Waverley Library (Octavo Edition) (no. 23) (1884 10 28)
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y, Sennen EER Neh, O here - : oe SS = ighted, 1884, by BkApLE AND ApAms. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Mail Matter. Oct, 28, VOL II $2.50 PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, Price a ' ‘ a Year. No, 98 William Street, New York. Five Cents, No. Ene f ~ = F : » HAND HELD HER BACK—A GRAVE, SOLEMN VOICE SAID: ‘‘ CHILD! WHAT WOULD YOU Do?’ 7 Es ‘*y WOULD DIE!’ SHE SATD, SIMPLY. ; " p= smi onal 9 . SINNED AGAINST ‘ a score of rods from the broad sweep of the ; Charles river; and from its windows the eye : ranged over a delightful variety of scenery, bill: Or T and valley, forest and meadow land; whi'e a . Be Winter ee De. couple of miles to the east, Charlestown monu- ' BY OLARA AUGUSTA ment lifted up its granite finger against the sky, seer? and in a long, continuous line the spires of Bos- — CHAPTER I. ton glittered in the sunlight. The distant be Be THE SUSPECTED CLERK. zon met the sea; the sea so darkly blue, that, ae Atmehrow HALL crowned a green eminence, | but for the sails which dotted, here and there, er
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| ee ey Se ee Be a ae PS MG ee ee 2 cf AONE - n : re 2 SINNED AGAINST. a its calm bosom, you would have thought an azure cloud had descended, to rest for a season upon the earth, At the hall door a carriage was waiting on this fair June of which we write—a sumptuous carriage, with two gray horses, and a liveried driver. Miss Winifred Atherton, the lady of Atherton Hall, pleased to take an airing. She came down the broad steps at last; this lag- ging Winifred, leaning on the arm of her father. The young lady—she had not seen more than fifteen summers—was a _ beautiful picture to look upon. Father and daughter were all in all to each other—the last of a noble family. The wife and mother had slept for years in the bosom of a green grave at Auburn; the blue-eyed babe of six years was nestled to her side—the only son and brother had died at sea, and been laid to rest by rough but kindly hands in the great deep. Robert Atherton’s vast wealth would go to this daughter of his. No wonder the little lady could afford to be scornful; no wonder she walked the ground like a very queen; she had been ruler at Atherton Hall so long that a spirit of command had become with her second nature. The a? were whirled rapidly toward Bos- ton. r. Atherton to his place of business, on Broad street, Miss Winifred to spend the day with Mrs. Marchmont, on Beacon street. The carriage was nearly opposite the police- office, when it suddenly came to a_ halt, its further progress impeded by a crowd about the door of the tribunal. “Winifred contented herself with tapping the velvet carpet for awhile with her dainty foot, then she grew impatient, and spoke: “What is the cause of this delay?” “Some trial of interest going on here, Ishould conclude, from the number of curious ones as- sembled,” returned Mr. Atherton. ‘Well, then, if we are to remain here, I see not why we should miss of gratifying our curi- osity by witnessing the remarkable perform- ance. lam going in to see for myself. It will be something entirely novel for me.” “My daughter! inifred Atherton! you go “7 police-court! What can you be thinking Ce) “You are brow-stricken, papa, but you will go in with me, I know.” Her hand pressed hi8s,arm; those eyes, so like her dead mother’s, looked into his. He never could resist Winifred when in that mood. “Tt is very foolish in you, = dear, to wish to mix with yonder vulgar crowd.” He alighted from the carriage, and handed Winifred out. The interest of the court-rooni was turned from the prisoner to center around the millionaire and his daughter. The scene 1in the office was by no means an uncom- mon one in a large city. A young man of about sixteen was arraigned to be tried for forgery. e circumstances, as evolved by the evidence, briefly these: ‘Gerard Middleton had been under-clerk in the wholesale dry-goods establishment of Chambers | & Marshall. Hehad enjoyed the confidence of his eaply as for two years; and his prompt at- tention to] business had won the esteem of all sT- | connected with the store, except, perhaps, that — of Charles Cooper, the accountant, between whom and young Middleton there had ever ex- isted one of those mutual antipathies for which we often find it so difficult to assign a reason. A fortnight previously, the name of the firm had been forged to a paper of importance—a draft upon the Blackstone Bank for nine hun- dred dollars. The check was or ee by aa Gerard, thrown out as ungenuine by the paying _ teller, and the clerk was detained on a charge of forgery. The culprit stood before his judges, pale but composed; handsome he certainly was; and his _ bearing was quite as haughty as though he ~ counted his money by the thousand dollars, in- stead of lacking a solitary copper. His defense was, simply, innocence. He had no knowledge of the check until it came, duly signed, into his ~ hands; he was perfectly and entirely innocent. When did ever a statement of this kind, coming from one accused, have any weight? His em- ployers looked upon it as a hardened evasion of the truth, and Middleton was about to be car- ried to prison in default of bail for fifteen hun- dred dollars. Winifred’s quick apprehension caught the facts of the case instantly; her heart responded sympathizingly to the look of desperate despair on the youth’s face. She pressed her father’s arm to secure his attention. « “‘ Will you bail this Gerard Middleton, papa?” “No, indeed! The saints forbid!” cried Mr. Atherton, in righteous indignation. “Then I must do it instead!” said Winifred, with determination, and moving to the side of _ the magistrate, she spoke a few wordsinhisear. The good man started, frowned, and then smiled. : ‘“My dear young lady, it is without prece- dent—this proposal of yours. It is not common for young girls to offer bail for reckless charac- ters like this Middleton.” : “Granted. Nor vet were deluges common, but one occurred, nevertheless, in the time of Noah.” “Tf Miss Atherton is serious, and her father consents, no more can be said. Mr. Atherton, sir, we await your decision.” 5 ““ Winifred may have her way. She is all 1 — have to indulge, and she has taken a sont to if a see the lad released. I will give bonds for we myself,” returned Mr. Atherton, with much ES good-humor; and directly the necessary papers iddleton — being drawn and signed, Gerard at liberty. he passed out. 3 “Well, daughter,” said Mr. Atherton, whe they were once more seated in the carriag®, — “you have liberated the young scamp; what 0 you propose to do with him?” y ; “Do with him? Why, you will take him int? the store, of course.” = “There is not a single vacant place in the eet 7
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gaia AiR See ook nL Ses eatin i eke IR Waka iy s = His father had been a poor but talented artist, who, dying young, left his widow and their child, erard, in a state of painful indigence. Mrs. Middleton came from a wealthy, as well : as haughty family, and, having been disowned | and cast off by these relatives, for wedding the: man of her choice, she had too much of her kindred’s stern pride, now, in her destitution to. call upon them for assistance. ‘ For three years she worked uninterruptedly for the tailors’ Be in Boston, receiving in — poy et barely sufficient to keep soul and body ogether. The incessant toil and anxiety so wrought upon her slender frame that she was brought. to a bed of sickness, from which she never arose. Thekind physician—poor like her- self—who, out of the Christian benevolence of his heart, visited her, said that only healthful food and country air could restore her. As well might we have prescribed the melted pearls of Cleopatra, or the powder of the Koh-i-noor diamond. For days the meager room where she dwelt was without fire—and night after night the darling boy went to his rude bed fasting, because there was no bread! : ; Mrs. Middleton’s powers of life wasted away, and with hands meekly folded upon her breast, she committed herself to the care of the God whom she was not afraid to trust. He, seeing how weary of earth was her spirit, severed the — silver thread, and rent in twain the golden bowl. Gerard Middleton was crushed by the words of the physician, who had remained until — the last:—‘‘ You are motherless.” The boy was ten years old; bright, active, and intelligent—and yet he was carried to the workhouse, There were privileges of learning there—and these he improved to the utmost. When thirteen, he was taken into the office of a legal gentleman as copyist. Here he remained a year or more, when his superior penmanship attracted the attention of Mr. Cham ers, senior member of a dry goods firm, and after a little settlement of preliminaries, Gerard was domi- ciled with his new employers. His only friend, during all this time, was Ruth |Mowbray—a pauper, as he, himself, had been. Both of Ruth’s parents had died in com- ing to this country from England; and their daughter had been consigned, by the captain of . on their arrival in port. Ruth was two years Gerard’s junior; a tiful, fair-haired, blue-eyed girl; untainted the associations which had of late surro her, and pure in heart as the white water. The boy and the girl had continued lik ther and sister; and as soon as Gerard wa to earn something, he insisted on sharing pittance with her, Through his influenc Mr, Chambers, Ruth was received into th linery store of Madame-De Lanier, on W:
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0 to 4 SINNED AGAINST. ., ing manners, and lovely face, attracted many a customer to her employer’s counter, Gerard Middleton had been but a few days in his new situation, when Mr. Atherton invited him to ride out to the Hall, and pass the night. It was not exactly a cordial invitation, for the eee NEL had many doubts regarding his clerk. : But it was Winifred’s expressed pleasure to see the suspected forger, and her father could deny her nothing which had the shadow of rea- son about it, Middleton was received, by the young mis- tress of the Hall, with much kindness; and after tea, she set herself to work at sounding the at- tainments and qualifications of her protege. Winifred was a close questioner, and Middle- ton was obliged to confess that he knew no language save his own, and that rather imper- fectly; and he could not sing, play, or cut a figure in the dance. “Very well,” said Winifred, composedly— *“T will teach you Latin and French. Some- time when I go into business for myself, I am going to make you my foreign agent, and then the tongues of other nations will be of benefit to you.’ “The Latin, in particular,” observed Mr. erton. “To be sure, if he should be engaged in pur- _ chasing medicines, as I suppose he will j for you know, papa, I have serious thoughts of becom- ing ‘a female physician.” ‘A female fiddlestick!” retorted Mr. Ather- ee, Winifred was used to this mood of her father’s, so it did not trouble her in this instance, and she made an engagement to commence her les- sons on the following evening. Mr, Atherton would {bring the pupil up in his carriage, at night, and take him back in the morning, she said; and Mr. Atherton was obliged to nod as- sentingly. ‘ And thus it happened that Gerard Middleton came daily within the influence of this proud, but warm-hearted girl. And during those quiet seasons at her side, he learned to know the meaning of every curl of her red lip, every toss of her queenly head; he learned to fear offend- ing her, to love to toil for her approbation; to look upon her as upon the evening star, so gor- geously beautiful, yet so very far above his reach, During six months this quiet continued, and then the time appointed for his appearance at court drew nigh. Gerard felt restless and un- easy; he feared condemnation, more because it would shut him away from his star, than be- cause of his own disgrace and humiliation. It was the evening previous to the day on which his guilt or innocence was to be estab- ished. Gerard sat .by the side of Winifred, repeating his task, when a note was brought in placed before him. He broke it open, ran his eye greedily over the contents, while a flush xy mounted to his pale cheek. He gave it inifred—she read it aloud: ! “Mfr. GerarpD MippieTon:—I am on the eve of de- yarture for Europe. Iam purposing to confess to essrs. Chambers & Marshall the guilt which I now E ee confess to you, I forged that check on the Black- stone Bank, and caused you to be sent to draw it, because I hated you. I asked you once to introduce me to the pretty seamstress, Ruth Mowbray, and you refused, calling me some bad names that it is useless to repeat. I wanted to be revenged on you, but, as Iam rather a good fellow, I am willing to be enerous, especially asI can afford it, having recent- y fallen heir to a fortune of a hundred thousand pounds, waiting for me in merry old England. I run no risk in exonerating you; as, with my poverty, I renounce forever the plebeian name of ; “* CHARLES CoopER.”’ There was a light of triumph in Winifred’s eyes as she finished reading. } “Well, father, what do you think now of my discernment?” “It seems you were right, Winnie; and I beg Middleton’s pardon for distrusting him; but let » have no scenes. Go on with your conjuga- ons. All through the winter and early spring Wini- fred devoted herself to her self-imposed task of teaching her father’s clerk, and the most san- guine teacher must have been astonished at the progreee made by the scholar. Gerard’s intel- ect was quick and vigorous; and he caugbt at all sources of knowledge with avidity—just such an avidity as was pleasing to the exacting nature of Miss Atherton. Late in May came Winifred’s sixteenth birth- day, and the quiet of the hall was entirely broken up. On the evening which made her sixteen, the heiress was to be presented to so- ciety—brought out in a grand reception-ball. Preparations for this great event went rapidly forward, and Middleton’s visits were inter- rupted. Presents from attached friends poured in upon the young beauty, in lavish profusion; diamonds and pearls sparkled, and mingled to- gether upon her dressing-table; and bouquets of costly blossoms perfumed the spacious alcoves of the wide drawing-room. Winifred had pressed Gerard to be present at the reception—he had declined with a painful blush, which did not escape the eye of the pet- ted heiress. An engagement, he said, would prevent him from enjoying the pleasure Miss Atherton so kindly offere face flushed hotly; but she only said—very wall Mr. Middleton was at liberty to do as he chose. ‘ Gerard did not tell her that this engagement —this walk to Chelsea with Ruth Mowbray— could be indefinitely postponed as well; he did — not tell her that his only reason for declining to be present at the fete, was because he had not, in the wide world, money enough to purchase ~ a suit of clothes fitting to wear to such an aris- tocratic assembly. Just before the hour set apart for the arrival — of the guests, while Winifred was yet at her her toilet, a simple cluster of wild arbutus flow- ers, fresh and sweet in their pink fragrance, came to her, with the name of Gerard Middle- ton written ona slip of paper which entwined — the slender stems. 4 Those pure flowers found a resting-place the silver glossiness of her hair that night, bub Gerard was not there to witness the effect, ie and none knew the secret, but envied the giver. him. Winifred’s — be fe Ne a a Le en eee . oe
