” he returned, “make me a .promise!’’ “Tf Tcan keep it—”’ ; ** Promise not to. be angry with me because my ory happens to be unlike that you have heard from others. ‘““T have never heard any thing—you do not think Mrs. Amory would talk tomer? 6 _- “Very well—do not be offended.” “T never was with you,” I replied; “‘cer- we are parting for a long, long time. ; Lg es,” he said, ‘‘I sup so0—it must be so! O) Madge,” he continued, with more fervor than I ever him “there is so much I would wish to say, but not—you would not like to lis- | ten! Well, well, time will settle every thing.” He broke off anrapitys and when he spoke again | he had recovered calmness which so became him, fiving such an idea of self-trust and repose that it lent me strength to be in his presence. _“You have often asked me how I could be poor and live insuch a beautiful place—I will tell you. This was our house until I became twenty-three. It might be mine for life if I would submit to certain conditions—but I would die first.” ie conditions?” “Madge, years ago, when Easton Amory and I> were very young—too young to have much recollec- | tion of events of sno ttiaaa’ and Louise only a cross baby—we lived together at Woodbrook, all alike dependent upon the caprices of a cross, peev- | sn — ns a eee ee ish grandfather. The husbands of my mother and Mrs, Amory had been half-brothers, ¥ * His fortune was to be equ divided among us, he said, and he treated us all as if such was to be the case, much rty besides. prospect of great wealth in store, ber to him she was all kindness and attention, e isso made up of falsehood and deceit that she is incapable of a noble thought. ‘*My mother and she were never very friendly— there had been trouble between them in their girkeh days, and neither had forgotten it, They were civil enough, but they kept away from each other, each ing a suit of apartments at different sides of © house, “ One day there came a st: er to Woodbrook— aman still young, but with a look of Om, rig uw ? resignation. I was a little child, it is true never shall forget the smaseaielh his appearance mason andl in th hall ‘ m and I were e great when he en- tered. My grandfather was confined to his bed—he was always ailing but I rememberdistinctly that it was my mother for whom the gentleman inquired. However, it was not my mother, but Mrs. Amory, who obeyed the summons, “T was sit at the foot of the stairs when she came down, splendidly dressed, but so e that [ remarked it—trembling violently and clutching at the banisters for support, Her lips moved as she assed, but uttered no sound, and she walked on into C) pi ib igo leaving me quite frightened at her appearance manner,” CHAPTER XI, wy i THE eeu Pre aa t but I ALTER ‘ART paused for a moment, but I mo- poemeng him to proceed, and he went on with his nar- “Tt might have been half an hour after, when} was roused by a quick step on the stairs, and my mother be aie whiter than the muslin robe she wore—her lips compressed, her hands clasped like one in mortal agony. I did not dare speak to her; she sped by me like aspecter. Her woman—a faith- ful, devoted creature—stood watching her from the landing. My mother pansed in the hall, and called in a strange voice: pin r a you say in there, Mariette? Did you say in ere - “There was a sound from the reception-room— the door opened and the stranger appeared, ' ***Tsabel, Isabell’ he cried, “My mother turned, tottered, and would have fallen if he had not caught her in his arms and car- ried her into the room h ust left. “T saw nothi further, for the door closed, and though I shrieked and stamped,no attention was paid to me until the maid came down and uwried to pacity. me, but I pushed her off, screaming: ; “** They will kill mamma; they will kill mamma.’ “Half an hour ‘ht have passed, when the door opened again, and then Mrs. Amory eame out. I never saw so terrible a sight as she presented. Her black hair had fallen loose, and her face was so con- vulsed with passion that she looked like a fiend. The gentleman in the doorway supporting my mother, whose eyes were shut although she was not insensible. I could see by the con ve movements that shook her frame every time Mrs. Amory gave way to a new burst of w “**-You shall rue this hour, Isabel Stuart!’ she ex- claim , : bitterly, and your whole life long shall you repent Z RShe swept up the broad staircase, and my mo- ther drew es from the stranger's support with a low cry. ile they stood erying to recover them- selves. my mother’s maid came down, ="
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Pn. “* Madiim,’ she said, ‘your father commands this gentleman to leave his house.’ ‘““A few whispered words passed between the three, then the strangers went out of the door, and my mother sunk almost lifeless upon a low seat in the hall, Another servant appeared and said: ‘¢- Your father wishes you, madam.’” “She rose, shivering with a sudden chill, and went up-stairs, for the first time in her life heedless of my calls and entreaties that she would speak to me. “After that, [have no distinct recollection. All was confusion—voices talking loudly—my grand- father raving like a madman—Mrs. Amory exultant aes a and my poor mother pale, silent and espairing, ; “The next day, ae mother took me into the sick man’s room; he hardly noticed me, saying to her: “*Tsabel, I will never again see your face; but pee me, for my dead wife’s sake, that you will ive at the Hermitage until your boy is of age—until he is twenty-three years old—twenty-three, re- member.’ “He was so urgent that she consented; she did not understand his full meaning. ““We left the house, my mother and I, and went to a little village several miles away, and accom- panied only by a servant. “Two days after, there came tidings of my grand- father’s death. “We went back for the last time to Woodbrook. “Mrs. Rhian not speak or look at my moth- er, After the funeral, we all assembled in the great drawing-room, and the will wasread. Of course I did not then pay attention or understand its con- tents—but I have learned their import well enough since, “To make my oy plain, Imust go back to my mother’s girlhood. She and my aunt had been the beautiful but penniless wards of Mr. Amory, al- though the two were ho relation to each other, He had two sons and a step-son; besides those a nephew, who spent much time at the house. “Both my mother and Louise Gillett loved the latter, but he loved my mother. “J do not know what arts she employed, but Louise made trouble betweer thé two. ed them, and had him expelled from his uncle’s house; for where she hated she’ was a perfect demon. She married George Amory for his fortune, and my mother became the wife of Walter Stuart from -ratitude for his attachment, and she knew that her over had left her forever, believing her guilty of treachery and wrong. “The elder brother married, but both he and his wife died soon after their child was born, so he was brought up in his grandfather’s. house; that boy was Haston Amory. Soon after my birth my father died, and my mother v-ent to live with her father-in- law; and after the death of her husband, Mrs, Amory came there also, “Tt appears that ay mother and her former suitor discovered the falsehood imposed upon them, and he returned—that was the occasion of the visit of which I have just spoken. I do not know all that bape eae mother never could bear to give me the full details. But I know that Mrs. Amory so far forgot her pride as to throw herself at his feet, and declare contempt. It was that slight which rendered her so furious. f : “when she left my mother and him topethe. she went to my grandfather with more falsehoods, and inflamed his mind to such a degree—for he was hor- bly passionate, childish and easily influenced—that he vowed my mother should promise never to marry his nephew--should ask Mrs. Amory’s forgiveness or leave his house forever, bee Sho aid not hesitate. It appears that afterward he repented somewhat; for, as I said, he made her promise, in case she was again left alone, to live at til I was twenty-three. the apne are uud read. Mrs, Amory auu ALONE IN THE WORLD. 19 her love for him; he rejected her with, aston shared the fortune on one condition. which es shall hear presently. My mother and ‘I were eft beggars, enhoote mentioned his express de- sire that she should keep her promise and live at the Hermitage, adding a hope that if she did not marry again, her sister-in-law would share with her the ory but making no stipulation which would be at all bin The idea of any one’s trusting to the h a child, I was to : and the } a * eyes that were r still for ce. an tig aa al th married the lover of her gir ys; all Mrs, Amory’s arts had failed at length—they were united, “There followed for my poe mother a few months of such happiness as she never known, for her husband was one of the noblest and of men. I know I loved him from the first, and had he been my own father he could not have treated me with more kindness and affection. ; “They were not rich, but wealth could have added little to the happiness of hearts like theirs. It must have been a blessed, holy dream to my ee after all the anguish she had endured, but it was as short-lived as are most visions so heavenly in their glow. : “My step-father was obliged to go to New York upon “enipactas business in the hight of summer. Only three days after his departure, my mother was summoned—he had been seized with cholera and there was little hope. She reached the place in time to see him die, to catch his last word of tenderness, and then the glory of her life was quenched in a night so terrible t the dawn would never break ain. aR He died in her arms, murmuring bl on her and her child, and once more my mothér was a widow—once more we stood helpless and forsaken in the world. ip “My mother was heart-broken, but her gentle firmness did not forsake her, She saw what was to be done, and never faltered. She had an annuity of a few hundreds which had been left her by her Fe eeeaa aint ‘pittance -Macietae Stal dneilie to Vi upon icCo— S) idng our home at the Hermitage. college, my mother sold some valu- able jewels to defray my expenses. I did not know it at the time or I should not have permitted the sacrifice—I was wrong to use that word, my mother never considered it such. “To-morrow I shall be twenty-three. This place we have so long ealled home must fall into the hands of our enemies, to be squande the — eee red as the of their fortune has been. I am pea to leave ii have never breathed freely within its precincts.’ He paused for breath, but I did not speak. I had not interrupted him by a word d his recital, which may ap as I have narrated it, but phage was bot wae At interesting by his manner and energetic speech. : ss a Sa red. ?” he asked. | : : ,no! Oh, Walter, your poor mother—that wicked, wicked woman!" x M for the prese There are certain things you ougnt to aoe although I run the risk of offending Mba h » on.” . Go on, I said, ae ae cial ‘There was once a poor g "i he continued, in his soft, pleading voice, ag a y a wealthy to be Pn Poe earied,” mn. “Tlere was a young man—handsome, gifted, | mce of . flery Pe ey) NP Oe ee :