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} i q > 7 ‘ a SINNED AGAINST, SS Winifred Atherton was flattered to her heart’s fullest content. around her wherever she moved. Proud heads bent low before her—strong hearts beat quicker at her smile, and in all that crowd of youth and loveliness there were none to compare with Winifred. She sung—her voice was rich and sv-eet and powerful: and she played with the touch of a Thalberg. She conversed—her lively wit, her tact, and versatility astonished and charmed her listeners. : Milford Winthrop, the wealthy, influential, and talented barrister, for once, acknowledged the power of beauty. He was twice Winifred’s age; a tall, grave, stately man, with an unlim- ited good opinion of himself. Report vaguely whispered that there were circumstances con- nected with this man’s first youth that, if known, would confer no luster on his charac- ter; but he was rich and powerful—and no one cared to revive old, half-forgotten memories. Through the season of gayety which succeed- ed her Gisthday-paxty; she was the queen of every assembly, the grand center about which a train of satellites revolved. But in spite of all this homage, she grew colder and colder un- til! her half-hopeless adorers called her The Heart of Ice; and yet they persisted in flutter- ing around her, hoping, perhaps, to melt the frosty mail. Gerard Middleton never came to the house how; Winifred saw him only at rare intervals, J When she called with some gay party, at her father’s store, to assist in selecting bronzes and - costly candelabras for some newly-wedded friend. At such times he never greeted her, unless she first addressed him. He never lifted his face to hers, though the crimson deepened on his cheek, and the pen he held moved un- steadily over the paper. There was little of the cur about this proud clerk; he would not fawn about the hand that might, the next moment, thrust him away. Toward the close of October, a party was made up for an excursion to Mt. Ho yoke, and r. and Mrs. Marchmont and. other friends Were to be of the party. It was a cloudless morning when they set forth—all anticipating a merry time, and all in ood spirits. Winifred saw, with some surprise, _ that Gerard Middleton occupied a seat near her, and she spoke of it to Mr. Winthrop, who said S pbringfield on business connected with his itade, The train proceeded steadily and safely; _ “very wheel performed its duty. They reached along bridge built over an arm of the Chicopee Pauver, the timbers, as the engine plunged over them— then Winifred heard a dull, dead crash—she was Sensible of nothing more, until Mr. Middleton, ‘Shatching her up in his arms, dashed with her °ut upon the platform. Not a moment’s pause ‘did he make to reply to her indignant speech of Yesistance, but with one athletic bound, he ae a She could not have wished for | a denser cloud of incense than that which huny. ® week’s sojourn in its romantic vicinity. Mr. | Vinthrop was to accompany Miss Atherton; | that Mr. Atherton had sent the clerk out to- There was a momentary trembling of | cleared the tottering platform, and leaped with his burden into the water! Bearing her up with one arm, he struck out. for the shore with the other, and in a few mo- ' ments Winifred, cold and dripping, stood upon | the firm sand. Her cheeks burned crimson, and her eyes flashed haughtily as she confronted the young man. ‘ ‘“‘ Sir, what means this insult?” of the train they had just quit. “ Look and see!” he said, calmly. | She did lock, and all the pride and scorn went out of her face. The cheeks grew white—the eyes lost their angry brilliancy. She put her hand in’ his for support and sympathy. His fingers closed over hers, but neither spoke while they gazed together upon the sad scene. | The bridge, its massive timbers broken in the center, lay tossing about in the swift current of the river; the mighty engine had half buried _ its shattered body in the hard gravel on the op- pasiée side; and the cars, in one crushed, con- used mass, were piled up against the abutment of the bridge. The unfortunate passengers, such of them as were left alive, were making their egress from faces pale and bloody, others uninjured. _ Of the latter class was Mr. Winthrop; who, without delay, hastened to the side of Miss Atherton to offer his congratulations on her es- cape. service he had done the lady, and drawing her hand within his arm, led her away to the near- est dwelling-house. | Middleton bowed haughtily to this coolly ex- pressive gratitude, and turned his back upon the speaker. What did he care for the scorn of the rich man, so long as the soft hand of Wini-- fred had pressed his?—and_ her eyes looked, wet with tears, into hisface! He knew she was not | all ice. When Mr. Atherton heard of the conduct of his clerk, he was filled with admiration and gratitude, and thanked the young man in a tor- © rent of enthusiasm wrung from the depths of his parental love. CHAPTER IIL THE MIDNIGHT BRIDAL, Mine after life! What is mine after life? My day is closed. The gloom of night comes on— A hopeless darkness settles o’er my fate. a JOANNA BAILLIE, Or course, the excursion to Holyoke was broken up; three of the pleasure-seekers were Berne the dead; and several were severely wounded ° : ; For a time, the shadow of this melancholy accident dampened the spirit of gayety in ed circles where the dead unfortunates had moved; but ere long the occurrence was forgotten. _ Balls, soirees and masquerades followed ea other in rapid succession. At each bright as- Winifred Atherton shone pre-eminent. — sembl Mr. Winthrop was still her constant cavalier. She would look splendidly at the head of his table, she would do the honors of his house | right royally; she had a fine figure for display- 74 ee Ge & He lifted his hand and pointed in the direction broken windows and rent doors—some with — He thanked Mr. Middleton coldly for the | iain
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4 4 y ’ 6 SINNED AGAINST. . ae ing the costiy fabrics In which he snould be te proud to see his wife clothed; in his heait he ‘tated her to become Mrs. Winthrop, the mis- "y - tress of Maplewood. é Valentine’s Eve arrived, cold and frosty— 4 and on this evening Mrs. Marchmont was to give a grand ball. Of course Miss Atherton was expected to be present, the belle, par : excellence. 3 Winifred stood before the tall mirror, in her b. dressing-room, that wintry afternoon, and ply watched the effect of the crimson velvet robe, _. . inwhich the nimble fingers of her maid were arraying her. There were gleaming rubies on e ? her arms and around her throat; precious gems ee which had just been brought in—bearing on : ee richly chased clasps the simple inscrip- | ion— | : “To WINIFRED, FROM HER FATHER.” The eyes of the brilliant beauty fell on the rosy glitter of the jewels: she bowed down her heed, and kissed the bracelet which clasped her snowy wrist—murmuring softly: é “Dear papa! how kind and tender he is! a How could f tive without his love?” The maid finished the exquisite cotffure ; the last curl was arranged, the last fold of lace in its place; and Winifred, with a book in her ‘hand, sat down to await the coming of her father. Time passed swiftly; the ebony clock | on the chimney struck out another hour, and still Mr. Atherton lingered. sf ren The lady grew impatient. Mrs. Marchmont -—-—s- would be offended if she were late at the ball. _ She rose at last, and turned to go down-stairs, 5, “Tell my father, when he comes, that I wait- Bice ed’a full hour for him to see my dress, and— ore heavens! what means this confusion be- ow? . ; She flew down the stairs at a bound, The hall was thronged with men, wearing pale and . solemn countenances. She would have rushed through the crowd to the parlor, whither some ee shrouded object was being borne, but a strong ¥ arm held her back, and drew her into a side- d room. The door was closed, and the man 5 placed his back against it, thus preventing her : attempted escape. She lifted her face imploringly to his, “What is it, Gerard Middiecton? Has any thing happened to my father?” Gerard was very pale, but his voice was i calm and even. He took in his own the hand she had unconsciously laid on his arm. “Be composed, Miss Atherton. You have fortitude—bring it to your aid.” “ Fortitude! oh, yes; I can bear any thing! Only tell me the worst! Suspense will kill me! is my father dead?” “No; thank God, he-is not dead!” “But he is dying! I read it in your face! Out of my way, this moment, sir! I will go to him! My place is at his side!” “The surgeon is examining his injuries, You must wait.” “Wait! I cannot wait! Wait! and my father—the only one I have a right to love— dy- ing! _Again I ask you, tell me the worst.” ‘Sitdown then; your fearful looks make me Your father was esr ; oe tae i “ Srey > ak alae é : tremble for your reason, is OF ty q ; = sie Pes ye ee eee ae | ore os OF, ee iiclasnineae see: are taking down some old buildings there—and a falling timber struck him on the forehead. — He was raised up senseless, and by a physician’s orders we have brought him home.” ; Ff “Do they say he will die senseless? Willhe — never be able to speak again?” “Miss Atherton, your very calmness terrifies me. Have you no tears to shed? no groans to — utter?” “Tears! will they bring my father back to health? Tears are a mockery. Tell me if he will speak to me again—before the eternal si- lence comes?” “In all probability, yes. When his shocked system shall recover from this stupor.” “You would tell me that pain will restore him?” “ Perhaps so.” “Well, then, so be it. Mr. Middleton, look atme. Am I not composed and serene? Do you see any manifestation of emotion and spasm of suffering?” “T see a stone statue!” ’ “Very good. Statues do not feel. Therefore take meto my father.” He led the way, she followed; and the two foe on to the couch of the wounded man. r. Atherton lay upon a bed which had,been hastily arranged in the center of the room’, his eyes were closed, and his brow bound with a white cloth. Winifred nig eae and touched his cheek with her hand. The motion revived him; he opened his eyes and spoke— “ Winifred, my daughter, isit you?” “Tt is I, father.” “You are calm; thank heaven for that, you are calm, and yet you are very pale, Wini- fred?” “Yes, I am composed—perhays a little pale, but that is nothing. My heart beats steadily— my limbs do not tremble.” “No, And for this I rejoice. I had feared otherwise. My child, your father is dying; you will soon be a desolate orphan—aione, and with- out kindred.” A sharp spasm shook her frame—the marble stillness of her face was troubled, but she re- covered herself almost immediately. “Tam going to leave you, Winifred; and be- fore I go, you must be provided with a legal : protector. You are too young and beau to be left without a guardian.” ““Well, father.” “My daughter, Iam about to require of you an act of instant obedience to a wish I have — never before expressed in your oe With- in this room, before the lapse of another hour, y08 must become the wife of Milford Win — rop! ¢ Wir‘fred staggered back like one stricken bY a rifle-ball; her face would be no whiter whe the grave-sods pressed down upon it. ‘God forbid!” she ejaculated, in horrified a~ _ cents. P “It is as I had expected. You are shocked at such unseemly haste. You think, perhaps that Mr. Winthrop will share in that feeiD5: Let me assure youthat you are mistaken. Mon aL ago, he asked of me my ‘daughter’s hand, a2 passing along Water street an hour ago—they U “F a
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a + ‘ k & told him he must wait until you had time to love him. In this man I have full confidence; I would trust him with my life—I am not afraid to confide to him my dearest treasure—my Wini- fred. Knowing that you are his wife, I can die content; the grave will have no thorns for me. This is no senseless chimera of a fevered brain; itis the firmly grounded resolve of one, who, as adying man, discerns all things more clearly the nearer he approaches that country where we shall see no more through a glass darkly.” The sufferer paused to regain strength: Wini- fred drew herself up resolutely. “ Ask any thing’but that, my father! Require my life, and it shall be givenupto you! But this thing I can not do.” ‘ _ “You must do it, Winifred Atherton! there is no room fora single doubt on that point. I, ‘ your father, command it. By yourfears of my dying curse, dare to disobey!” “TI must dare it, father! I would defy the ‘powers of the infernal regions, rather than per- jure myself at the altar!” ; Mr. Atherton fell back; a terrible change passed over his face. A deadly pallor settled on his lips—his eyes grew fixed and glassy. Winifred sprung forward and raised his head to her bosom. ‘Speak to me once more, father! Bless me— youy little Winifred—before you go!” id turned his face away from her, and moan- ed out, feebly _ Up on his v ’ «Tittle did I think my own girl would inflict ‘this grief on her old father! Little did I think that my death-hour would be imbittered by that child’s disobedience! The few brief moments I have to live must be cut short; my death has- tened by the willfulness of my only daughter!” His words cut her to the heart. She fell on her knees by the bedside, and cried, brokenly: “Do with me as you willl I cannot listen to such reproaches as these, and live e : Mr. Atherton’s face brightened; with one feeble arm he drew her head down on his bosom, and kissed her icy lips. . “God in heaven bless my daughter! She will make her father’s death-bed a couch of ease! Mr. Winthrop came forward from the window where he had been standing, and took the cold, a hand of the girl in his. Ata sign from . Atherton, a gray-haired, mild-faced old man advanced, and stood up before the waiting 0. Gerard Middleton, pale, and unaccountably agitated, rose to leave the apartment. A look from Winifred stopped him. over to his side, and said: “Stay with me, Gerard. Stay and sce me! changed to stone. So merry and glad a wedding - should not lack a groomsman.” And Gerard closed the door . and came back to the bedside. ; * It was a sad and solemnceremony. The bride a) In he had opened, less; her eyes brilliant and hard as polished steel. The bridegroom, self-sustained, band- Some, and triunfphant; the dying man propped pillows to look at the strange sacrifice, _. The words were said; the responses uttered in _ the clear voice of the girl, and the cali, assured She went | SINNED AGAINST. her robes of crimson; her face whiter than | the Jace on her bosom; her lips cold and passion- tones of the man; the lips of the haughty Win- throp touched the brow of his wife—and the fervent blessing of the expiring man was pro- nounced in a feeble voice upon the newly- wedded pair. : The great clock on the hall stairs pealed forth — twelve strokes; the wintry winds rose to a fierce blast in the tortured elm trees; and through the lonely aisles and corridors of the hall the wind- ~ voices sighed and moaned like tombless spirits. And out into the night and darkness—out up- on the unknown sea, whose waves wash the shores of eternity, went the soul of Robert Atherton, to meet its Judge; while stark and motionless lay the earthly part, shrouded for the coffin rest. ou During. the three days preceding the funeral, WA while the remains of Mr. Atherton lay in state, Winifred Winthrop wandered about the dark- ened rooms, pale and stern asa Nemesis. Nota feature of her frozen face softened; not a tear dimmed tho brilliancy of her glittering eye. Ashes to ashes; dust to dust, was the body of her father committed. In a carriage covered with black plumes, and drawn. by sable horses she followed it to Mount Auburn; she wen’ down to the very door of the tomb, and saw the © coffin laid by that of her mother; she turned away as tho iron.gate swung inward, and shut that beloved form forever from her sight—not a trace of ernotion disturbed the marble immobil- ity of her countenance, hy should she weep and weary heaven with — vain prayers? Was not her miserable fate de- cided? ~ CHAPTER IV. THE SEVERING. | Drip! drip, oh, rain! From the sky beclouded eaves} Wail! wail, oh, wind, . That sweepest the wither’d leaves! Sigh! sigh, oh, heart— hat vainly seekest rest! Moan! moan, oh heart, By grief and care opppons'a! ; —HovusrnoLD Worps, Onz night more beneath the beloved roof of Atherton Hall—one more night of liberty—and then Winifred was to go forth from its blessed shelter, to dwell in the stately mansion of her husband. Maplewood was a sea-side residence, a few miles above the ancient town of Ply- mouth, and so far away from Boston that Mr. Winthrop would not be at home more than twice a week, and for this Winifred felt grate- ful. The slavery, she thought, would be more tolerable while the master was absent. This last night in the halls of her childhood she had demanded solitude; her maid was for- bidden to intrude; and she asked of Mr. Win- throp, as a special favor, immunity from his ° society. Peles The night was bitter cold; the snow fell fiercely from an angry-sky, and the icy north wind whirled over the earth as though bent an errand of destruction. For a aN hours Winifred paced the chamber res essly; at last she paused before a window, and throw ness. The fury of the storm filled her with a ee i ing open the casement, leaned outinto the dark. — ; 4i «eS 3 Ax iy
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_ Ne ee ie ee EN) Ne Cee Mele Fee ae ee 8 SINNED AGAINST. wild delight. It was like the commotion in her own soul. She threw a shawl over ber head, and eepping into the corridor, listened intently to satisfy herself that the household was wrapt in slumber. Then she glided down the back staircase, un- drew the great bolts of the outer door softly, and emerged into the cold and gloom. The - piercing wind made her shiver, but_ the fresh- ness and freedom of its breath gave her a mad strength, and she went on down the lawn, heed- less of the drifts whose billowy whiteness ob- structed the pathway. — On and on, her hand _— hard against her heart, she flew; she had reached the pine copse- wood at the foot of the meadow, and was losing herself in its depths of shadow, when an out- stretched human arm stayed her progress. A voice, strangely familiar, said: sé V inifred! Winifred! where are you flee- ing? “Let me go! Let me go, Gerard Middleton! Iam in no mood for company!” “ You shall not go until I tell you of the life- recked and heart-broken—of the terrible gony which another than yourself is enduring! Oh, why, why had I not been born a peer, or you a pauper?” “Tt was notso decreed. And wherefore ask a question? It could not have changed my ate! ‘ “‘ Winifred, our stations in life are different; ‘a wide gulf in society separates us; but before God we are equal. Asa friend, as an equal, I ask you do you love this man whem you have wedded?” “Love him? It is desecrating the holy word of love to speak it in connection with his name.” ‘¢Winifréd—I can not call you by your new title—one query more. Deem me what you will, I must relieve my heart of this crushing burden of doubt. Loving him not, do you love another?” His face was close to hers; the dark intensity of his eyes searched her countenance. She did ‘not speak, but the moon burst through its treble vail of clouds, and the pee nay of light fell dewn on the burning flush which erimsoned the cheek, brow, and bosom of. the trembling girl. He was answered. “For this moment, Winifred, I am happy. In loving and being beloved, why should despair find a place to dwell?” “Tn being beloved!” she cried, bitterly; “ has not the earth closed over the se | one who loved | 1 me ? Is not my path through life to lead me always over the barren fields and streamless deserts?” “None to love you! Would to Heaven, Win- ifred, that I could tear out my heart, and fling it at your feet, that, seeing all its anguished - throbbing, you might be convinced!” She comprehended him—she knew then how well and earnestly she had been loved; fora moment the earth swam before her, then all her woe and despair surged forth in two simple words: “Too late!” / * His arms opened to enfold her—they held her madly to his breast; his lips rained down pas- sionate kisses upon her face. “Tt might have been! Oh, God!” She tore herself away and stood erect—pale — and cold as a chiseled statue. “Gerard Middleton, I am a wife. My time of weakness is past; Tam strong in the deter- mination to do my duty! This love which might have created for us an earthly Paradise must, henceforth, make us strangers! To-night I bid you farewell forever!” She held out her hand. He bowed his fore- head upon it and said: ‘“‘The decree is just! Farewell!” The next moment Gerard Middleton stood alone; and through the snow and sleet a dark figure made its hasty way up the avenue to Atherton Hall In the gray of the morning there was a knock . at the door of the tiny cottage which served Ruth Mowbray both for a shop and dwelling- house. Ruth was mistress of her trade now and in business for herself, in a humble way. The gentle mistress of the place unclosed the door, and admitted Gerard Middleton. She gave him a loving sister’s greeting—the two were very dear to each other—and set a chair luv lou vy the cheertul little fire. She noticed his pale face and. abstracted air, but she was a true and faithful friend to him—therefore’ she oe troubling him with perplexing ques- ‘ions. He gazed into the fire; she sewed diligently; both silent, yet both anxious. At length he started up, and flung himself down on the chintz-covered lounge—the only article of lux- ury which the frugal room contained. “Ruth,” he said, impatiently, ‘put down that work, and come and sit here by my side. I having confession to make.” She blushed, and her small hands trembled as she laid aside the garment on which she had been engaged. He drew her down on the lounge and retained the hand he had taken. She did not shrink from the touch; she rested herself in the perfect and child-like confidence she felt in him. ‘‘You will call me presumptuous; you will say my punishment is just; but oh, Ruth, lam very miserable!” The calm, blue eyes of the girl were lifted to his in earnest sympathy. She stroked back the bright hair from his temples with her soft fin- 4 gers, Saying simply: ‘*¥ am sorry, Gerard.” “Yes; I know you are, my child, and so I have come to you to pour out my distress. am but a boy—nineteen years have but just — passed over me, and yet I have all the strength — and passion of manhood! I have awakened to the joy and sorrow of life—have known the Ar nae and gall of existence—I have oved! She started, blushed; and then turned white — as December snow. ¢ f 4 <a 14 " ‘‘T have loved one as far above meas the — stars are above the earth! A proud, beautiful, but tender-hearted girl! And for all her wealth and pride and beauty, she loved me 12 ~ return!” s
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TF ee! Va” ee ee ee Ne ee” eee eee Ce ee aot —~* 9 e” __e- * o> —— OT a aul % : \ : : . SINNED AGAINST. F 9 ) ~_ Ruth’s disengaged hand shaded her face; she _ did not look up as she said: “Well?” ‘She loved me, but by the command of her father—her dying father—she wedded a man whom she loathes! My fate is black, but it is morning light compared with hers! Only think of it, Ruth; compelled to cling for life to one for whom she feels only aversion and hatred!” ‘* And you loved her, Gerard—you loved her deeply and strongly as you will never love again? You will keep unto her, and her only, as long as time with you shall endure?” He marveled at the singular brilliancy of those blue eyes; he wondered at the blush which made her cheeks like damask roses—but oh, so dull of comprehension is man! he under- | stood it not. ‘Yes, Ruth, I loved her thus! No other woman will ever enter into her place in my heart; no other footstep will wake the echoes of that sealed chamber where her love is buried. Henceforth, I ignore the existence of Love; I live only for Fame and Fortune!” His voice took a hard, stern tone as he pro- ceeded, and his face looked cold and gray as | hammered granite. Ruth, pale, silent, leaned against the wainscot. He went up to her, alarmed by her still rigidity. “ What ails you, dear Ruth? Why do you stand there so like a frozen thing?” “T am cold;” she drew near the fire. “Itisa bitter morning!” “Yes, truly; and your arms are bare. Let me wrap this shawl around you.” : “Thank you; and now go on. I am listen- ing. ‘**T have little more to add, except that Iam going away—where scarcely I know; but I must flee from the place which holds her. I will not remain to tempt her and expose my own weak- ness. And now, Ruth, if,in after years, you shall hear men speak of Gerard Middleton as a cold, loveless being, you will remember that he once had a heart, but that a cruel fate took away its vitality and left it lead.” ‘* Yes, I will remember.” ; “That is well. I must go now, Ruth, and God bless you. It may be a long, long time until I see you again. God, in heaven, bless, and prosper you!” He held her for a moment in his brotherly : arms, kissed her cheek with affection, and went ‘om the house. And Ruth, staggering back to a seat, cried | Out in sharp despair: : “Yes; he said it would be a long time ere we Met again, and so it will! the length and dark- ; — jot the grave lies between then and Row! CHAPTER V. THE WAGES OF DESPAIR. bleak wind of March TiMtade her tremble and shiver;- But not, the dark arch, Or black flowing river; Mad from life’s history, Glad to death’s mystery Swift to be hurled— Anywhere, anywhere, ut of the world. . —Hoop. GRowine up to youth together, it was not strange that Gerard Middleton and Ruth Mow- bray should be tenderly endeared to each other. Both were orphans, both were poor—both were struggling through the world to obtain a sub- sistence by manual labor. It was but natural, then, that their attachment should be — and their regard for each other deep and stead- f: ast. With Gerard this affection was that of a ten- der brother for a dear sister; with Ruth, it was the all-absorbing passion of her life. She never thought of happiness where Gerard was not; never dreamed of a heaven from whence he was excluded. - Purely and entirely she loved him; her life she would have given, any day, to have saved him a pang; her hopes and joys were centered around him. She never paused to think of the consequences of this ardent love; she would have blushed with the veriest shame if it had been said to her, even in sport, “‘ You love this Gerard Middleton.” Yet in her true and loyal heart she yielded up all on the shrine of this earthly idol. Fearfully had she been punished! The golden dream had vanished. The skies, lately so radiant, were gray and cold; earth stretched out before her a barren and dreary desert—there was no joy; no hope; no merciful grace there! Why should she stay to drag out a loveless existence in sorrow and tears? Why should her hair be blanched white by the weight of years, and her eyes grow dim with age before the sleep of the grave—its sweet, dreamless sleep came upon her? She had not the courage to look the grim fu- ture in theface! The faith was small; her trust in God’s ian: Providence weak. She said to herself she would go down to death, and thus rid her heart of its burden. dust. There would be none to mourn for her: Ge- rard, perhaps, might shed a few tears, but they would dry soon, and her name would pass from There was rest in ' hisremembrance. One little plunge beneath the bosom of the sparkling river—a little chillness as the great change crept. on—a wondering of strangers over the drowned girl—and all would _ be over! The night set in dark with storm-clouds, There was a dull, sleety breeze blowing; the tempest of Ubechie:f had spent its fury, but the skirts of its garments yet trailed over the earth. Ruth put her little room in order, trimmed the lamp and lighted a fire in the chimney-place, You would have thought from her scrupulous _ exactness, that a favored and welcome visitor | Was ex ected. When everything was arranged she folded her shawl over her shoulders, an | locking the door of the cottage behind her, she took the path through the snow, to the river. She stood upon the high bank above the boil- ing flood—listened to the hollow murmur of the wind in the leafless trees, and the low gurgling voices of the waters as they hurried past. A momentary trembling seized her—a cold hand seemed clutching at the warm fountains of her life—but she conquered the emotion, for