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se 3 ALON IN THI WORLD, fascinatinz—whom she had known a boy. He was interested in this girl, and by his careless kindness, won Jag igi more than her gratitude.” is wrong, it is cruel,” I cried, fecling the | angry blood mount to my face. At times one must be cruel in order to be kind,” he answered gravely. ‘This noble girl had no friend honest enough to tell her the truth.” “Utterly selfish had he been from his earliest youth. recklessness led te his expulsion from college—he was a gambler and a_ spendthrift. Although still young, he had wasted almost the whole of a princely fortune. “Should not one inter- ested that young girl warn her? Madge, that man is Easton Amory!” He had — sorapidly that I had found no time to interrupt him—indeed, passion so choked me that for a few instants I had not the power to speak. At last I broke out: “You have a are a base, false coward.” ‘| have spoken the truth, Madge; oh, be warned e ” _in time! i § ih not hear a word more; leaye me in- s - “T tell you, Madge, by the terms of his grand- father’s will he is forced to marry his cousin Louise. or both forfeit the estate—at least what there is left “There is not a word of truthin your whole'story,” I exclaimed. ‘I would not believe you though you pvr thousand oaths! Leave this place, sir—go at once “Whom have we here?” called out an angry ice, ; Before I could speak, Easton Amory ran down the slope and oe beside me. Walter Stuart rose, pale _““My worshipful co’ as I live!’’ exclaimed Easton. have you driven away like a dog if you come here again.” : ” T exclaimed, quite beside yee wah rage; “ him—anything! He has Vv turn ward him with a furious gesture, but Walter Stuart waved him back with a calm know you mepenlyi Ihave warned her; if she will not heed p her, I can do nothing more.” sprung toward him with acurse. Stuart “Wes not,” replied Walter, ‘Easton Amory, ' I am leaving this place forever; but before I go, deny, if you can, that you have.deceived this poor child. ou we ) to marry your cousin; you Tiooked up with sudden desperation, + that it is not so,” I groaned; “if you would me, say that it is not true.” d Stuart; “he dare not! Remember what I have said—farewell.” H wall, but cast back one part- i 4 "A Boor Madge,” I heard him murmur: “ Poor little Madge!” a **-You would fot deceive me; Look would not—* “Do you believe the lies of t wretch?” he in- terrupted, sternly. “ Have you no faith in me—cannot you trust me-- is your love less than mine?”’ “No, no, Easton! I would not believe an angel who spoke against you. I have nothing but you in ' all the world—no one else cares for me—you saved me from a life of misery. Is not my life yours? do with it what you will.” ii e “My brave, my beaw The tears I shed then were sweet and soothing; they were shed upon his bosom, .While I lay clasped to his breast, there wag a quick step npos the grass; we turned, and there—her face so disto! with rage that she looked like an evil spirit suddenly roused from a darker world to confront us, clench- ing her hands while her eyes fairly blazed like sheet- lightning—stood Mrs. Amory. We both started back—there was something fairly appalling in her look; one who had never seen her except with the smiling face she wore to the world, would never have recognized tl beautiful woman in the livid, breathless fury who had so unexpectedly broken in upon our wild happiness, CHAPTER xD THE PARTING, IT wave no distinct recollection of the occurrences of the next few moments. I remained perfectly helpless, eal ee 3 to the terrible le uttered by my companions, as they stood reckless, mad, yet alike in their on, ; I was not at afraid, only weak, and at length I Pia atl up from the ground where I had sunk. Mrs. Amory seized me by the arm and shook it vio- lently, leaving the mark of her fingers upon the flesh for days after. ~~ “ Devil!” she shrieked rather than spoke. “ Little nameless, homeless wretch! Is this the reward of my kindness—this the gratitude I receive for all that I have done? But you shall be flung out into the world to starve—die—what you willl Start now! here you shall not stay!” , “Stop, madam, are you mad?” exclaimed Easton, ushing her roughly away. ‘“‘ Take care! you know hat you have in me a will equal to your own. If you send that girl from here, T go, too, and you and your daughter will see me no more.” She was silent for a little while; but. Faston could always subdue her. She gnawed her lip with im- potent fury, made a violent effort to recover herself, and then spoke more quietly: “What is to be done? Certainly things cgnnot go on at this rate; I will not permit it! Is mY daugh- ter to be insulted before her very tace for that up- start—that beg ar?” ‘*Be carefull’ he hissed from between his teeth, “Be careful.” “You ig Br fearless, Easton Amory, so am I. There must be a settlement between us. Thanks to your reckless life, we are almost ruined.” “Thank yourself,” he retorted; ‘ your gambling debts will more than cover the estate that comes to us to-morrow; besides, it is already disposed of.”’ She grew very pale, and began to tremble. “You do not mean it,” she said; ‘you have not dared to do it,” “Not dared! Do you know me no better than that? There is nuthing I fear.” Isat down upon the ground, weak and faint now that the excitement was past, and weeping such bitter tears as had never ore fallen from my oni i ton’s embrace cy es Pree pel he en- “You may the law,” she returned, with angry ve- hemence, : > “*Let me see you call it to our assistance,” and he apt hes insultingly. “Tt is you who would not dare tell-you, you and your daughter may be treated me to be calm, i AS it true?” L asked; ‘is it true? only tell me.” vie begga’ instead of this girl; insult her again at intention of comp ying with it Tvould be a beggar | ica cguld, bevelled, pecion Aimaey moni i F ”» | never have mov rom 8) where he §' ; a eee is could give ow UD; a | but, bold as she was, Mrs. ‘Amory cared for her own ‘No, no! I knew you could not be so crue! “T fairly hate Louise you iknow that I love you | interests. After that : H first burst of rage, her selfish- better than the whole world, better than life itself.” | 2©8S restored her
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Hi j ae ALONE IN THE WORLD. 21 "Tet that pint go away,” she said; “you and I me fp wi Syre reel wed, os you feel that,” he re laughi: ain; “you feel that, do you?” “ ert Amory clenched her hands until the cords stood out ace her wrists stiff and rigid, but she did not answer him. “Go to the house, Madge,” she said to me, in & choked voice; “and as you value your life, keep si- lence.”’ “Yes, g0, Madge,” Easton added, when I paused, and at his bidding I left them. F Of course 1 never learned what passed di that interview; it must have been a terrible one. I returned to the house, walking slowly, and tot- tering like one stunned by a blow. I had nostrength left. The reaction of that excitement, almost frenzy, was so fearful that I was weak as if I had just arisen from a sick bed. “Are you ill?” the housekeeper asked, as I met her in the hall; but I hurried on without a word, and I heard her whisper to a housemaid: ‘“‘T believe my soul that girl is crazy!” ' “She was always queei,” was the reply; but I went on without appearing to have beard dieir im- pertinent words. In the quiet of my chamber I sat down and tried to think, but my head was dizzy and a deathly sick- ness unstrung every nerve. I must have remained there for several hours; no one disturbed me—ap- parently no one remembered my existence. At last I went out into the hall—the confinement of a chamber seemed choking me, It was dark, but the lamps were not lighted; the whole house ap- ed to bein confusion; I could not tell whether t was really so or only my troubled imagination, As I stood in the hall, Louise came out of her room, beautifully dressed, as she always was of an evening. She went by me-without speaking, hum- ming alow tune. A moment after, she returned. “Mamma wishes you to go to your room,” she said; ‘‘and you are to stay there until sbe chooses to call you; be good enough to remember that,” I obeyed without a word of reply; I would not sufficiently gratify her petty malice to utter a sy lla- ble of expostulation, She darted a look of hatred at me, mu wine “I will find some means of bringing down your Fine before we are much okler, or my name is not uise Amory.” ; Thad eaten nothin since Par aig, but, I Uren no hunger—a morsel o e. : hands clasped over my knee, wait- ing, listening, toe that prea | ea about to happen—longing to have the blow fall, that I might know at once the worst and prepare myself to meet it. There I sat, hearing only the monotonous tickin of a clock inthe hall, till the measured sound almos drove me out of my senses; it sounded like a human voice mocking my agony. I longed to rouse myself to give a cry that would bring the whole household around me, for my brain grew so disordered that I seemed to see dim shapes starting eg amid the gloom—fierce, faces mowing and jeering at me as they passed, I heard a voice in the g that I believe would have roused me from the delk- rium of a fever. It was only & whisper, but to me it sounded loud and distinct. . ‘away; then I stood | destiny forced u ‘Here Y am, Faston; here J am!” I exclaimed, opening the door with all speed. He came toward me, embraced me hurriedly, and said: “‘Ileave here instantly—start to-morrow morning for Europe; when I return every thing will be well.” “Going!” I repea suddenness of this last and greatest blow. “T shall not be absent long; believe me, is better so; only have patience—only wait.” © At that moment Louise’s voice was heard in the lower hall. Easton oh me one kiss and hurried the gloom utterly bereft and alone. “Going! going!’ my lips kept mechanically re- ating, until it seemed to me that another voice up the complaint and mimicked the distress of my own. 4 ; e wind surged up with a low wail from the depths of the forest as the hours wore and I sat in my chamber keeping a terrible vigil. ere was a leaden weight on heart and brain, pressing closer and closer until there came a paroxysm of pain so violent that my over-wrought nerves could bear no more; there was @ sensation through my whole body asif life itself were forsaking me—then I re- member nothing further. ; When I returned to consciousness I was lying up- on the floor, and the cheerful morning t shone in at the windows. I could not stir, and I sa® that my dress and the carpet around me were wet with blood. I tried to think, to wonder what could be the matter, but I was yg ire of even that slight men- tal effort, and again I fainted. ‘ ‘When I came to myself I was still alone, weak as before, but free from pain, I knew then that I had broken a blood-vessel, but I did not feel afraid— something told me it had saved my life. I suppose my absence at last attracted attention, for about midday Mrs. Amory’s maid ned the door; but with one look of horror toward the place where I lay, ran out, screaming: “She is dead! she is dead!” Her cries brought the whole household to my chamber—even Mrs. Amory came. They raised ms and laid me on the bed. Common h r, or at least the presence of those around, G) woman to send fora physician, although I do not imagine that she eaten particularly whether my life be hey se lied such remedies as were e doctor came, a rem necassary, and pat i: that I should have the most perfect repose. The rupture was an unim one, he said, caused by some intense mental excite- ment. Poh in pont lot =e » Prossna att waa grate, sai SE a, close to my bed before she went me errata Tend you aay it you promise never to mention what happened yesterday.” With those words she | she rded tragicted ine oo Ee fas in 80 curtly accorded was coni : her ayer: I knew that it was only fear of n to re: nk i soon as I Me able, I hig ne the house forever. Tha was strong soul, bs poo i or what became of me; ae wish was to get away from every sight or sound of the ast—to leave ee see who oF recalled my eaclele ane -no hope left, no me, it; n3 L would g. have turned upon my pillow and died: but that could not be. I did not attempt to solace myself with the ain meeting Easton Amory; some- enya ms at we were tod Sonera My love ed to increase wii seamed, £0 {Plead nothing ‘they hed“ nothing they against him—either his lying cousin or his false- hearted aunt. ted, “going!” stunned by the