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10 SINNED AGAINST. a the grave was not colder than the world—the | church. And I.am John Rutherford, the pastor desolate, heartless world! She lifted her hands to heayen and cried aloud—‘‘ God receive me!” The fatal spring was made—the earth crum- bled from under her feet—the chill air from the river swept up and made her shudder—but she did not fall. A strong handheld her back— a grave, solemn voice said: Child! what would you do?” “*T would die!” she said, simply. “Die! has God, then, called you? Do you dare to go unsummoned into the presence of the Ruler of heaven and earth—the Lord of Hosts, who has forbidden man to toy with the life which He has given?” “JT am weary and heart-sick, good sir; and the tomb gives a dreamless sleep.’ “But the hereafter! Have you thought of that? the terrible hereafter! You are young and fair; your face is like the faceof a child; why should you be weary of that life which ou have just begun; and which strong men uffeted by a thousand storms, cling to tena- ciously?” “Tam wretched andalone. Nota tie of kin- dred; not a soul on whom I have the slightest claim for care or protection! I have none to counsel me; none to advise!” “Tf you will permit me to stand to you ina place of a brother, I will be all that a brother should!” said the young man gently—‘‘ but for comfort in this trial, through which you are evidently passing, you must look up to God, who alone can give peace to the troubled heart.” “T cannot look up! I have no courage; no strength!” “Strength will come in answer to prayer, my sister ; and not death, but life is the season for ie the petition. Will you come back to it His friendly hand drew her away from the icy brink of the river; the strange persuasive- ness of his voice brought a reaction of feeling to her sore spirit. She saw with measureless ter- ror the frightfuldoom from which he hadsaved er. F “T will go back!” she cried earnestly—‘‘I will shrink from no evil! Only show me the way to light once more!” It seemed that he knew her residence, for he led her on up the path to the cottage which she had quit but a brief hour before. The lamp still burned brightly: the fire blazed cheerfully on thehearth. He seated her in a chair before the rate, removed her shawl with thoughtful care, or it was wet with snow, and then took a seat, himself on the opposite end of the hearth. Dur- ing the space of silence which fell between these two so strangely brought together, Ruth had time to observe fully the face of her unknown uest. . This face was pale, its features finely, though delicately cut; the curve of the nostril indicated both firmness and courage, but the mouth was tender and beautifnl as a woman’s. It wasa face of spiritual strength and beauty—the face of one who had lived and suffered. ~ “You are Ruth Mowbray! I recognized you at once, from having seen you sometimes at | magnificence, It was the entire size of an oe ~ of Windfall,” She knew, now, to whom she owed her life—_ the young clergyman, whose burning eloquence, had won so many weary ones to rest their bur- dens at the foot of the Cross, She arose, and held out her hand to him. From the fullness of her heart she spoke: ’ “Sir, ye have saved my soul from death. For this I thank you. During the day and night which have gone I have been mad—but I trust the frenzy is over. Some time, to show you the truthfulness of my gratitude, and to prove to you that I had some cause for distress, I will — confess to you what has never passed my lips. It will fill me with shame, yet I owe it to God 1 for the sin 1 was about to commit against Him.” E ‘Ruth, my sister, I asi of you no confidence which it is not your pleasure to give, but when you are saddened and oppressed, come to me oy that I may share the weight of the bur- den. He looked into her eye with calm scrutiny— his hand was upon the latch, to go. ; “You will be true to yourself—you will think of that terrible self-destruction no more! Ican — trust you.” ; He smiled ofa her hopefully, opened the j door and passed out. Ruth feil on her knees, and while thanking God that she had been taken from temptation, she prayed earnestly for that peace which passeth all understanding. CHAPTER VI. MAPLEWOOD. The old, old sea, as one in tea: Comes murmuring with its foamy ae —READE, Thou shalt hear the ‘Never! never!’ whispered by the phantom years, And a song from out the distance is ringing in thine ears; And an eye shall vex thee looking ancient kindness on thy pain ; Turn rn turn thee on thy pillow, get thee to thy — rest again. Nay, not nature brings thee solace; for a tender ; voice will ery— “°Tis a purer life than thine—a lip to drain thy — trouble dry.” —TENNYSON. THE family mansion of Mr. Winthrop stood ; ona high bluff of land, some fifty rods from the coast. It was a wildly picturesqne situation, — commanding a glorious view of the long reach of.Cape Cod, and the gleaming bosom of Massar chusetts bay. a The house was a large, old, rambling struc: — ture, brightened by numerous modern additions, " and fortified on all sides by innumerable piazzas, — balconies and verandas, from all of which the ] bleas shores of Plymouth were distinctly visi- ble. «here were a few trees, such as flourish ob ! the sea-shore—trees of grand proportions, which — or been beaten by the storms of many a win- er. an The whole spacious interior of the house was — fitted up in a style of grandeur rarely seen of . this side of the Atlantic, and the room appro- priated to Winifred was in itselfa miracle of
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2 - tagonal tower, in the western wing of the build- ing; and its southern winding opened upon the superb gardens and shrubbery, which were Mr. Winthrop’s especial pride. : The walls of this boudoir were hung with pic- tures, by the old masters, in frames of carved _ rosewood; the floor was laid with an exquisite packers of crimson flowers, on a ground of pale- rown velvet. The chairs and sofas were cov- ered with the costilest velours de Venice, and the heavy silken curtains were looped back with bands of enameled gold. The work-table, mantle and etageres_were all inlaid with pearl—rare specimens of work, im- orted from a foreign country. There was a arp, a cabinet piano in a gilded case, strewn with choice pieces of music. Books there were ia elegant bindings, with clasps of gold, and emitting faint odors of perfume, soft as the breath of Araby’s breezes; but Winifred shud- dered asshe looked on the illuminated pages. These were volumes of her husband’s choice; and, for the first time she came to the know- lodge that she had wecded an infidel! one who denied the existence of God, and believed in no _ principle of the Christian religion. y Tn exquisite caskets though these books were held, their contents were vile poison; and Wini- fred, brought up as she had been in the strict tenets of a Protestant church, abhorred the sight of these tokens of infidelity. Her soul 4 loathed them as unclean things, which it would . tarnish the lips to read, and stain the heart to comprehend. And she cast them all together in- to a cabinet, closed ‘and locked the door, and flung the key far out of the window. If this es ram peea nee! error, it was on the side of ruth, A moment afterward, Mr. Winthrop entered the chamber. His eye fell upon the table where the books had been; he missed them, evidently, but made no inquiry for their fate. : ““How does re arrangement of Mrs. Win- throp’s apartment please her?” he asked. i Mr. WF intheep as taken unnecessary caro in its appointments,” she replied; ‘‘ the prisoned bird does not mind whether its cage be gold or iron! Mr. Winthrop smiled, his teeth glistening whitely through his black mustache. : ‘The bird will beat its wings until from sheer weariness it becomes content.” His voice was soft and smooth; its intonation resembled a strain of music, but there was a world of cun- ningly-hidden sarcasm in the sweet tones. A disdainful curl wreathed Winifred’s lips, but she vouchsafed no other reply; and finding her _ disinclined for conversation of any kind, he bade bs * - F her a courteous good-evening and quitted the apartment. : Winifred’s life at Maplewood was like that of many another proud, beautiful woman, wedded toa man for whom no love is entertained. A fate the hardest and bitterest that can fall to the lot of woman! A home without love—a union but in name—a wretched farce, to which _ death alone can draw down the curtain. The house was always filled with distinguish- ed guests, for Mr. Winthrop stood high in the social and political world; and eminent states- a Me o SINNED AGAINST. - eee i men, poets, artists and orators made up the coterie of his personal friends. : And among them all, Winifred moved with her own stately grace and beauty—an acknow- ledged queen. The splendor of her attire, the brilliancy of her jewels, but, above all, the per- fection of her loveliness, made her the envy of her own sex, and the admiration of the other. In truth, she was well fitted to preside over the establishment of Mr. Winthrop; and in all the circle of that gentleman’s acquaintance, he knew of no lady whom he would have preferred Lo install in the place of his wife. Winifred was seldom alone with her-husband —she carefully avoided him except on occasions when avoidance would have attracted remark; and at such times there was no confidence, no communion of spirit between them. They were le ee water—the one had no affinity for the other. Tm all things Winifred studied to obey her hus- band; his slightest wishes were her laws. She had said to herself that in expiation of her weakness in yielding to an unsought love, she would be to Mr. Winthrop a true, faithful and obedient wife. She felt for him no affection; therefore she was cold and calm toward him, and his demeanor to her partook of the same haughty indifference. In one thing only did she defy him. When he requested her to give up her attendance at church—a wild and fanatical proceeding of which he did not approve—she replied no! Mr. Winthrop might do as he chose for himself; but as for her, so long as she lived she would wor- ship God after the manner of her ancestors. And, looking into her sternly flashing eyes and flinty face, he knew that it would not be safe to urge the matter, so he allowed the sub- ject to drop. Two years of this existence—it could scarce- ly be called life—and, outwardly, Winifred was unchanged, save that her loveliness had ripened and grown more perfect. -Iinvied, ad- mired and flattered as she was, not an hour of happiness had she known since the doers of Atherton Hall had closed behind her, when she had gone forth a bride. The name of Gerard Middleton never passed her lips; with jealous care she kept her thoughts from wandering after him; but close against her heart she wore a cluster of dead arbutus flowers—his first and last gift. And those dearly-cherished flowers told more than mere words, Winifred Winthrop’s twentieth birthday ap- proached; it arrived, at length. The air was fragrant with spring’s sweetest blossoms, but there was no feasting nor joy at Maplewood. A night of wild doubt and anxiety, at times of dismay, drew on; but with the morning light came a happy consummation. | : Mrs. Winthrop was the mother of a fine bov! The father’s delight was tl rete For the first time in his life a thrill warmer than admiration swept through his being for his wife, because she had brought him this great blessing. A son to bear his proud name, to inherit his ' vast fortune, to keep up the honor of his | family! : , rae : io a ~ OP. eA ae ach st Se eae wiv. |