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"22 ALONE IN THE WORLD. obetiaent I ' Yay in bed for many days, suffering wothing, but senatilisr weak. At Jength, one afternoon, I was able to leave my chamber. I went out into the hall; my steps were trembling and uncertain, but my strong will would not yield—it overmastered the flesh and gave me power to do that which I had wished. | ; I went to the picture-gallery. TFaston’s portrait hung there, . I can give no account of the hour I passed in that room. Even now I dare not brush away the ashes that have gathered over the grave of that time, ani look beneath. I will not murmur and complain; let the agony of that season rest between God and the tortured heart which seemed too utterly crushed and broken ever to heal. : I left that gallery as a mourner might leave a tomb—calm enough, quiet and still, neither weeping nor lamenting, but altogether desolate. I closed the door softly, as if I feared that a sound would evoke spirits in the place, and went my way. I chose to go down-stairs, and I went. I did not - think of Mrs. Amory’s anger; I should not have stopped for that. I felt very calm, but stony and cold, as if my whole being had suddenly changed to ce, Louise I had not seen since the ven of Easton’s departure; she never came rear me when I was ill. ft would not have desired her presence; but ey 4 a ne had I watched by her bed, listening to her childish complaints, tending and caring for her, only to be chidden and blamed for my pains. CHAPTER XIil. TEMPEST AND SHIPWRECK. I stoop in the lower hall, near the entrance to the library, the door of which was ajar. I heard Mrs. Amory eagerly questioning Mr. Thornton, her man of business, in measured response. Their conversation had no interest for me, and I -would have scorned the meanness of playing the listener, but [ caught Easton's. name—that namo which was always sounding in my ear, and it hada spell that chained me to the spot. “There must have been knavery somewhere,” exclaimed Mrs. Amory, passionately, ‘‘and it shall be my business to find out where it lies.” is Very near your own door,” replied the lawyer, firmly. ‘‘ The course of mad extravagance you have been running during the last fourteen years would have repli a prince, and, since his boyhood, your nephew has even surpassed you in his reckless- ve warned and expostulated, but in vain,” “T do not comprehend,”’ she muttered. “Only a fortnight. ago,” pursued Mr. Thornton, “*T was obliged to raise forty thousand dollars fer you, by disposing of stock at a ae. loss. know better than myself where it all went.” “It is your business to supply the money, mine to dispose of it as I see fit,” she replied, with her old You tiness. adam,” answered Mr. Thornton, solemnly, “to save my soul I could not raise you a dollar.” “What do you mean?”’ she exclaimed, with a pas- sion, which was a mingling of anger and frie ht. “T mean ’—and even that callous man of business was so moved that his voice trembled a little—‘‘I mean that you are ruined!” Isaw Mrs. Am fall back in her chair—she had not fainted—but she was incapable of speech, as that fearful truth for the first time forced itself upon her mind.: “Is there no pest rapt There must be some- thing left!’ she said after a pause. “A few thousands, madam, may be saved from the wreck, but to you it will seem absolute beggary. I cannot advise you—I have so often done it in vain, This house and all it contains must go. Your town house has long been covered with mortgages—a for- tune gone by those speculations in which you and your nephew engaged against all advice—you see to what you must look forward,” — She made no reply; but those white lips muttered: “My daughter, my poor daughter)” “She will have something when she comes of age. You remember by her grandfather’s will there are twenty thousand dollars left her.” ‘*Can’t we use it now?” she asked, eagerly, seizing the first desperate hope. “Impossible! No one can touch it until she is twenty-one. By that time she may have grown wiser and better able to appreciate money than she is at present.” ; “Then there is no hope—” “None! Madam, I must repeat it—you are ruined.” He turned to go, and she did not attempt to dc- tain him. He passed me withcut a word, nor did [ notice him; I was wholly occupied in watching Mrs. Amory. She sat there so pale, so frightfully still, that I was afraid her reason would give way. I went into the room, fell on my knees by her, by k her cold hand in mine, and besough: her not to despair. She looked at me with a sort of smile. “Go,” she said, “‘lcave me as all the rest will. I can do nothing tor you now—I am a beggar. The whole world will know it soon,” I did not speak; she seemed rather talking to her- self than addressing me. “Beggared, and e# my own madness! As for that boy, I could curse him, but I dare not! He must come back—yes, that will be best.” She paused, for the first time appearing to remem- ber that I was present. ‘““Why are you here?” she asked, angrily. “TI don’t want you—go away! Iwill not have you ex- ulting at my misery.” . I was weeping unrestrainedly, and as she felt the tears fall hot upon her hands, she looked at them and me with a wild, incredulous wonder. “ Why don’t you go?’’ she continued, in an altered voice; ‘*I can help you no longer—I have no home— no friends.” ‘* Neither had I,” was my answer, “until God sent you. Mrs. Amory, I owe every thing to your kind- ness; oh, don’t think I forget it! While I have two hands, and strength or life left, I will work for you, Hear what I say —try to understand me—I will never desert you—TI will work for you always.” She was:so crushed that my words softened her at once. She laid her hand on my head, and for the first time wept cag “TY did not think there was so much ro dness in any human being,’’ she said. ‘But what are we to do? Who will tell Loui:e?” : “Twill, madam.” “My poor, poor child! Where can we go—what can we do?” “T will settle every thing,” I replied; ‘only lie down and rest white I go and speak with Mr. Thornton,” At length I persuaded her to go to her room, gave her some quieting drops I knew she had been in the habit of taking, and went away to find Mr, Thornton. We had along conversation, and when it was con- cluded, he said: “You are a true woman! Goon and do not fear —God will help you!” During the following week I was busier than ever before in my life. ad Mrs. Amory to sustain, Louise to look after—for when she heard the tiding Ss. she went into nervous spasms, and was really ilk. 2 went several times to the city, saw Mr. Thornton, arranged, with his assistance,an abode for the pres- ent, removed thither such valuables as I might, and at last all was ready. There were many executions in the house, and magnificent as every thing was, the lawyer assured me it would bea mere‘nothing toward satisfying the creditors. When all was over, there remained to Mrs. Amory an income of afew hundred dollars, but to her it appeared the most absolute poverty, Every resouree has been exhausted! — 4 eS
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< ALONE IN THE WORLD. 28 The day before that appointed for the sale, we all left Woodbrook forever. It was now midsummer, and Mr. Thornton and I decided that it would be better for them to remain in the country until autumn; after that, it was necessary for the. furtherance of my plans that we should reside in New York. It would be useless to enter into thé details of the few following weeks. We were established in a lit- tle house within a few hours’ ride of the city. The dwelling was of. the plainest description; yet, to many, it would doubtless have seemed a comforta- ble home; but to those ete, enervated creatures it was revoltingly miserable, Thad made arrangements for taking rooms in the city on the first of September. Mr. Thornton had promised to obtain for me a class in drawing. Upon that, and my skillin needlework, we must in a great measure rely, since Mrs. Amory’s little pittance would not be sufficient for our wants, Iknew that Louise would be of no assistance. She neither could or would teach or lift her hands to do anything useful, She would do nothing but rail at her mother and Easton, varying her pro- gramme by unlimited condemnation of everything I Said or did. The weeks wore on, and autumn came. We re- moved to the city about the middle of September. The rooms Mr. Thornton had found for ue were in a small house, on a retired but respectable street. My helpless charges pronounced it a vile den, and on the first night sobbed themselves to a I thought of Paradise Square, and was grateful for the roof which sheltered us, and which, with other inmates, might have made a comfortable home. found my pupils awaiting me; and the income I received was reasonably good. I performed the household duties, and procured a little girl to wait upon Mrs. Amory. Louise lay in bed from one day’s end to another, fretting, and reading trashy es but I never attempted to find any fault with er, 7 IT worked hard, prowia thin and pale; but I did not heed that. All day long I was engaged with my classes. Before I went out I prepared their brea! - fast, and cooked their dinner when I returned; and all the evening I plied my needle—often working until daylight when Mrs. Amory’s fancies brought Some extra expense upon us. Mrs. Amory had many beautiful dresses and jew- els left, of course—these were gradually disposed of. It was hard to bear with Louise; she abused me constantly, as if I had been the cause of her ruin. I never replied to her taunts—my contempt for her really gave way to pity for her folly and helplessness. rs. Amory never was harsh to me, but she would sit and look at me so popeleely, asking if [ meant her to starve or beg, that it was quite as bad to-get along wi h her, The winter came, and of course our expenses in- creased. Truth to say, I had undertaken a great deal. But I did not falter—not once did I feel a re- éret or an inclination to retract from my resolve to take care of them. I worked day and night—painted —S8ewed—made fancy articles—-wrote sketches—did everything, anything, by which I could eke out our Lttle income. We lived in this way fora year, but alas! grow- ng poorer constantly. Easton did not return, and many times Mrs. Amory would exclaim passionately “Gaines his neglect.. knew well he would never marry Louise, and I £xulted in the thought—I had not been human else, ey had driven him away from me, but they had (st him likewise. I did not allow my thoughts to aon ppon him; had I done so, I should have sunk u helpless and despairing. h About this time Mr’ Thornton died suddenly. I ad lost my only friend! My class dwindled to a More wumber, and I found it impossible to ae °re scholars, I struggled along as best I might, trying to be hopeful and serene, for with the least appearance of gloom on my pert Mrs, Amory was in despair, and would take to her bed for days. . I am lingering over this portion of my tory longer than will be interesting. Let me hasten on. I said that we lived there for a year. The winter again came on—a cold, severe one it was. ‘There are no coals,” said the girl, one morning, as I was preparing to go out, ‘‘ and the fire is low.’ ‘Thad not a cent of money. Inever could ask Mrs. Amory to dispose of any of her dresses, although she often did it, but never for such things. I stood perplexed and troubled, with a sharper pang of anx- lety than ever before, “Shure, and it’s hard for yees, miss,” said the pitying attendant. ; hese were the first kind words I had*heard in months, and the tears cameinto my eyes. ‘* Hush, Bridget,” I said; ‘tI can’t be pitied! We must do some way.” I bethought me of the gold cross I had worn since Ileft Nan Briggs. It was like tearing my heart out to part with the sole relic of my dead mother, but there was no alternative. I removed the chain from my neck, kissed it, wept over it, but, in the end, Bridget was sent with it to the pawnbroker’s, It was a valuable ornament, and 1 knew that she could obtain sufficient on it to ; urchase the coals. ; That was the last sacrifice I was called upon to ‘make for those women. I had now to learn what thanks I was to receive for the good ¥-had tried to do them, CHAPTER XIV. THE SOLITARY STRUGGLE. A rew evenings after the sale of my cross, I re- turned home weary, dispirited, and with a nervous pain in my head that almost drove me out of my senses, Bridget met me at the door, exclaiming: “Great news, miss; ye’re all rich again!’ She always chose to consider me as one of Mrs. Amory’s family, although Louise frequently told her that T was no better than a servant. an “What do you mean, Bridget?’ I asked, stopping in the 1 arrow passage. “ Mane?—what I say, to be sure. A gintleman came in a grand ¢ Be, and they are both gone with him. Here’s the caird, and we are to folly.” I took it, and read the address of one.of the teshionable hotels in the city. bled, in Mis. Amory’s hand. “Come at once, my good Madge.” bce Even then she remembered the distinction be- tween us—prosperity had changed her instantly, _ I went to the hotel, accompanied by Bridget, and was shown into a pest where Mrs. Amory sat’ ~ with Louise and an old gentleman, whom the former introduced as her uncle, Mr. Forrester. ; ‘Well, Madge, we are off to New Orleans,” were almost the first words Mrs. Amory spoke; “so make as much haste as you can.” ‘*My niece feels quite phliges toyou — exertions, Miss Ma age fy the old gentleman, * But begsd Be Hae she ware been but for mamma's charity?” exclaime ise. ' , “ Tre,” said Mr. Forrester, taking a pinch of snuff with the air of a marquis; “very true.” i “You are to go with us,” said Mrs. Amory; “you psec ¢ Page age me, Madge; when Louise goes I shal uite alone. ~ But, to their unbounded astonishment, I refused. Thad eaten the bread of independence; although hard to earn, it was sweet to the taste; never again would I live upon the bounty of any human being. “Not go?” exclaimed Mrs. Amory. ‘“ What will you do?” “ Work,” I said, with a smile. “A strange taste!” ejaculated Mr, Forrester, ge red in the face at my impertinence in refusing” offer; and he withdrew his attention from me alt0- most Under it was serib-_ a xa Pres oC
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> ' while Mrs. Amory continued urging her of who t wn aA ALONE IN THE WORLD. gether, and began talking in a low tone with : est, as . Pa Sy Rie Di Madge. Texpect you always to _ “Tf T were necessary to your comfort, madam, I would never leave you; but you have recovered posi- tion and wealth—you need me no longer.” “But you must have a home.” ‘ < own exertions and industry must provide me one then.” Ey But Iam accustomed to you, Madge. I need you, “Oh, madam,” I said, bitterly, ‘‘there will be many a negroin your new home more gentle-handed and serviceable than I.” She blushed a littls at her own selfishness, and, like many another took refuge in anger. “Then you refuse to g0?” “You must excuse me—I cannot.” “Well, it’s very ungrateful, Madge. Ishallalways think so.” “Tam sorry, madam. If the time should ever come that you required me—if you were sick or in trouble, I would come to you gladly.” “Oh, thank you: it is not likely; my troubles, I fancy, are over now,” and she drew herself up with all her old dignity—‘ quite over.” - She grew more offended as the idea of her new Her, ogee clearly to her mind, and she ceased com- bating my determination. I was roused to listen to Mr. Forrester’s conversa- tion by a remark he made in answer to something Louise had said. ; “T bélieve,”’ he exclaimed, “that in spite of his fine talk and manners, this Easton is a scoundrel.” Neither Louise nor her mother said a word in con- tradiction; but I turned.on him at once. “Tt is very gentlemanly, sir, to condemn a man : know nothing. Easton Amory is much more incapable of doing a mean thing than onewho riled il of a stranger as you have done.” The old gentleman and Mrs. Amory were stricken dumb at this outburst, but Louise laughed. “What a champion!” said she. “Easton ought to be gratefull I wish he heard the little Gipsy, as he al ihe called you.” “T wish he did hear me,”T retorted, “that he might learn to treat his relatives with the contempt hey, doeerr es Lgrew pale with excitement, as I ent on: ‘If you have no affection in you—if the ' kindred are of no value in your eyes, I would e fact! I knew that you were utterly heart- con less and despicably ridiculous, but I never accused a ‘such miserable meanness.’’ I had born much mm her, and for once was determined to free my ‘ind, mone would think you were in love with him, and you are! What impudence, to be sure—as if he would look twice at you.” j “T do love him,” I replied, fearlessly. ‘“‘I am not ashamed to own it; and he loves me as much as he ore you. He would sooner marry a beggar an you—”’ “Madge, Mode. interrupted Mrs. Amory, ‘“ do you not know? Have [not told you—” uise sprung forward—put her hand over her mother’s mouth, and prevented her concluding her sentence. _ sil Yd you tell her, I will never speak to you till the day of my death!” she cried, * I do not choose her to know—wait, wait! Well, Miss Paradise,” she con- tinued, addressing me by her favorite name, ‘have youany more delicate avowals to make?” ‘None—I will waste no words upon you. We are ea r doubtless forever, unless you should again ecome poor; in that case, Louise, return to the out- cast, the vagrant, and she will again provide you with a home.” Emo, 6,” said Mrs. Amory, as I turned. to leave “Do not go hastily! Think of what ve me soon—stay with me. me of you here! You cannot live; Mercy on us, child, you must be mad to hesitate ove. fora moment. Come with me, Madge!” ‘ Still I said no, no! I would have died a thousand deaths rather than have remained longer with that soulless, mindless girl! “Tt is much better as it is,” said Mr. Forrester, with stately reproof; ‘‘let obstinacy and self-will take their own course. I did not even by a look show that I had heard his words, but bidding Mrs. Amory farewell, left the apartment, followed by Bridget, who, from the corner where she had ensconced herself, had been a silent but attentive listener during the whole scene. “Sure, ye did the wise thing, miss,” said she, when we had regained the street; “ved better work the a ia off ye than live that way.” I fully agreed with her; any trials or sufferings would be easier to bear than those which must await me in the home they offered. The next day I went out as usual to my duties, and when I returned Bridget handed me a note—it was from Louise. “We leave here this morning; mamma is quite sick, and desired me to send you money to pay the rent and the servant; but I shall do no such thing— if you want it you must humble your pride enough to come after it,” That was a severe blow! We owed a quarter’s rent and r Bridget had not been paid for months. But I had borne too much to give way now, I sold the furniture to the best advantage ible ~—it was Jittle enough I could get, heaven knows— settled the rent an — up the house. The kind, devoted servant would have refused the money due her, but I insisted upon her receiving it, and then we separated. With such valuables as I still possessed, I betook myself to a little room in a street near by, less decent and cleanly, and in a dark, gloomy tene- ment-house. I was alone—forsaken by the whole world; but my courage did not desert me. It was not very long till spring. I thought that if I could struggle on until the warm weather came, I should do much better. I taught daily, and worked as hard as before, but could feel how my strength went from me, though there was no one'to observe or care. The spring came, bright and beautiful even. in those foul, gloomy streets—came and pagsed, and the hot, enervating mid-summer took its place. The last of my scholars‘forsook me. I could ob- tain no more, and now my only resource was my needle. I found it necessary to go to the shops and procure work, no matter what the kind might be. T painted several little pictures from copies I had made of old paintings in Mrs. Amory’s house; but finding it impossible to dispose of them, thought it useless to waste more time or materials. Before winter came I was obliged to exchange my habitation for a much poorer one in a still darker and more pent-u rtion of the city. I began to think, with unutterable loathing. of Nan Briggs and Paradise Square! Was my des- tiny, after all, to be consummated in that horrible spot where I began to know something of life? Rapidly I was being pushed further down;down every day!) My hopefulness was gone—my courage began to grow weak—my soul sickened within me! I used to sit at the little window, vecupied with my work, and look through the miserable streets which I knew led to Paradise Square, and think how soon I should be compelled to tread them. I won- dered if Nan-Briggs could be living still, and what ‘she would say were I to return to her helpless, stiarv- ing, and ask her for protection. . CHAPTER XV. THE SPECTER’S APPROACH. Tue winter was upon me, cold, bleak, terrible, and in its train came a gaunt figure, approaching nearer and nearer—it was starvation | 7 : : i ae es = oe=
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et als os ee Om tm, — Thad no money, and no means by which to pro- fare any. Some time before, I had seen prizes for Successful stories offered by some newspaper. 1 lad written and sent one; but since then I had leard nothing concerning it. For several weeks I called daily at the office, but always received the ae answer; the rewards had not been distrib- At last the men grew tired of the sight of me and ade me leave my address instead of coming any more; they would write to me if my story was &mong those that were accepted. 1 had some feelings of pride left, and they rose bitter] against the thought of revealing my abode; but what had I to do with pride! After the first Moment of hesitation, I wrote my address upon a Scrap of paper, and gave it to them. When the men had read it they looked at one another and laughed, but T went away heedless of their sneers. Solsat in my garret-room and waited, waited— but there was no change forthe better. I wasill for Some time—not with any actual ailment, but body and mind had become so completely pia te that for days I could not rise from my bed. While I was too weak to sit up much, there came One day a tap at my door, and, without bidding, the landlady entered—a tall, gaunt, hard-featured, bad- ooking woman as one could fear to see. ‘ Sick, eh?’ she grumbled, while her sharp, green eyes wandered to and fro about the room, ‘‘and sick olks can’t work, and them as can’t pay must trot.”’ (, What do you want?” I asked, “Want, indeed! how innocent we be tobe sure! Why, I want a week’s rent—just have the goodness to go to your money-chest and fork it over.”’ Was speechless! Ihad but afew pennies in the World, and where to obtain more I did not know. Wal,” she continued, “‘ what’s the matter—got no stuff, eh?” _ None,” I replied, desperately; ‘I can not pay You this morning—wait until I am better.” ait, indeed! You don’t ketch this child with ae, Such chaff—no, indeed! Ill have my money *tore T leave this room.” « put I haven’t any!” That’s neither here nor there—you've got what’ll answer jest as well,” ., What, what?” I asked, eagerly. Wal, there’s that pictur’-—tain’t worth much, to be Sure, but I’ll take it; mabby I can get a few shil- ings for it,’ tl She pointed to a painting I had not disposed of at é aden WBbroker’s—one of the best popied I had ever nade, and worth much more than the paltry sum toduired to pay her rent, Twas too weak to con- €nd with her; she must have it, or I should be driv- €n into the streets, Take it,” Lsaid; “do take it and go.” h She watched me’ for an instant longer with her “ie rible eyes, gave a low chuckle, and taking up the B Cture went slowly out of the room, looking back at ne to the last with some dreadful thought in her Tutal features which I could not understand. very next day I was able to go out, although still aay feeble. I had not a mouthful of food, and muething must be obtained. T made a bundle of m ch decent clothes as still remained to me, and went to the nearest pawnbroker’s shop. | The toount I-received was enough to last me for some ime to come. vy had now food, and my ad Fee returned. I de- pred ravenously the vrovisions T had bought. an : read was dry and black, the dried fish moldy had bitter; but never during my past life of luxury any delicacies tasted so sweet to me as those i TSe morsels. When my meal was over, I la tien and slept; I had nothing else to do, and I felt Be after my walk. ane to linger over these details, will do no good. © let me hasten on—doubtleds there are man Feve Would not credit my story if I revealed the suf- & of that season. But let such go down into ALONE IN THE WORLD, the alleys and byways—look into the loathsome dens recking with human beings—gaze on the miser- able children-the wild-eyed women—the haggard, despairing men, and then tell me these things are too horrible for belief. CHAPTER XVI. “IN THE DEPTHS, Aqain I was without money! The last few shil- lings I possessed went to satisfy that avaricious old woman, and as she left me she shook her head sig- nificantly, and pointed toward the street. oan) “You'll have a wide home very soon,” she said, with her frightful chuckle, while her green eyes dilated, ‘‘a wide home; you needn’t pay no rent there—it’s free quarters—free quarters. ad a few trifles left—they must go; food was __ . sweet, and I began to have dreadful cravings night | po day. My constant reflection was of somet! 0 eat. It was Baaage how little I thought of Louise or Mrs, Amory—they bad gone so entirely out of my life that even their memory was faint and indistinct. Of Easton I would not think—I should have gone- mad had 1 allowed my thoughts to wander toward him. Often, when I lay on my bed, moving to and fro in feverish, broken slumber, which was not rest, his image rose before me palpable and distinct. 1 would wake with his name on my lips—seeming to feel the clasp of his hand on mine—wake to want and suffering, trying to stifle my cries, and at least die in silence. a At last I grew desperate! Was I not forsaken by every human pang! Why should I struggle any longer? Sooner or later I must sink down—down to the lowest depths of misery—if there was any slough darker than I had yet trod. God would not let me die—he had deserted me likewise. Then holy recollections would come back—my mo- ther’s voice would sound in my ear giving me strength again. I would bear up a little longer; I would not take my own life. ait—wait; only & few.days more—it must end then. ; All my thoughts centered upon the means of pro- curing bread, and of retaining possession of my gar- ret, My valuables were gone; my clothing, with the ex« ception of the dress I wore, and that h about me ee: in rags; I had no bread left; no tidings of the story ¢ had Pog to get money from, and rent day again han ek ~~ £74.00" 8°" ae I begged for two days’ grace. Ido not know what le moved the wretch, but she granted my prayer. ~ “Now mind, two days, no more!.No doubt there’ll a great fortin’ come to you afore that time—he! he! The angels is very good, I heerd a preacher say once when I was a little gal, and he talked about a God. Wal, mabby there is one, but he don’t live in New York if there is.” | Two days more and I should be houseless—no shel- e ter but the broad sky—no refuge but the streets. I . sat down in blind despair. I did not pray—I had no thought of it! The old woman’s words seemed true —there was no Providence in that loathsonfe place. The first day passed—the night came down. The rats left their hiding-places and pare fearlessly about pe as I sat on my low stool looking down to- ward Paradise Square. ae IT sat there hes the daylight broke. The t city struggled into life. The sunbeams gilded the stately chureh-tower, where they preached of God, and thanked Him that they were not as other men! I ae uot ore out of my seat or turn my eyes away m Paradise Square, seta It was a Sunday morning—a calm, glorious day in midwinter. I heard the church-bells ring sol y, but the sound came from a distance; there were no temples of worship near, The wretched objects Pate pe no thought of prayer—how should they ave ha
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> Barats ALONE IN THE WORLD. The day dragged on. True to her promise, the old woman kept aloof, but the day was almost gone—and then? A wild voice kept repeating the words in my ears ee sounded like the mocking of a flend—and en * The street, the jail, starvation or crime—anil thin? Hush! The river ran black and deep. I caught the gleam of the waters from my window; under their waters there was rest! The daylight faded; lamps began to gleam afar off; a few stars shot Into the sky. The wind rose, sweeping through my narrow room, rustling my thin garments, and moaning sadlyinmyear. | Hunger had quickened my faculties to terrible acuteness. I heard a heavy step on the stairs sev- eral floors below. I knew what was coming then. Tramp, tramp, up the rotten staircase—through the dark passages. Tramp, tramp, firm, heavy, un- relenting, till if paused before my room. ith a erash the door was flung open, and the old crone sto) 1 there, excited by drink and evil passions, “No money, hey? Out with ye—start, don’t stop another minute, or I'll fling you out of the window! Cheatiag a lone woman after this fashion, you lazy animal—start yourself!’’ re Give me a little time,’ I pleaded; “only have m y 8 4s “Don’t talk to me! There ain't three women in the world would do what I have, but you shall go now, Curse you!” T fell on my knees before her; I pleaded by every- oe that men hold sacred; she did not even under- ative the words, She seized me by the shoulder and pu ed upit was powerless in her grasp. She ed me alo a the passazes and down the stairs. striking and cursing me. The wretched inmates of the house crowded about their doors and laughed at the sight, while she pulled me down—down, opened the outer door, and pushed me into the street, The heavy bolts closed behind me_ with a crash, the key turned in the lock, and there I stood! It had come at last; 1 was houseless, starving—in the street that led to Paradise Square! The wind blew sharp, as if each blast hal been barbed with icicles; a few flakes of snow fell now and then; the sky was cloudless; the moon and tars shone [pitilessly. Nowhere could I turn for help; neither earth nor heaven had mercy; men and alike stood aloof. My hair streamed out upon my shoulde:s; m, tattered dress fluttered in Wee Wek C0 and he urt nei so wild! ner There was no fixe | purpos2 in my soul;I was too nearly mad for reflection, Unknowing wherefore, I turned uo the dark street, passed into another, and stood in the entrauce to Broadway. , I went over and stood upon the other side, passed down a cross-street a little way, and sunk upon the stone steps of the nearest house. How long I sat there I do not know. I felt the wind cutting through my veins, turning my blood toice, I thought it was ‘the last pang; death must be near me then. A tall form shrouded in a cloak, left Broadway and turned down that very street. The step was quick and vigorous; I knew it in an instant. te had been long since I had heard that sound: my brain was almost turned with sickness and want, yet I knew it! ‘ He came on—he was close to me—the folds of his cloak brushed my thin garments. I saw the gleam of thee, eyes which had so often looked lovingly into mine. Tcould not. utter a syllable, but I flung out my arms in mute appeal. The action attracted his attention; heglanced toward me, threw some money on the pavement, and was passing on; I had no words—my throat was husky and dry, my tongue clove to my mouth, but he must not leave me thus, Te ox: ke one in the agony of death. Again he paused—looked at poe Brew near—bent over me Pe aati through all the change—he knew my 2 ie > Ro os Heaven!” he exclaimed, ‘Madge, is it you “How came you hore?” he cried. ‘Can’t you — speak? My , she is freezing! I will get a car- riage, M Ae : He led me to the corner, hailed a carriage that was passing, and when it stopped assisted me in, sprung after me, | iad some directions to the driver and away we sped. He ed me no questions. I could not have ~ answered them; I could only lie back in the seat, feeling life slowly returning, from the warmth o , that fur-lined cloak, We stopped at last; he helped me out hnd led me up the steps of the house. He opened the door with a latch-key, and hurried me through the hall up- st-irs.. He drew me into a luxurious chamber, brought me wine and bread, and I swallowed them eagerly, Of the next few days lIremember nothing. When — IT recovered my reason, I was lying in bed, whilea woman was watching beside me. For a few mo- — ments [I could recollect nothing that had happened, _ then all came back, and I roused myself with a faint — ery for Easton. sunk back with a gush of blessed tears. Life was restored to me—not only life but love, and all that could make it worth the having. The next morning I was able to rise and dress my- self without assistance. Nothing had ailed me but hunger and exhaustion, I was ee well again. IT found books in the saloon; I amused myself as best I might, longing only for Easton—neither won- _ dering nor caring where I might be, certainthatI — was in his charge, and that all’ was well. CHAPTER XVII. THE DRIVE. Tuat day and the next I passed alone; but there came two notes from Amory—he would soon be with me. On the third morning my maid proposed that I should drive out, and I consented. Sne had pre- ared a rich carriage-dress in which she attired me. ~ Vhen my toilet was complete, she bade me look in the glass; it was my old self—older, paler, but — beautiful still. We took a long drive, and T leaned back in a dreamy content, enjoying the golden sunlight and the keen air, while the woman sat silent and respectful, but watching me curiously all the time, e went far out into the country, and when I returned I felt stronger, more like myself than I had done since T left Woodbrook, As I descended from the carriage, a boy was standing at the door, witha note in his hand; he held it so that I could read my name upon the ad- dress. Thinking it was from Easton, I snatched it from him with a few incoherent words, and hurried into the house. . When the maid attempted to follow me up-stairs, Ibade her go back. I went to my room, tore open the note and read: “Mapar:—Easton Amory was married to his cousin Louise the night before he sailed for Europe. 4 “Waurer Stuart.” I stood for a moment dumb and unbelieving; then the events of that evening, Louise’s hints, all came back, and a conviction of its reality burst upon me. “This thing is true,” I said, **all true!” T felt no anger, hardly despair. I was icy cold, my voice firm and low.” “Tdo not curse him,’’ T said; ‘God will do that! I do not ask for vengeance—the Father of all will give their due to both the wronger and the wronged! IT marvel how I could have been so long deceived.” I took the jewels from my wrists, and laid them on the table, flung off my outer garments, muttering to myself: é Saved! saved!’ 4 | |