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12 - SINNED AGAINST, ate eons was thrown oye to rejoicing. Laughter echoed around the lofty halls, lamps flashed, winé flowed, and in her darkened cham- ber languished the young wife, struggling with weakness—praying for life only that she might enjoy it with her precious child. ho can fathom the depth of tenderness in tke heart of a mother? ho can feel for that little helpless waif of humanity like her who has suffered to bring it into existence? Whose care is like hers, so gentle and tender? Who else on earth loves a little child but its mother? It was strange to see how Winifred’s proud heart softened and Ber tender as an angel’s toward that wee child. When she was able to rise from her bed, she would sit, for hours, gazing into its soft, dark eyes, and twisting its silken hair about her fingers. The servants said their mistress idolized the babe; and so it seemed, for never upon any account would she permit it to sleep away from her breast, and nq amusement was powerful enough in its at- traction to draw her from the care of her son. Mr. Winthrop named the boy William, after its paternal grandfather, but Winifred short- ened it to Willie—the word had a sweeter sound, she said. Strongly as she was attached to Willie, her love met with a full return. Before he was three months old, he had learned to love her sheltering arms above any other resting-place. Hé wailed piteously when taken away from her but for a moment; and when a year had passed over his bright head, and he had begun to toddle carefully about from one thing to another, he would never quit the protecting clasp of her hand, or go to the arms of stran- gers. He seemed to shrink from his father, and would kiss no one save his mother, either for threats or persuasions. CHAPTER VIL THE WORLD'S HONORS AND A SEASON’S MYS- TERIES, From lofty hills and fertile vales, From hut and palace haks, From hamlet, town and city’s din, The country’s clarion calls! And men go forth with swelling hearts, To win an empty name— They quaff their wine from golden cups, And cail the bubble Fame,—ANonymoovs. TipmnGes long deferred, and anxiously expect- ed, came at last. The political canvass for a senator to Congress, from the district in which Mr. Winthrop resided, had been a close and la- ‘borious one, but it was over, at length, and Mil- ford Winthrop was the successful candidate. His name was enrolled among the honorables of his country; there was a.seat in the senate hall, — at Washington, waiting for his occupancy. He was very proud of the result, won by his money more than by his worth, and he entered his wife’s room with an elastic step. He was _ the bearer of important tidings, and he gave her‘ them with an air of extreme satisfaction. “Mrs. Winthrop, you are a senator’s wife.” She bowed her head over her child, and sim- ply said, in reply: ‘Very well, Mr, Winthrop.” — is j | 3 Three months spent in preparation, and then : the newly-elected senator and his wife set out — for Washington. Winifred had hoped to be left. at home, but Mr. Winthrop was proud of her | regal beauty, and this beauty could: only bo — ; gratified by the display of his treasure. He was not content with admiring her himself; he want- ed others to see and appreciate the jewel he had in his possession, and no consideration for this lady’s wishes would have induced him to forego © the gratification of this feeling. So to the gay capital went Mrs. Winthrop and 4 her child. f An elegant mansion, on Madison Square, re- — ceived them, in whose spacious drawing-rooms Mrs. Winthrop held receptions unequaled in — bi roa even by those of the President him- self. y Her resplendent beauty and_queenly bearing — were the constant themes of Washington scci- ety. The je ne sais ge of her grace, and the ~ statuesque repose of her perfect features filled every beholder with admiration. Her dresses were copied, her sayings quoted, and she he- came the model for all the ladies in the fashion- — haunted capital, Once, and once /only, rie the season, had | the long silent chords of buried love been stirred in the bosom of the fair Mrs. Winthrop. A. spehes of inspection were dispatched to New — York, by the Administration, to examine some — water-works there which had been complained of as defective. Some of the gentlemen on the committee took their wives along with them for the pleasure of the trip, and by invitation Wini- fred accompanied Senator Gordon and his lady. It wasa beautiful day in early summer—calm, cool and cloudless, and Winifred wandered off a little way from her party, and directly found — herself standing on the quay, from whence a — European steamer was about to sail. She glanced hurriedly over the passengers, and was about turning away, when an unaccountable — thrill shot through her being. She could neither explain nor analyze the feeling; it was a return of old memories and emotions which she had be- _ lieved long since in ashes. Some person brush- — ed hastily past her—so near that his arm grazed the folds of her shawl]. She lifted her eyes and gazed after him. His firm step sounded on the connecting plank; his dark hair was tossed and threaded by the fresh ocean breeze; and for one little moment the form of Gerard Middleton daguerreotyped itself against the sky. hen the bell sounded; the moorings were cast.off, and the gallant boat steamed rapidly down the river. Winifred entered the office — and looked over the list of passengers, The — first line was filled with what she was look- g for: * Gerard Middleton, from Boston, bound to Havre, via Liverpool.’ The August heats were approaching, but Con- gress had not yet concluded its session, An un- usual press of business still detained the august body at the metropolis; but most of the men’ — bers’ families had left town for some rural plac? of resort. , Winifred began to languish for the cool airof the country; and Mr. Winthrop proposed that she’ should spend a few weeks at Newport oF 6
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- SINNED AGAINST, 1G) _ the Virginia Springs. To this she objected; sho wanted rest and quiet rather than a mere change of excitement: some retired place in the country would answer every purpose. She had heard much of the fine natural scenery of Rappahannock county, and she desired to pass the remainder of the summer in some little Village of that mountainous region. At the mention of Rappahannock county, Mr. Winthrop became strangely agitated. “ Madam, you will again referring to this out-of-the-way place as a summer residence. The plan is abominable.” “Why should yon object, sir, to a section of country justly celebrated for its salubrious airs and beautiful scenery? Since it meets m wishes, I hardly see what cause you have for in- terfering in the matter!” Winifred spoke coldly _ and haughtily—and he replied as coldly. '! 3 < _ ; “T have sufficient cause. Myson is to go with you, I presume; and it becomes me to see that he is carried to a proper place. As for my reasons for taking exception to Rappahannoc county, it is sufficient that I object! And for the time the subject dropped. “ A few days afterward, Mr. Winthrop obtain- ed leave of absence from congressional] duties, and took a journey into the interior of Virginia. . moved. Business, he said, had called him into | When he returned, he declared that his objec- tions to Rappahannock county were entirely re- that section, and he had found it all that could be desired for a temporary sojourn. So wel] had he been pleased, that he had_ engaged an old - mansion a few miles beyond Warrenton—close to the Blue Ridge—and caused it to be fitted up for the reception of his wife and child. “‘ Bellemonte ”—so the place was called, had been a fine old estate, but the family to which it had belonged were mostly dead; and of late, Bellemonte had been sadly neglected. Mr. Winthrop had secured a trusty negro and his wife to preside over the establishment; and this worthy couple, with Jack, the coachman, and Fanny the cook, would comprise the kitchen nousehold. Mrs. Winthrop might take with her as many attendants as she chose. Winifred migpracere Ss commenced her pre- parations for leaving Washington. _Two days afterward she set forth, Mr. panying her as an escort; and Rosy, her own Inaid, to attend to the personal wants of her | Mhistress. _ After seeing his wife safely installed at Belle- monte, Mr. Winthrop bade her farewell and re- turned to Washington. z It was thickly wooded with fir- Bl idge. oe. owth: and half the planta- trees of a stunted down from the mountains. The old mansion itself was dreary and weird €nough for any tale of darkness that might be related of it. It was a house where men had lived and died; and one of our noblest poets Says that all such are “‘ haunted houses.” The rooms were low and dark from the creep- ing vines that covered the windows: the wain- Scots were black with age, and rotten and i. We inthrop accom- | worm-eaten in many placés. ‘The chambers were mostly hung with tapestry, once wrought in beautiful patterns of gorgeous colors, by fair fingers now moldering perchance like their work; and the furniture—all of dark oak, must - have belonged to another generation. A large portion of the house was uninhabita- ble; but in the north wing, facing the moun- tains, three apartments, on the first floor, had | been fitted up, not only comfortably, but luxu- do me a favor by never | riously. The sleeping-room of Winifred and her child was a cheerful, cosey place; its high, narrow windows commanded a bold view of the hills, and Winifred only regretted that the basement was at this point so very high as to beer all idea of getting to the ground from the spacious balcony. She thought she would have liked to go out for her walks, from the room, rather | than be obliged to traverse the whole length of a gloomy corridor, amid the ruins, to reach the | hall door. | ber of which was far away. _ the information that Winifred could obtain by Bellemonte was the property of a family by the name of Brandon, the only remaining mem- And this was all questioning Aunt Phillis, the colored house- keeper, who was remarkably taciturn for one of her class. : One apartment of the old house, rescued“from the general decay by recent repairs, was a very Blue Beard’s chamber of horrors to the fancy of Winifred. It was much like the other rooms in its vicinity, save that across the windows were strong iron bars; and the doors were se- cured with treble bolts upon the outside. There was no fireplace or other convenience for warmth, and the walls were covered with thick green baize. ‘* Phillis,” said Mrs. Winthrop, seeking the old woman in the kitchen, “there is a room in close vicinity to mine that has aroused my curiosity.” “Deed, missus, dat’s mighty cur’us,” replied Phillis, giving the pupae she was scouring a vigorous rub with her black hand. “Can you tell me whatit was used for? The ‘room with the bolts on the outside of the door, and the walls covered with green flannel, I mean.” “‘ Like enough it was de parlor.” “But the bars across the windows? and the lack of a fireplace, and the green cloth?” con- tinued Winifred, interrogatively. ow. “Bars to keep the owls out, and green good : _for bad eyes I’ve hearn say. Seems to me, Bellemonte was a wildly beautiful spot, in the | Near vicinity of the lofty hills known as the _ tation was covered with huge bowlders, which | the spring floods from time to time had rolled missus is mighty ’squisitive.” And with this reasonable solution of the _green-room mystery, Winifred was obliged to content herself. ; : The days passed pleasantly enough at Belle- monte, save that the mistress had too much time for thought. She was alone once more; free to. enjoy undisturbed the society of darling child, now a beautiful boy of two years; — but in spite of this sweet satisfaction, she found her thoughts constantly recurring to the pleas-— ant evenings spent in the parlor of Atherton Hall with Gerard Middleton. R And, try as she would, those old memories could not be stifled; and when the anguish e aK A ‘ ae een ree hn oe Pe rd a s are
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‘which they caused became too great to Dear, a 14. SINNED AGAINST. st she would take little Willie in her arms and set out on a long ramble over the hills. One August night, Mrs. Winthrop sat in her chamber trying to read; Willie slumbered in his crib by her side; Rosy was in bed in the adjoining room, and every thing around the house was hushed to the profoundest quiet. It had been one of those sultry days peculiar to ripe summer, and the dull, torpid atmosphere was prolific of repose. Her book was uninter- esting; the lamp burned dimly; a_house-fl droned lazily on the window; and Winifred, acted upon by surrounding influences, sunk back in her chair and fell asleep. She was awakened suddenly by some strange sound. Thelamp had gone out, but the star- light streamed faintly into the room. ae discernible in the gloom of the place was a tall, pant figure; with eyes like live coals, and long air, white as snow, streaming around it like a shroud! This horrible ae advanced and leaned over the bed of little Willie; one skinny hand was extended, bearing aloft a glittering knife; the other held back the delicately-em- broidered silk of the coverlet from the form of the innocent sleeper! Winifred, with a fierce cry, leaped to her feet and confronted the strange visitant. A wil, demoniac ‘‘ Ha! ha! ha!” burst from the creature’s lips, and simultaneously it melted away, as by some invisible agency, epi: the terror-stricken mother alone with her child. Recovering herself by a powerful effort, Winifred searched the room with the strictest scrutiny. She left no nook nor corner unex- amined—yet she discovered nothing. She look- ed to the doors and windows—they were secure- ly fastened, and yet, a guest had been admitted to her very bed-chamber. It was not a dream; she was fully convinced of that. It was something real and tangible, but of what nature? She did not believe in supernatural appearances; she was not super- stitious; and yet, a cold, shuddering thrill ran through her as she held the babe to her breast. She watched the night away, for she could not have slept with that strange, inex- plicable fear at her heart. She resolved. to say nothing to any one of the occurrence; Rosy was exceedingly timid, and the negroes invariably kept one eye, at least, out for ghosts, and they would be afraid to remain in the house if they once got wind of the idew that the place was haunted; and she had no wish to be left alone. So she kept silent and watchful. August was drawing toaclose. The middle of September Mrs. Winthrop was to leave Belle- monte, and return to Maplewood, where she would remain until the winter session of Con- ess should usher in the gay season at Wash- ington. tt was a bright summer day, and the unusual coolness of the air had invited to