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ALONE IN THE WORLD. -: T sat there for hours, reflecting upon those things; Many times the maid came to the door, but I or- €red her coldly away. ‘ At last a terrible fear seized me—Amory might re- . a and find me there. Istarted up in a sudden shane? Sa the door, and without bonnet or’ Shawl ‘fied down the stairs into the passage, The Soman who had waited on me was standing there. he uttered a ery of dismay at my approach, and Would have detained me, but I pushed her aside, th re I went—again in the street—homeless, friend- CHAPTER XVIII PARADISE SQUARE AGAIN. Tr seemed to me that I was treading the billows of meee: ocean—around me were clouds and dark- Ss. No stars were in the sky; a mingled storm of rain and sleet fell pitilessly on my bare head, but I €eded not, : Pe ,on, I fled, seeking only to escape from them; Whither { went it did nak matter, only to be away. I met no one: even the watchmen had deserted their posts, frightened from duty by the awful vio- €nce of the storm. k nce I heard a clock strike just overhead, so I tat that I must be under the shadow of a church, poouted and laughed with the madness which was m me. ; I sat down upon the steps of the church, while Spectral figures started up out of the impenetrable arkness and moved about me. There IL sat until the frenzy which ruled my soul forced me to go on, Almless and blind, through the storm, .. th Ben morning broke, the tempest lulled its fury— here was promise of a beautiful day. I was ex- ousted, faint, partially crazed, but something told ne I was not safe in the fashionable part of the city Where I found myself. I sought the close streets, wit down the narrow alleys, and wandered on to- i aut Paradise Square. Early as it was, loathsome- lo ed beings were astir, human in nothing. They a Oke after me and laughed, but nobody tried to rvs tain me. Thad sense enough to know that I needed me other covering than my showy dress. I stop- 6 & Woman, and bartered one of the rings still left Sha fingers, heedless of its cost, for the ragged Ps wl she wore, The creature’s eyes glistened, and, thetching the jewel, she ran off, fearful, I suppose, eth I might repent the bargain; and I hurried on ill t was pursued, and haunted by the idea that that there was nO safety for me, but in new flig dwones im Paradise Square at last! I found the yi cling where Nan Briggs and I had lived, Theré that hothing changed in the neighborhood, except a all looked older and more ruinous. a jittered, wretched woman passed me, carrying show while a sickly child clung to her, whom she was off with curses. I recognized her instantly. It old th girl with whom I had often quarreled in the insta, me. Our destinies had again joined for an a bd he She did not remember me, passing on with oo and a few rude words. ] ed went her way, and I went where the frenzy dise ©—it so happened that it took me out of Para- pquare and up an alley into the street where I rotely dwelt. out ached the house from which I had been turned had ] Week before—to me it seemed an age since I Wom." Stood there! In the doorway I saw the old 4n holding conversation with a man, and in her h to. Deets a letter, into which she was vainly trying “ know : ” g S nothing about her,” she was saying, as T rar ached ; st Pea left me, and in debt. 1 wonder her fy is ere is,” Before her curiosity could lead ' ter fmther, I started forward and snatched the let- . “Hoty her hand, certain that it was for me. ceiving toity!’ she exclaimed savagely; then, per- | ae ts Ah 0 it was, she burst into a fit of laughter. © 8 @ purty bird, to be sure! Jest pay me the | | bered that I left my_mone 27 ~ money you owes me, cr I'll pull them velvets off 0” ye as sure as you stund here!”’ I felt that letter bro ght me new hope, but I was careful not to open it there, The man turned toward me and said something about being paid for his trouble. I drew another ring from my finger. “Divide this between you,’ I said; “only let me get back to my garret, for I want rest.” The man and woman bent over the ring together, examining it and me with looks of wonder. . ‘*Sart’in, sart’in,” said the old crone; “ go right up-stairs, me dear, you knows the way—it’s all nice and comfortable there—go along, purty, go along.” I hurried past her up the tumble-down staircases, till I found myself once more in the little garret—it looked like home. I fastened the dcor with a stick piled the table and chair against it, so that I should be roused if it were forced open, and sat down on the bed to read my letter. As did so, a bank-note fell » from ‘it and fluttered to the floor. I picked it up—it was a fifty-dollar bill. j I felt nothing—was capable of no sensation. I read the note—the story I had written so long before had received that premium, In the midst of my stupor came one thought, one bay patie i out of that great city. I rose and started tow the door, but fell back upon the bed. I lay there like one excited by opium—I suppose the drugs I had taken so freely during the past week were still powerful in my system. I could neither sleep nor move. There I lay with open eyes, yet beholding the horrible visions which narcotics are wont to call up. 3 Night came on before I was aware. I had no ee and there I lay in the darkness. I cannot de- scribe half the terrible sights upon which I was forced to look; only those who have suffered from ee rere use of opium can form any idea of my ortures, : CHAPTER XIX. THE AIMLESS JOURNEY. Wuen the daylight came I was stronger; proba I fell asleep a little while before morning. It hi rained again during the night, and the water lay in a pool in the middle of the chamber, penetrating 7 thin slippers as I passed. : hen IT remembe my desire to get out of that house—out of that city which had become so horri- ble to me. F I crept from my room and down the stairs with- out being seen the old woman. Once more in the open air, I felt a sense of security. The pawn- broker’s shop I had so often visited, was very near; 1 hurried there at once. The keeper of the place recognized me instantly. “Come to buy or to sell?” he asked, with a chuckle, : “To buy,” I said: ‘‘let me see some of the dresses I brought here.”’ He took down several; I selected one, some derclothing, and a bonnet I had ¢ him. I handed him the bill—he looked surprised and sus- picious, bus made no remark. I did not attempt to count the money he returned me; I could ae ve done it. ‘ I made him let me go into a little room back to change my clothes, promising him the garments I had on by way re) phy cones I dressed myself as neatly as I could, put on the bonnet and a decent shawl, and went away. After I had gone a little distance up the street, 1 remem- rin the den where I — changed my clothes. I went back immediately, but the ow laughed my demand to scorn, : * Get out of this!” he cried, “or I'll break every bone in your body! You left no money here, and you know it. Clear out, or Pll have the Charlies on you in no time!” » I did not contend with him; my brain was too much eonfused entirely to realize my loss. I went up the street, and found myself again in un-
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_ he was going no further on that road. ~ most lifte 28 ALONE IN THE WORLD. ' Broadway. -On I went, turning neither to the right nor the left, quite out of the city into the open coun- traveled all day, and when night came, entered a barn by the roadside, and, lying down in the hay, san soundly until morning. I left the place unseen, and continued my journey. ; I peony several villages, but did not stop in any of them. Atlast {I began to have a burning thirst, and paused at a farm-house to beg a drink of water. The woman kindly gave it to me, asking me if I was hungry. She brought some pieces of bread and meat, and though I had felt no pangs of hunger, the a of food made me almost ravenous, he asked me a great many questions, but I an- swered evasively, and, after resting a little while, went away. I walked more slowly, for my feet began to pain me excessively. I sat down by a brook that was partially frozen, pulled off my shoes and stockings, and bathed my feet in thelicy water. Iwalked all that day, but I do not suppose that I went over twenty miles, although it seemed to me a long distance when I thought of it. : here L rested that night I do not distinctly re- member; I have a faint recollection of falling. asleep, waking in the middle of the night almost frozen, and walking on to keep frpm perishing, About daylight a farm-wagon overtook me, and the man allowed me to get in and ride. I slept in the straw until he woke me and bade me get out, as It was then about noon, and the place where he left me a small, straggling village. I looked around but something warned me not to ae there, so I hastened through it, passed up the hill, along the river bank, and son lost sight of the last roof. It was growing dark when I reached another vil- lage, pened on the river bank, like a flock of birds that had tired themselves with a long flight and paused there to rest. ne I passed beyond the village; there was only a soli- tary dwelling here and there in sight. The wind 'w more cold and piercing, and the snow began to all heavily. The blast was so powerful that it al- qd me off my feet, and deprived me of the little strength I had left. I caught a glimpse of a white house close at hand; the gate blew ppen as [ passed—I took it fora sign— walked gee , and went me the winding path which led to the dwelling. AsI neared the porch I ae see the lights gleaming cheerfully betweea the closed shutters; but when I tried to mount the steps, my strength failed, and I sunk heavily upon Me iey stones, heard a bell ring amid the tumult in my brain— heard steps in the hall—the outer door was hastily opened, and a woman’s voics reache my ear: ‘*Tt sounded like some person falliag heavily. Do 86 what it was, Margaret. God help any poor crea- ture who is houseless this night!” The hall-lamp sent its flickering rays out into the loom, falling upon me asI lay on the steps, my Garments stiff and heavy with snow. . For an instant they did not discover me; some one stepped on the porch—there was an exclamation of /horrof#—the same voice cried out: **She’s dead! Oh, Margaret! Margaret!’ Kind hands raised me; they bore me through the hall into a lighted room and laid me on a sofa, was not insensible, but I could not frame a syllable, and lay passive while my clothing was removed, other garments put upon me, a warm drink held to * amy lips, which I was unable to swallow, After that T remember nothing, except that the same woman's voice called out: Ff “She is fainting! Oh, my God, it is death!” Then a great darkness gathered about me, faces and voices faded in the distance, and I-drifted off through the. thick gloom, trying in vain to stretch out my hands and beseech them to save me from the troubled waters down which J slowly floated to the deeper blackness beyond. CHAPTER XX, , NEW LIFE. | For weeks life was a blank. I remember nothing; the days came and went, but each successive one found me senseless, on eee) as before, 3 4 The first thing I recollect is opening my eyes in @ large, menseee chamber, carefully darkened to a twilight that suited my feeble vision. I was lyin upon a bed, the curtains thrown back, so that I had — a view of the room so far as the shadows would ermit. I tried to think, to reme nber where I was; but there was a pressure on my head as if a cold hand had been laid there, an.l I knew nothing more. It must have been another day when I again came to myself, I saw a lady sitting by the bed; she wai leaning over me with gentle solicitude, and whet my eyes met hers in eager questioning, she smiled, and answered as if I had uttered the inquiries which struggled in my enfeebled brain, . “You are safe and in good hands. You have bee sick, but you are better. Try to understand me and ‘3 go to sleep.” “ She gave me something to drink, and I sunk into a quiet slumber. <j A fortnight after, I was able to sit wp and converse — a little, though I was still too weak to walk more — than a few steps. * One day, after having been assisted to rise, Llifted my hand to my head—my hair had been eut short. ‘It will grow again,’ my kind nurse said in an- swer to my look of wonder; ‘the doctor ordered it to be done, much against my will, 1 assure you, for it was very beautiful.’’ “How came LI here?’ I asked, for the first time feeling able to think#@nd ask questions. ““We found you lyi n the porch,” she replied. — ‘Probably you had intended * come in, but your strength failed—” , ‘“T remember,” I interrupted; “I remember!” _ Everything came back tome then—my wander- ings in the streets of the city—my flight—the long journey and the last terrible pang with which cou sciousness had gone from me. i * Where were you going?” she asked, gently, “Going? I repeated, ‘going? Nowhere. I h nowhere to go,” ‘* Were you in search of some friend?” . “1 have no friends,” I answered; “no friends and no home,” ‘ mi | I saw the tears start to hereyes, but she re- ~ pressed them, as if fearful of agitating me. : ‘God provides for the fatherless,” she whispered; ‘trust yourself to Him, he will never forsake you. I had not heard such ORES for a long, long time—not since Mr, Thornton died! ee I whispered a request that she would read to me” from the Bible, and she at once complied. I think I never heard a more pleasing reader. I listened in silence, only motioning her to proceed, when she paused to see if I was tired, and erinkia such strength and consolation from the blesse words she read as I had never before received. At length she laiq the book down and said: ; “You must not listen any more to-day, my child; — go to béd now and sleep awhile.” “ Will you read to me to-morrow?” I asked. oa < Yes, to-morrow. You will get strong now every — *T shall soon be well?’’ [ said, inquiringly. “Very soon, I trust.” Pay am sorry. I thought God would have let m@ en ; “We must be resigned to His will,” she answered: “Remember the sweet promises I have just reat to you, and be certain that ‘He doeth all thing® well.’ : I fell asleep with her hand clasped in mine—he! dear voice murmuring a prayer that went with wm’ into my slumber anid blessed it, Fs So the days passed. Sine asked me no questions: I saw no one but her, 1n old servunt, and the physi cian who visited me aaity, :
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wus J Se At last Iwas able to go down-stairs with their assistance, and be taken into the pleasant, parlor. It was a beautiful morning in early spring; the trees Were pene out their leaves. A flock. of robins Were singing and calling from the maple branchesin the yard, and the sunlight stole brightly in at the ow, playing about me and warming my poor eart into new life. For the first time I aske long 1 had been ill. Months! ““And you have watched over me,” I said—“ you have cared for me as a mother would have done, I id not know that Heaven had left such an angel On earth!” “I have only done my duty,” she replied. °“‘I am paid in seeing you well again.”’ I leaned back in My chair with a ‘gush of gratetul tears. ‘Do not Ty,” she said; ‘*see how bright the sun shines; how “yer thing speaks of peace.” “T want to ery,” Lanswered; “it does me good.” She drew my head upon her shoulder, and, nestled against her heart, 1 wept myself into composure. ay I ask you a few questions?’ she asked, when Twas once more able to talk. “Anything you please,” Isaid; ‘Ihave nothing to Conceal from you—nothing.” “The greater portion of your history is known to me,” she continued; “you revealed it in your de- lirium, living over the painful scenes of your life, Calling upon those who should have befriended you; So you ‘can have very little to tell me.” “Did I mention any names!” Lasked. — . “No one heard them but myself,”. she replied, ‘and all that I know will be sacredly kept. Your last: name I never could catch—you almost always Called yourself ‘ pact Madge, poor little Madge.’ ” “My name is Madge,” I said, “‘Madge Wylde—a Strange name they used to say, but no stranger than My life has been.” “Let it now begin anew,” was her answer; “date oy ther existence from this sickness, and forget the a one,” “How shall I begin?” I questioned, and the trouble Came upon my soul again. “Ido not know how or ow The lady told |me two What to do. I have no friends, no one to whom I | can turn, When I leave your roof I am all alone gain in the cruel, pet world.” I will be your friend; and, trust me, I will never forsake you,” “You?” I said. “You will add to the kindness you have shown me—you are not tired—you are willing to do more?” towarr, own mother could not feel more kindly ward you than Ido, Madge. I have promised to your friend, and during my whole life no one can Say that I have ever broken a pledge.” men” shall I repay you?” I sobbed. “Tell me “By doing. your duty—striving to be happy, and reek the best use of the means plac if your must have work to do,” I said, eagerly. ‘I pannot be idle. I can teach many things. Thave do me asses in drawing; I can write. Iam willing to e Yo vbing—any thing. only to be at work.” haye ail find that close at hand,” she said. ‘‘ We Want of rge school in our village; they are now in Le a teacher. If you prove yourself capable, ame Procure a drawing-class there, and you will «enough to make you independent and tranquil.” nd I can live in this quiet village—find rest and Peace here!" thin rust so—I am certain of it. But you must not get of work yet; you must keep yourself calm and «. Strong as fast as possible.” rati Od bless you!’ I said, sobbing on her breast my ie itue an my tears. “But I must not stay y on ft I shall never be able ‘to repay you for what reeked already done.” for o asPed me to her bosom and talked to me | ng, long time, and when our conversation c ®ased, we understood each‘other well. 4 ‘ A * ee oe eee ~ ALONE IN THE WORLD. - 29 “T have no daughter, Madge,” she said; ‘live with me—be my child!” ; : Thad no words to speak my feelings, but she com- prehended my every thought. Mutely my arms en- circled her waist, and her kiss upon my forehead sealed the-bond. ; ras ‘* Now be at rest,’’ she said, and I was so. CHAPTER XXI, AWAKENING POWERS. Time passed on and I grew pb nappion, more content than I had been in all my life before, Mrs. Chester appeared to me hardly human. IT ec to marvel heaven had not claimed her long ore. : She was still a very lovely woman, and almost youthful looking. though she had approached mid- dle age. There was a peculiar charm in her every movement—kindness, gentleness, all womanly emo- tions and sympathies in her look, and my poor, trampled heart turned toward her with an outpour- ing of affection, such as 1 remembered to have felt for my mother years and years before. In a few weeks I was sufficiently recovered to walk in the open air, to sit in the warm sunlight, to read, and even employ my pencil, There were several lovely views from the house itself, which I sketched; and I made copies of pic- tures from memory, which Mrs. Chester showed to the principal of the school, and those, with her in- fluence, procured me the situation 1 desired, at a salary far beyond what I had ventured to hope. _. I put my past life ebbarpear aside, and when memories from its darkness would intrude, they had lost their power to pain, The love which I had felt for Easton Amory was gone wholly out of my soul. I had not even hatred or Vieng for him—no recollection connected with that wild dream had power to trouble me. My school duties occupied me during several hours of each day, to my great content. I did my best, and was glad to know_that both ree + 4 and pupils were satisfied. I made friends. Life blos- somed into beauty around me, All my life before T had Sosy an outcast, an alien—here I was loved and res ed, ‘ : y home was with Mrs. Chester—after that first conversation it never occurred to either that I could have another. Peace and rest came to my heart, and with their dawning the powers of my mind woke to a strength and vigor they had never before possessed, T wrote a great deal; and after a time my produc- tions gained that force which only practice can give. Mrs. Chester sent a number of articles, both prose and verse, to leading magazines, and before I could realize it, Iwas aconstant contributor to their pages, rapidly gaining favor and emolument. ° At last I began a novel, I did not even confidesmy secret to Mrs, Chester. I felt timid to approach the subject. - , ‘ a I recalléet so well the day upon which if was com- menced. The thought had been in my mind for weeks and weeks—the plot had worked itself out— the charaeters stood clearly before me. I stopped a writing for some time—that pleasant dream was so palpable that I could put pen to nothing else. I was sitting with Mrs. Chester in the library that day—she had been reading to me, but I had heard nothing except the melody of ber voice, which - ded itself pleasantly with my dream. At last the power upon me would be no longer controlled. Lieft the apartment without a word, went up to my cham- ber and began to write. f T labored from midday until dusk, at the door rs a ees pra’ aid tr we and put away the scattered sheets, wearyjphysica! but with an acuteness and activity of mind I hea never felt before. Mrs. Chester entered softly, and bent over me. __ “You naughty Madge,” she said; ‘“ come down im- mediately,” ; and then a tap