out-of-door exercise. Winifred had indulged herself ina very long walk, and being quite weary, she went to her bed earlier than was her custom. Willie had coaxed mamma. to lie down beside him and tell him a story; and the simple tale finished, the two, mother and child, were locked in slumber. » PP Se abt aS a Y Pee eee ee Willie’s head was nestled close to his mother’s bosom, her bright, soft curls mingled with the brown rings that clustered around his full white forehead. Winifred slept uneasily—a vague sense of in- security had oppressed her all the day, and her slumber was troubled with wild dreams and dis- torted visions. The touch of some cold substance upon her face awoke ber. She knew not what this sub- stance was, but it struck an icy chill to her heart. She lifted her hand to push it away, and that wild, unearthly ‘‘Ha! ha! ha!” heard once before, burst on the air. With a terrified cry Winifred sprung from the couch and peered into the gloom. The same demon face, with horrible blood-red eyes and snow-white hair, hovered above her! The same savage teeth, with the lips drawn tightly et from them, glittered before her! inifred bounded forward, and seizing the heavy bronze candlestick, hurled it at the in- truder. The light was extinguished as the mis- sile fell; there was a dull, dead sound as of the closing of a great door at some immeasurable distance—and the silence of death fell upon the chamber. ; Willie slept quietly in his bed, and Winifred stood alone in the center of the floor. CHAPTER VII. THROUGH THE SHADOW OF DEATH. Yet, though thou wear’st the glory of the sky, Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name? The same fair form and gently-beaming eye? Lovelier in heaven’s sweet climate; yet lis same! —BRYANT. Ir was a horriblemystery! Winifred longed, be trembled, to fathom it. She hoped not tu obliged to ask for aid. She would rather en- counter all the danger, if danger there was, and run all the risks. Night followed night, and during the dark hours that determined woman never closed her ‘eyes. What little rest she had was taken by day, when the household were astir, and Rosy awake to take charge of the child. George, and this George Atherton was one of the bravest and most daring men in the coun- try. He had hardly earned the title of colonel, and though now an old man, he had always taken great delight in teaching his niece the use of warlike weapons. To please the old colonel, the girl had taken lessons in fencing, and was quite an adept in the use of firearms. Inaspor- tive moment her father had presented her with acase of pistols, and these little desperate wea- Ge had been for years in the false bottom of ier trunk, Now she took them out, loaded the barrels carefully, and placed them on the stand by her bedside, resolved that if she should be again favored with a visit from the mysterious fiend that had twice appeared to her, to try the effect of cold lead upon it. But it did not seem likely that her courage would be tested. Time.passed on monotonous- ly, without variation remained to Winifred at Bellemonte. . ~ 5 Winifred’s father had but one brother, named - and but twonights more — The intervening day must be spent in pack- — —
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tig anda making other neediul arrangements for traveling: aud wearied and drowsy, Wini- fred threw eect upon the lounge, without un- dressing, to catch a few moments’ repose before the depth of the night should come. She knew that her strength would be required for her labors of to-morrow. She gave Rosy imperative orders to remain awake until she called her; and the girl, seated before the little fire, which the dampness of the night had made agreeable, with an entertaining - novel in her hand, readily promised obedience, Winifréd soon fell asleep, for she was very weary, and she knew nothing more till she - heard the hall-clock striking one. She started up and put out her arm to clasp her child, but he was not by her side! His place was empty—he was gone! A wild shriek rose to her lips, but she stifled it instantly. Rosy must have taken him up, she said to herself, by way of assurance. She flew to the side of the girl— Rosy was sound asleep, ‘ ‘<‘Willie!. where is Willie?’ demanded the dis- tracted mother, in a frenzy of suspense. Rosy rubbed her eyes, and stared around her with a blank air. : “T have not seen him, madam,” she said, “since I laid him down on the bed with you. As I hope for heaven, mistress, I have not!’ Oh! but those who called Mrs. Winthrop cold and passionless should have seen her then. She roused the whole household instantly, and searched the mansion in mad haste. She went herself into the deepest.recessess of the moldy, . tomb-like cellars, and through the heavily- T ‘but firm, leading the framed arches which supported the massive weight of the buildings. Flambeaux were lighted, and the terrified negroes, led on by that resolute woman, search- ed every dell and dingle and ransacked every hovel in the vicinity. Slaves from the nearest plantations turned out and joined them, their quick sympathies awakened by the cry: “The child of the lady 01 Bellemonte has been stolen!” nes All day the search went on; Winifred, pale, van, and returning at nightfall only to see if ber husband had ar- rived. Mr. Winthrop had flown to the spot at the first alarm of the telegraph. A more wildly despairing man was never seen, His face was shrouded in a deathly pal- lor, his thin lips were rigid as those of a corpse, and his eyes seemed ready to start from their sockets, A couple of miles behind his horse had fallen dead under him, unable to endure the pace at which he was ridden; and the fresh animal that had been procured at Warrenton, was bathed in foam. ele Mr. Winthrop grasped his wife rudely by the arm, and demanded the particulars of his son’s loss. Coldly and briefly she revealed all to him —keeping nothing back. . ; He struck his forehead with his clenched hand, fe.S “Great God!” he cried, madly, ‘it is as I thought. Oh, fool—fool that I was to consent to have my innocent child brought to the place where she drew breath! I might have known— but, oh heaven, how fearfully am 1 punished!” } 4 t q ~~ SS a SINNED AGAINST. | dwelt in his breast!” taken by Mr. ‘she watched for the first indications of the re-— ae ee. SS Oe a bb He turned to the gaping negroes, ‘Saddle the fleetest horse in the stables! and you, Jack, get upon the other, and follow me over the moun- tains! I must reach Woodstock before day- break!” Winifred would have accompanied the horse- men, but Mr. Winthrop thrust both her and her nae into a chamber, and locked the door upon them. Who can imagine the feelings of the wretched mother while thus incarcerated! The night wore on—a night of anguished suf- fering to Winifred Winthrop.» She paced the narrow limits of her chamber unceasingly; throwing open the casement, and leaning far out into the darkness in the vain hope of hearing some sound indicative of the return of those gone in search of her child. No sound broke the stillness. Rosy had sobbed herself to sleep on the floor; they two were isolated from the other women of the establishment—confined and_ helpless; but Winifred never thought of fear. She would have braved ten thousand deaths, if the act could have restored to her her Willie, At last.the day broke Fag the eastern gates; the morning came, and the sun arose clear and smiling. inifred took w window which conimande her station at a I a view of the path Winthrop, and with fixed gaze turn. She thought she perceived a dark, mov- ing object, away on the very verge of the hori- zon—a mere speck—it grow larger—yes, there were two of them—two horsemen! They wound slowly down the mountain—she recognized them now; Mr. Winthrop bearing a bundle in ~ his arms, carefully enveloped in a cloak, and the negro Jack following behind! ; They were approaching the house; she could endure confinement no longer! Grasping the massy iron poker from the fender, she brought it to bear with all her strength against the door. Again and again the blow fell—the white oak quivered; the bolts held fast, but the hinges were old and rusty, and could not with- stand the strain. They yielded; another fran- tic blow, they broke; the door flew open with a crash, and Winifred dashed out into the corri- dor and down the stairs. She reached the outer door just as the eques- trians rode up. Mr. Winthrop strove to avoid her, but she sprung upon him, and, with the strength of a giantess, tore the cloaked burden trom his arms. 4 The man seemed to be enraged by the action. —all the fierce passions of his nature leaped hotly into his face. “Give him to me! Dead as he is, I claim He is mine—mine only!” he cried, say- agely. ’ “ Was it not enough, madam, that you should insist on bringing him here to certain destruction? And now you would again take him from me!” ; “Hush! I am his mother! And would to Heaven that none of your blood ran in his veins,as none of your inhuman passions ever Winifred was stung by her husband’s “harsh- ness. Allthe high, proud temper of an Ather- ‘ton was aroused. And he, enraged and imbit-
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13 SINNED AGAINST. » tered by the state of an awakened conscience, and rendered, by grief, but little better than a maniac, forgot his manhood, and struck her! She staggered beneath the blow. For a mo- | ment her white face took the sanguinary hue of the red rose. But when she spoke, her voice ‘was calm and full. “For this, I renounce all allegiance to the wretch I have called husband! Henceforth I am a free woman!” She turned slowly away, and bore the cold burden into the house. Her heart had already told her what she might expect. With fearful composure, she uncovered the body of her child, and gazed upon the dead face. She kissed it tenderly—stroking the dark hair, and mur- muring softly: “Dear Willie! Dear little Willie!” She asked Mr. Winthrop no questions con- cerning the night’s adventures; but Jack told her all that he knew, in a few words, “Mr. Winthrop had ridden hard, and crossed the most elevated spur of the mountain a little below Front Royal, and had then pushed on rapidly until the Shenandoah river was reached. e had intended to cross the stream, but it was swollen by recent rains, and it was difficult to find a ford. Im searching for this, the bod of little Willie was accidentally discovered. It - lay close to the water, in the dark shadow of a clump of alders—the man said—and it was his master’s opinion that it had died from strangu- lation. There was a dark circle around the delicate throat, and marks of human fingers deep and purple in the soft flesh! Also, around the place where the remains were found, there were prints of human footsteps in the wet sand, and some shteds of a woman’s clothing adhered to a thorn-bush in the vicinity. And this was all that was known, and from such scanty in- formation what inference was to be drawn? Terrible suspicions touching Milford Win- throp, came to Winifred’s ears from the neigh- boring people; the dark vail which covered his darker past life, was partially undrawn; and, what she saw and understood was enough to make her shrink with abhcrrence from her hus- band; the man whom the world admired—the distinguished senator! ; Winifred’s great and overwhelming grief for her child sw for the seven days which followed his death, she walked like one in a trance. owed up all lesser trouble, and | | Must bear in meékness, as He meekly boxe, Sorrow and toil and strife. Trust then in Him, and yield not to despair! Christ, in His heaven of heavens, will hear thy prayer! : —From the German of Uhland. THE cw gator so singularly begun be- tween Ruth Mowbray and Mr. Rutherford, pro- gressed steadily, until it ripened into perfect confidence, In the young pastor Ruth found a kind and sympathizing friend; a tender brother. He en- couraged her when sho’ desponded—chegred her when she was sad—led her gently on to seek ‘peace and rest upon the eternal arm of God’s salvation! She went to his church—listened to his discourses, so searching, yet so full of love; and understood why his le almost worse ed him. He was r in this world’s goods, but rich in heavenly treasures. Here, he walk- ed humbly with the lowly ones of earth; there, in the realms of glory, no angel would wear a brighter crown than he! ne evening, when she had known him for more than a year, Ruth revealed to this kind friend the little history of her life. She told him of her hopeless, unsought love; of her mad despair, and temptation—the rest, he al- ready knew. He comforted her as none other could have done; then, to show her that he fully appreciated her confidence, he gave her his own in return. ‘“‘T was born,” he said, ‘‘ in the great, bustling city of New Orleans, of parents who toiled for their daily bread. My father was a house car- penter; my mother added something to our scanty income by fine needle-work. When i. was about fifteen poor father was fatally injured by the fall of a staging. I remember well my mother’s despair when they brought him home, and the surgeon said that his days were numbered! He died the next day, in * great agony. .After the funeral expenses were — paid, we found ourselves almcst without a penny! My mother redoubled her exertions, and | was fortunate enough to secure a situa- tion as clerk. I had, always by dint of much economy, been kept at school, and my education was uncommonly good for a lad of my age. Every leisure moment was devoted to study. “Through the kindness of a schoolmaster, I was enabled to read many valuable works. Un- _ der his auspices I gained an acquaintance with Mechanically she prepared herself to leave | Bellemonte; mechanically she suffered them to take her to Washington, and from thence to Maplewood. Like one without life or feeling, she looked upon her boy in his coffin, and saw him laid in the prare, high above the moaning of the sea on the sandy shore. And when the sods were laid smoothly over his grave, and she had put her aching forehead to the cool turf to still its wild throbbings, she arose, and stood up alone, knowing that her duty here was ended! CHAPTER IX. FINDING PEACE. Friend, thou must trust in Him who trod before The desolate paths of life; the classics. At length, I became a teacher. The salary was better than that which | re- ceived from my present employers, and the labors more congenial! I accordingly entered upon the charge of the school. Here, again, I owed much to my good old friend. In al diffi- culties I went to him; and, whatever success crowned my efforts, i must attribute to his judicious advice. By degrees, I rose to be assistant-preceptor in a flourishing academy, in the State of North Carolina; and here I first met Catharine Hazelwood, ; “That meeting was an era in my life. Miss Hazelwood was a New Englander, but having family connections in the South, she had come - hither to finish her education time to benefit her health. I can hardly con- yey to you a correct idea of this girl’s exceed- and at the same
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SINNED AGAINST. ing beauty. She was one of the loveliest crea- tures I ever beheld. I think it was a case of love at first sight on my part; and I flattered . myself that the fair girl was not wholly indif- ferent to me. She blushed ut my appreach— her hand trembled when it met mine in friendly greeting. If I had cause (with others of her class) to reprove her for badly learned lessons, her eyes would swim in tears. ‘‘ Catharine was the only daughter and heiress of a Hier father, and, in consequence, had been the belle of the quiet country village which she called home. Now, at school, her wealth and beauty were passports to favor, and she reigned a very queen. Sometimes I thought her . proud and coquettish, but a single glance of her Feautital eyes disarmed all feelings but those of love, and I was more completely her slave than before. Strange it is that men with all their boasted power will be so blind that the simplest school-girl can deceive the best of them! “ But I would not blame Catharine. She had Leen petted and flattered tillthe good in her na- ture was almost eradicated, and she was a most arrantcoquette. She led me on to hope—my ardent devotion was very pleasant to her; and when, at length, I confessed all, and besought her to read my fate, she did not cast me utterly away. But I must wait, she said. She liked me—perhays she loved me a little, but we were both young, and I was comparatively unedu- cated. She had set her heart, she said, on mar- rying a learned man, and I must oblige her by becoming this. A college course would improve me; when I had graduated with honor, she would give me a more definite answer. Inspired by hope, I taxed body and mind to the utmost. When sb? years of age, I entered the Uni- versity at Chapel Hill,in advance. My dear mother sacrificed many a sorely-needed com- fort that my darling wish might be accomplish- ed; and, as for myself, my life was bound up in the acquirement of knowledge. I wrote to Catharine many times—letters filled with fire and devotion—and twice she wrote me in re- turn. These letters were kept next my heart, and read and re-read scores of times a_day. You will think me an enthusiast, dear Ruth, but I was little more than a boy then, and wor- shiped my mistress with a boy’s passionate fervor. : ‘‘T spent two years at Chapel Hill; and then, with the laurels of that fine old institution fresh and green on my brow, I bade farewell to my mother, and set out for Middleburg, Catharine's home—to lay them at her feet. I did not reach Middleburg until after the shades of evening had fallen, but, weary as I was,I could not wait until morning to see Catharine. I sought out her father’s house, a large and handsome building, in a quiet, aristocratic street. The man- sion was lighted up as if for a festival. Colored lamps swung from the shrubbery in the gardens; and a score of elegant equipages were drawn up before the door. The great parlors were one flood of radiance,, and I entered together with a fresh reinforcement of guests. “« And judge, if you can, of the emotions that filled my soul when standing hidden behind tho silken window-curtains, I saw Catharine Hazel- 17 wood married to a man twice her years—a man rich in lands and stocks—who had won her with his pees offerings! ‘“‘T sought an interview with the bride, and charged her with her falsity in no measure terms. She laughed in my face. She hoped, she said, that I was not so shallow as to think Saying of .that youthful flirtation. It had amused her finely in that dull old school-day life —she should have died of ennui if it had not been for me, and she most heartily thanked me for the favor I had done her in helene her kill time. Now, she trusted I woul 5 ode and regard her simply as a very good riend. “T went out from her presence a changed man. I[had seen my infatuation; my glaring ideal stood before me robbed of the love which had clothed her in the perfection of womanli- ness! Ino longer thrilled at the sound of her name. My passion had died a violent death, and I buried it, and placed upon its sepulcher the stone of indifference. solved to live for others rather than for myself. | I took the armor of the most high God upon me, ‘and His gospel into my mouth! In this service IT found happiness—happiness such as the world is powerless to give—or take away! Peace, founded on the Rock of Everlasting Love! ““T brought my mother here to your pleasant New England, and here we have set up our humble home; and here I hope to spend the re- mainder of my days in content. I ask no higher destiny than that which awaits me as a minis- ignore the’ 7 enceforth, I re-— ter of God’s truth, and may He aid me tosoexer- cise my one talent that good may be done unto my people!” And this was John Rutherford’s life history, and Ruth wept over his disappointment, and smiled over bis victory. After this mutual confidence, a strong at- tachment grew between Ruth Mowbray and the young minister. CHAPTER X. THE MILLINER’S FORTUNE. In life can love be bought withgold? © Are friendship’s pleasures to be sold? —Dr. Jonnson, RutH Mowsray went often to the parsonage, ' and sat at the feet of the mild-browed woman whom John Rutherford called mother, and lis- tened_to the teaching that fell from her lips, Mrs. Rutherford was a gentle spirit, trusting all her hopes and wishes unreservedly in God’s hands, complaining never of fate, and endurin trials and crosses with saintly patience. Would that there were more like her, that their holy example might lead many, now in doubt, to the Laine peg of all happiness and everlasting safety And gradually the heart of Ruth Mowbray took up anew song. At first its notes were low and feeble, but gathering strength with the nur- turing lapse of time, it widened and broaden- ed until its mighty surges swept the master- chords of her being into perfect harmony. — At the sound of one footstep she blushed aud , trembled: at the touch of one hand she was fill- “ic, 2 + eS a
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18 SINNED AGAINST. = Ee es se OE On TT we te tn ee ed with strange bliss: one voice had power to | roar of the flames had failed to awaken him. banish ali eave and sorrow from her soul! Typhus fever, of the most virulent kind, broke out in Windfal. Almost every house was a house of sickness, and perhaps of death. Whole families were swept away, and terror seized upon the whole population. In this time of universal sorrow, Ruth Mow- bray was a good angel. She. ministered un- ceasingly at the bedside of the sick and dying, and many a desolate, suffering one was aad comfortable by her kind care. No hand was softer than hers on the hot brow, and no foot- step fell so noiselessly on the distracted ear. Mr. Rutherford, also, visited the sick untir- ingly, and administered to their necessities with bis own hands; he comforted the living, ‘and prayed for the repose of the dead. As the cooler weather of autumn approached, the fever cases diminished, and the fearful mor- _ tality was abated. But there were still scores rs & of the afflicted, and Ruth Mowbray’s services as “watcher” were almost nightly called into omer For two nights she had kept a vigil by the bed of an aged woman, and at daybreak closed her eyes in death, and now on the third night, she was looking forward to the eae of undis- turbed repose. She retired early to her cham- ber, and without undressing lay down on the bed. But sleep, so much wished for, refused to come. In vain she covered her eyes with her hand, in vain she counted the ticking of the clock, and fancied herself on the verge of _ dream-land—she was wide awake as ever. She thought that perhaps the light of the stars shining through her window at the foot of her bed troubled her, and rising she let down the curtain. But no, sleep still held aloof. The clock struck one, and almost simultaneously with the sound, a dull red glare shone into the chamber. It was not the moon, for that had set long ago behind the western hills. Brighter and redder gleamed the light. Ruth sprung up and threw open the window. The whole - vicinity was glowing like noonday, and the sky glowed red as blood. The light was that of a burning building and, from her station at the window, Ruth had no difficulty in discovering that the parsonage was on fire. She flew down the stairs, and hurried through the fields that lay between her cottage and the church-yard. he thought that perhaps she could aid in saving some of the furniture from destruction. To her surprise, she found not the usual crowd gathered to witness the conflagra- tion, for pee who was not languishing on a. bed of sickness, was thoroughly worn out with attendance on others; and at this hour of the night probably the entire neighborhood was wrapped in sleep. The fire had not yet taken hold of the main building, but was confined to a back wing used as a store-house and kitchen. Ruth tried the front door, but it was fastened on the inside and then she was sure that the inmates had not escaped. ith a shudder she remembered that Mr. Rutherford had not slept for four nights, and | consequently, in the depth of his weariness, the ee - ee And Mrs. Rutherford and the servant-girl, where were they? Undoubtedly in the burning house, and unless speedily aroused, doomed to a fearful and inevitable death. The flames had made rapid headway, and were now seizing on the roof of the principal building. A few moments more and it would be too late! Some of the neighbors had now arrived, and eagerly the cry for Mr. Ruther- ford and his family ran around the circle. For reply, Ruth pointed to thé house. A murmur of dismay broke on the air, for all saw the hopelessness of finding any one with sufficient courage to dare the entrance of that blazing building. “Not escaped! Good God! then they must erish!” cried a white-haired old man. ‘No uman being could live long in such a smoke as that!” he pointed to the roof from whence a volley of smoke was issuing. ‘‘T must go for them,” said Ruth. ‘‘I can not stand by and see them perish!” A score of arms were raised to stay her course, but she sprung clear of them all, and dashing open the low window leading into the little sitting-room, she stepped inside. The apartment, though untouched by the fire, was filled with the stifling stench of smoke, and the crackling of the flames in the next room would have dismayed any heart not nerved with su- perior courage. p the broad stairs flew the daring girl, and along the corridor to the cham- ber door of Mrs. Rutherford. The portal was thrown open from within, and the old lady, pale but calm, met her on the threshold. ‘“‘Your son? where is he?’ Ruth asked the question quickly, impatient of a second’s delay. “Yonder! Iwas going to call him;” she in- dicated a distant door, where the flames were sweeping down hotly from the ceiling, and the red cinders fell in a thick cloud. Ruth bounded along the passage, and flung open the door of the chamber. “The fire scorch- ed her hair, and the heat of the floor burned her feet, but she did not hesitate. Mr. Rutherford lay on the bed, wrapped in a dressing-gown and sleeping quietly as an infant, et unmindful of the peril which surrounded im. Ruth grasped his shoulder, and shook him violently. “Wakeup! Wake up!” she cried. ‘‘ Follow me—the house is on fire!” He alr to his feet, and gazed around him with blank amazement. ‘‘'You here, dear Ruth! Leave me instantly! I will come—but stay, where is my mother and Katharine?” ‘*-Your mother is in safety by this time, but Katharine—l had forgotten her.” “* Go, then, this moment! I will arouse the irl, Go, dear one, and God keep you!” They left the room together, and together they met the fiery billow of flame that surged down to meet them. Grasping Ruth’s hand firmly in his own, the young minister hurried on to the chamber where the servant-girl slept., He pushed open the door—Katharine lay inaswoon in the center of the floor—the fright had been ie Pech fer her. Rutherford raised her up. x } ay ae < Z vw x *