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89 | Rls aig her at ones, but I felt as if dreaming still. “You have had no dinner,” she said, laughing; “did you know it? Isaw you were inspired when Bee went out of the library. But what have you een doing? Really, you look quite dazed—what rerelation have you had?” __ | “T will tell you ina fortnight,” I reptied; ‘let me ; have my own way till then.”’ : Mrs. Chester complied at once, and never, during the interval, did she evince the slightest curiosity. I owas left to myself, walking about, cree at will, and working with heart, and soul, and hand, When the time had expired, I went down to her one oe with as much of the manuscript as I had been able to complete. I read it to her, made or aan plain, and then asked her if it should be nished. E I remember so well the look she gaye me, so full of love, but she only said: \ “My child, you havea great gift bestowed upon Bra you; be sure that you employ it aright.” After that I read to her every evening what I had written; we discussed every separate chapter and scene, and from her judicious eriticisms I received wonderful benefits. 2 ers 2 I worked faithfully, and with my whole soul in the ry ‘task. There was a long vacation in the school, and the pleasant summer was a season of freedom, 3 Mrs Chester took good care of me; she insisted 4 -, -‘wpon my writing only a certain number of hours ' each day; she mae me take longjwalks and drives, and put everything like work or strong mental effort aside when I left my desk. Ta When October came, with its purple skies, its gor- Ris geous woods, its soothing, holy influences, my book os was finished. I laid down my pen for the last time with a sigh, and the sorrowful feeling with which one would part from a dear friend. Mrs. Chester took the manuscript from me, say- ing only that I had no further concern in the matter ait was her child now, ani to be dealt with as she saw fit. ; T asked no questions; I thought little about it after the first few days of missing its Ne peed can I was languid and indisposed to mental exertion, as continued labor is sure to leave one—I only wanted to e@ quiet. Eantienes life passed pleasantly. My duties in the j commenced anew; I read, walked, sailed on aes beautiful river, growing each day calmer and ae CHAPTER XXII. Bg": HOPE AND FAME. a autumn glided on toward winter, and there had been no talk of my novel between us. Mrs, Chester would not allow me to read either newspa- pers or magazines, but she managed so well that I really had no thought of her reason. She never told me the book had been placed in the hands of a publisher, and I had ceased almost to think about it. At length, one day, I was in the library, lying on the sofa, and very happy in my idleness, when Mrs, Chester entered, looking flushed:«and excited, and happier than I had ever seen her. : Without any explanation, she placed a pile of newspapers and reviews in my hands, pointing out particular paragraphs, saying: “ Read those, Madge!” I did read them—read in a sort of dream notices of ao book so full of praise that I could not believe it ti cannot bs,” Lsaid. ‘I don’t understand it at a t sader, I was famous! But those kind arms were about my neck, that dear voice was murmuring praisesin my ear sweeter than any the world could give. — After a time we were both calmer, and then I ALONE IN THE WORLD. asked her to explain everything to me, for it looked — so mysterious and incomprehensible. 4 * And the book is published!—but we have never seen even the proof-sheets.” 2 She took a volume from the table and handed it to — me—it was my own novel! . “T read the proofs,” she said laughingly, ‘‘ and consider myself a blue-stocking on the strength of it. Iwas determined to astonish you, and I flatter — myself that I have succeeded.” f “*Tndeed you have—but please explain the whole — affair to me,” ™ “This was the way of it, illustrious lady! I sent the manuscript to a publisher of great influence whom I had once known—he was acquainted with — your name from your magazine articles. The book — charmed him—he accepted it at once, and on the most liberal terms. It is creating the utmost in- terest, andis the great success of the season. have kept everything from you until now, but as your name is in everybody else’s mouth, you ought . to know your worth.” ‘ She was radiant with happiness. Had I been her — own child, she could not have rejoiced more sin-— a : ‘*“You are making not only fame, but monty,” she — said, smiling; *‘ the editions are selling like wildfire, and you will be an heiress after all.” So we fell to wondering and marveling that it be have so befallen—at least I did, but she 4 said: “You are only a child in spite of all you have suf- fered, my pretty Madge.”’ ; **T believe I always shall be,”’ I replied. ‘*T hope so,”’ she said, earnestly; “yes, always a — child, but a child-woman.” “T2T were more like you!” 4 “Suffering affects us differently; it would never — have made you like me. Mage. you havea great — tig committed to your charge. I am only anhum- — le servant of His will.” ; “You are my preserver, my guardian angel! But ~ for you, where should I be? Mrs. Amory was kind — to me, my friend, but you have taught me tolive — for something beyond the hour—to make my life of — use; after all, the book is more yours than mine.” “My dear,” sho said playfully, ‘I claimonly the — lory of having corrected the proofs. I defy any- Fase to point out an error,” ; “Tt was fortunate that my crabbed writing was — not trusted wholly to the discretion of the printers. — I certainly arm much obliged to you.” 7 ‘Please to show it by putting on your bonnet and — going with me to walk—you have been sitting in the ouse too long.” “T believe you consider fresh air a remedy for ‘every ill that flesh is heir to.’”’ “T certainly think it an excellent preventive. — Look at yourself; how much healthier you are in body and mind when you take regular daily exer- cise—cheerful, hopeful and happy.” “Tt is your presence, your care, that make me 80,” I answered. ‘‘Oh, my dear friend, I am the work of your hands. You have taught me, lifted me up, brought out the powers of my mind—made me all that Iam or ever shall be,” “With God’s help,” she whispered; “think what poor creatures we should be without that.” So we were grateful for the good that had come upon me and received it prayerfully. Already I could see that my past sufferings hadall — worked to my benefit; they had given me a knowl — edge of life; taught me deeper insight into the human heart, and helped to prepare me for the pro- fession which I had taken upon myself—one that I reverenced and strove to honor always. CHAPTER XXIII. HAPPINESS AT LAST. Wuen winter appeared close at hand, it suddenly — stayed its progress, and a troop of beautiful Indian- summer days descended upon our mountain home, | | . 4 4
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-,, their skies wore the most transcendent hues—the ad Was mild and calm—everything spoke of peace; me there came upon me a sadness which a season {ke that will always bring, only it was deeper than it will ever be again. ne day, Mrs. Chester had gone out upon some _ business,"dnd I was alone for many hours, I felt Very solitary, full of unrest. I sung Jow, mournful jones for a time, but grew weary of that, and, push- be away my guitar, as I had done books and papers fore, allowed myself to fall into a long, dreary reverie, such as I had often indulged in of late, I € tears were still wet upon my cheeks, though Could not have told why I wept; and blaming my th n folly, I broke from the crowd of sorrowful mipets that haunted me like a host of repining Spirits, maki g mie a companion in their suffering. A volume of engravings lay upon the table, and I took it up, turning to a face that always possessed Secular charm for me—it reminded me of Walter It seemed more like him than ever before. There were the same truthful eyes—the same sunny wave ©the brown hair, the mouth so firm yet sweet, Wearing the look of a man who knew no deceit. It Was a face that a *stranger might have trusted; the Wretched would have turned to it for consolation; a freved child would have known instinctively that re he should fine sympathy. : Wo. thoughts went back to the childish days at ‘8 °°edbrook—to our last terrible parting. I found is character always consistent—always upright ‘nd decided, yet gentle and tender as the nature of Woman. : alwae membered the peculiar sweetness my name sorey® had when uttered by his lips, the mist softness of his eyes when he pronounced it, and it con with a heavy sigh that I laid the volume aside, va nfessing to myself that I was wiser now, and that nae, the threads of my destiny again to be placed from tands, I would fling them forth far differently ene course they had taken of old. Was puter,” I involuntarily said aloud, “ Walter, I Miche unde y a frenzy—could I see you now I nest at least beg to be forgiven for my wayward- *88 and cruelty,” Voin © How your wish is answered,” said the sweet At ee ony friend, speaking suddenly. sae : words I looked up—she gli away like a sbitit of light, and in her Xe side, had called—Walter ace was he for whom my tuart was standing by my us long hour after, the door opened softly, and How chester stood there, smiling down upon us. that that time had passed I cannot tell. ang ae me it was as if heaven had suddenly opened 3 Mo “d my eyes with its glory. Y children,” she said, moving toward us, ‘be I know ALONE IN THE WORLD. ie «5 ae, > — content! The clouds have passed — 1@the new. omning | Will you accept me as your mother, Walter Stuart drew me gently to her feet; we knelt there spain, and she pressed her silent kiss upon the forehead of each. I wasstartled—I looked wonderingly from oné to the other. “I do not understand,” I said; ‘‘what is this mystery ?” ; i vOne that is asia explained,” s’said.. ‘‘ When your delirium revealed to me who-—a-were, Irecog- nized the girl who had been Walter’s hope and dream for years. The physician forbade my allow-~ ing ts to know any fact that could agitate you, kept my secret a little longer than was neces- sary. Madge,I am Walter’s mother—will it he a new bond between us?” I know — arms were about her neck, my kisses on her cheek, but what I said cannot be told. She pushed me gently away. ‘Walter looks jealous— go back to bim.” I crept to the shelter of his arms in, feelin, that henceforth there was a resting-place for m Rene had all posed, I learned en we wn more com , Llearn everything that fet bare unknown to me. When alter Stuart saved me from that bad man, he had been on the eve of starting South upon business which could not be deferred. He was forced, after a day’s search, to leave mé for a time, writing to his mother to come at once to New York and spare no efforts to find me. Before she could comply with his letter, I had found my way to her house—the rest is fav enough. Business had detained Stuart; besides, his mother had written him that on all accounts it was better he should remain where he was for a sea- son. Mrs I made few acquaintances in the village, : Chester was a stranger there, Walter entirely un- known, and never having heard the name of her second husband, it was, of course, natural enough that no revelation of the tie between herself and Stuart should have reached me. ‘Now you understand it an Madge,” Walter said, when the story was conclude “ug I looked into bis face. pale with the emotions _ which rushed over me as I thought of the storms I had battled, the shipwreck I had escaped. He ay my thoughts as he had always done—drew me to 4 heart, and said: Pe: WF SK “Tt is over, Madge, forgotten; my own beauti : gifted wife!” “Come to me, my children,” whispered mother, and again we knelt at she pressed a parent’s kiss upon each forehead, wi heard the murmur of her voice in blessing, and fi the flow of her tears in holy thanksgiving. our e THE END —_ Re =>, a her feet, and when
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