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“Go before me down the stairs Ruth,® he said; ‘‘I must save this poor creature, at all hazards.” : ; The trembling girl obeyed him, and they made the descent in safety. But not a moment too soon! With aloud crash, the stairway fell in, and the burning rafters of the roof covered their retreat with a sea of fire. The outer air was reached at last, and scorch- ed and faint, Ruth Mowbray sunk down at the feet of Mrs. Rutherford. A moment more, and the once pleasant par- sonage lay upon the ground, a heap of blazing timbers, and a pyre of crimson light! | The houseless family went home with Ruth, “where they remained until mid-winter, when a new home was made ready for them on the site of the old one. And not long after their removal, John Ruth- erford acitig by the side of his fair preserver, asked her to put her hand in his, and walk with him through life. Her head sunk to rest on his shoulder—she was glad to lay it there; and she did not resist the eee arm that drew her close to his strong, true heart. Both iad lowed before; both had suffered; both had come forth purified. : “TL have waited long for this hour, dear Ruth,” said the young man. “I yearned to ask you this question months ago, but I wanted to wait until time should heal the wound your olden disappointment had left. The tender vine torn from one resting-place must have sunshine and rain before it will cling to another support; its severed tendrils must have time to grow again.” ; 24S . It was very sweet to hear his voice speaking thus to her; to feel his cherisbing arm around } her, and know that out of all the world there » -was one to whose existence she was gta , And Jobn Rutherford, when he kissed her brow at parting, in the pale moonlight, thought e he had never seen so beautiful a being, save in his dreams of Heaven. CHAPTER XI. MY LADY. Gentle, and lovely, and high-born was she— —ALANSON. e Tue pastor of Windfall was standing before his cottage-door, when a Boston coach stopped at the gate, and a stranger inquired if Ruth Mowbray resided in the neighborhood, . . “Ruth Mowbray? yes, sir—yonder is her ¥ home.” 5 : “Thank you, sir; and if you are a friend of hers, you will rejoice at hearing of her -good ' fortune. Ruth Mowbray is Ruth Mowbray ; no longer, but Lady Ruth Manchester, the 4 heiress of one of the finest estates in England. To communicate this intelligence I am seeking her. Good-morning, sir.” Ruth Mowbray no longer! but Lady Ruth Manchester! Mr. Rutherford said the words over again and ggain, as a deep shade of sad- ness settled on his usually placid brow. A titled heiress! what would she care for the love of a poor and humble clergyman? would she -renounce the pomp and pageantry which await- a. SINNED AGAINST. + Semcon ee -bear whatever might be in store for him. | decline the invitation. And again, on the third 19 ed her beyond the sea, to share his lowly lot, E- and reign in his lowly heart? i ae In spite of faith, doubt came upon him. He “5 entered his chamber, closed and locked the door, = and on his knees supplicated for strength to “ She always was beautiful—now, she is rich and titled—yet why should I murmur? If this — blackness of desolation should fall on my life, I can only cling closer to the God of goodness, who never willingly afflicts. I will trust!” ‘ He felt soothed and strengthened; and, be- lieving that all would be ordered for the best, he went cheerfully about his daily duties. His mother saw the struggle in his feelings, but she forbore_ her py apel y—save by the prayer which she sent to Heaven, that this cup might pass from him, Of-course Windfall was alive with the news. Lord Henry Dorset had died without heirs; and Mrs. Mowbray had been his only sister; con- sequently, to her child, as next of kin, descended the property of the Earl—amounting to eighty thousand Ca ane sterling—together with the title of Lady Manchester. There was a younger niece of the dead peer who came in for a small annuity; for the rest, the quiet little dressmaker was its sole pro- prietress. Mr. Montague, the agent of the late Lord Dorset, had come to convey the intelligence, ae to accompany the young heiress to Eng- and, It was really astonishing to see how quic people discovered the extraordinary virtues an graces of Ruth Mowbray. Her cottage was — flocked with aristocratic visitors; each and all anxious to pay their respects to and congratulate Lady Manchester on her accession to her right- ful honors. Presents were sent her by young © fae who had hitherto treated her with con- empt, See tia Isn’t it strange how high a value we Ameri- cans, with all our boasted democracy, setonthe Polen of nobility? Ifa coronet isa passportto _ nglish favor, it is doubly so to the good graces of the citizens of these United States. “After all, most of us have a secret reverence for the — power of royalty, and a private hankering after the honors of nobility. aed Young Eugene Thornbury, the village aristo- crat par ewcellence, did himself the honor to call immediately on the young heiress, for the purpose of expressing the high respect and esteem in which he ha pebble as iss Mow- bray—be begged pardon—Lady Manchester, — And though Ruth well knew that a week pre- - viously he would have considered himself dis- graced by speaking to her, she treated him with the kindness and courtesy which she had ever ere toward all. he ensuing day the squire Hy eth his call, this time to bring a bouquet of flowers sent by his lady mother, and to entreat Lady Man- chester to take tea at the Hall the next evening, But Lady Manchester was otherwise engaged, and regretted the necessity of being obliged to pt Pe AG Sai a Ce ie FR RT aT OUTER) Pee ey eee ‘ day, Squire Thornbury called, and before he left, he laid his hand and fortune at the feet of the quondam milliner. His life would be wretch-
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. was no necessity of her laborin —s* her to Mr. Winthro 20 ed ahd miserable without her, he said; his sun would go down while it was yet day, if she re- fused to go with him down the valley of life. - But in spite of his eloquence, Ruth felt herself compelled to doom him to perpetual sunset, and he went out from her presence broken in pride and humbled in heart. To no one did Ruth see fit to give her con- fidence. Windfall, with all its gossips, could not ascertain whether she intended to remove to England, and assume her rights and honors, or whether she would remain where she was, con- tent with being the queen of the village. Great anxiety was felt on this score; envious maidens heartily wished her beyond the Atlantic; for their perticular favorites among the young men had suddenly become aware of the fact that Ruth was the fairest and most winning damsel in the village, and how it would end no one knew. Mr. Montague, the agent, had quarters in Boston, and when questioned regarding Lady Manchester’s intentions, was particularly close- mouthed on the subject. Curiosity, for once was baffled. As for John Rutherford, he held aloof. He would not influence the girl, he said; he would not hold her unwillingly to her engage- ment with him, though his heart should break in giving her liberty. ‘our days rolled by, and still there came to him no message from the young heiress; and rumor said that on the fifth she would sail for England. Rutherford, stern and unmoved, heard the tidings, and still went not near her, “ CHAPTER XII. _ THE BREAD OF LABOR. ‘'There’s a divinity that pa our ends, Rough hew them as we will. —SHAKSPEARE, Mrs. WintHroP had heard enough, vague though it was, to make her shudder at the very thought of remaining another day with the man whom the law had made her husband. Willie was d:ad—the only link that bound was severed; and now that she knew Milford Winthrop to be the vilest thing on earth, she was resolved to endure her martyrdom no longer. She breathed not a word of what she had heard; she made her preparations with silence and ‘dispatch. Her trunks were yet in the depot at Boston; and she had only to arrange the deep mourning dress which she proposed to wear henceforth. Her jewels, to the value of several thousand dollars, she sealed up and forwarded to an old and tried friend of her father’s in page} with instructions to keep them until she sho d reclaim them. ; She had by her about one thousand dollar and with this she thought to go South an establish a school for young ladies. Her prop- erty she still held in her own right, and there for a living; but employment for the mind she must have. Sad reflections overpowered her when she sat down to idleness, and she had heard it said that the bread which is bought by toil is sweet. She passed the night—the dim, misty night— upon the grave of her child; it was the last , SINNED AGAINST. tribute she could pay. Early in the morning she arose from the chill turf, and bade this tomb of her love a tag, eit Two hours later she was in Boston. Reclaiming her trunks, she changed their labels, and as the property of Mrs. Lucy Bell, they were put on the train for New York. She followed them, and that night she gl in the great metropolis. Mr. Winthrop was absent on business, and would not discover her flight until pursuit would be useless, for she had left no clew by which she might be traced. She had fixed on South Carolina as her place of refuge. She would be least likely to he sought in that direction, and would be by no means likely to meet any one from the North in that State, who had known her in happier days. Besides, she had heard much in praise of the genial climate of the Carolinas, and her health was none of the strongest. Mrs. Bell—as we must now, for a time at least, denominate Winifred—hurried on from New York to Charleston, by the steamer. The voyage was unusually long, and the weather boisterous; but at last the spires of Charleston burst into view, and the steemer drew up to the crowded wharf. The busy, bustling scene of confusion for a moment made Mrs. Bell’s head turn giddy; she was unused to making her way through such a multitude alone and unprotect- ed; but gathering strength from her very weak- ness, she stepped on shore and gave her baggage into the guardianship of an officious hackman. He inquired whither she would be driven—she said to some quiet, respectable hotel. Arrived at an unpretending house in a retired street, the coachman handed her out, and de- manded two dollars for his fee. She put her hand in her pocket for her purse—it was not there! Inthe crowd at the quay she had bee robbed! She explained the matter to the man, who immediately changed his respectful air to the most insolent abuse, which he delivered in broken English and bad French, ‘‘Madam can say what she likes—n’importe ! Is’all have de Vargent, ou je ne vous donnez pas wos coffres |” ‘Very well,” she returned; ‘“‘you can retain the trunks; no doubt but you will find in them amply sufficient to pay you for your trouble.” “Madam is one trompeur; I no s’all have no tricks played on me!” She drew from her finger a ring of exquisite workmanship, set with a single topaz. “Take this and give me my trunks. Take it; it would purchase your whole establishment!” Non! Non! Pierre Le Couvre is no fool, He has seen tout le monde, You is one sheat, I~ does tink!” “And I think a wholesome coup de pied a derriecre would benefit you and teach you a les- son,” cried a young man who had paused near and listened to the colloquy—‘‘ so there—” He flung the little Frenchman a_two-dollar note, and at the same time gave him a kick which sent him tumbling down the steps into the gutter—muttering as he went—” “ Sac-r-r-r-e!” with a true Gallic roll of the r, The young man turned to Mrs, Bell,
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? j SINNED AGAINST... — 21 “Madam, in what manner can I serve you?” | when she knelt in prayer, she thanked God that he asked, courteously. he had cast her lines in such pleasant places. He had removed his hat, leaving his forehead | The Vernons had taken it for granted that bare. She looked attentively into his face, and | their governess was a widow, and she was will- saw nothing there but manly truth and nobili- | ing that the illusion should continue. She never iy. ; aed: in any manner, to her past life; and “Sir,” said she, ‘‘I thank you for the service | they came to suppose that she had married un-. you have already done me. [ama Northerner, | happily, and perhaps against the wishes of her desirous of getting employment asateacher. I friends, and therefore avoided the theme. had thought of a schoolin a small way, but as Had Mrs. Bell lived more in the present, and some one has abstracted my funds, 1 shall be lessin the past, she could not have failed to dis- content—nay glad—of a place as governess in cover the infatuation of Horace Vernon. some private family.” His every thought seemed a study as to how A flush of intelligence passed over the young he could best contribute to her pleasure. man’s features. He took a few moments for He brought her the freshest fruits and flowers, consideration. At length he said: the choicest books and sweetest songs. He was “T came to this place partly to procure an in- gad whenshe was sad; if, for a moment, she for- structress for my young sisters, whom my got herself, and indulged the natural buoyancy mother is unwilling to send away from home; I of her disposition, he was anew creature—so have been disappointed in the person I had ex- readily did he catch the tone of her spirits. pected to engage; but I hardly regret it, if we | He exerted bis rare conversational powers can make a bargain to put you in her place.” continually to amuse her, and her slightest wish Mr. Vernon—so the stranger introduced him- was the law by which he was guided. ‘ self—conducted the lady into a parlor of the hotel, and a regular business interview took place between them. The result was favorable CHAPTER XIII. | > | to both. Mrs. Bell was engaged at a liberal | 4 pyexpecrep JouR AND UNEXPECTED salary; and before noon of that day she was on ene | | her way-with her emplcyer to his plantation— Peace : : : “ Castle Hill ”_several miles above Columbia, toll Sate katie som ene now - nab on the Wateree river. At sunset of the third day the travelers reach- ed their destination, and Mrs. Bell was at once made one of the family. : The master of the place was her kind acquaiut- ance of three days—Horace Vernon, whom the early death of his father had left in charge of the family and estates. Mrs. Vernon was still oung, handsome and thrifty—a fair type of a dontheen housewife. g There were two little fair-faced girls—Hor- ace’s sisters—Alice and Mildred; and when the governess saw them, the memory of ber own darling, lying dead and cold in his seaside grave, came over her, and bursting into tears she left the room. ‘““TRRRIBLE AFFAIR AT THE CAPITAL! Mrs. Vernon understood at once that some | «we jearn from the Washington Globe of the 30th great grief troubled the heart of the stranger, ‘ylt,, that a duel has taken place between Senator and with true delicacy she forbore to question Winthrop, of Massachusetts, and Brandon Lawrence her. Mrs. Bell would do best without that sym- Esq., of Virginia, which resulted in serious, if not . : J id; fatal injury to the former. It is thought by the at- pathy which must seem obtrusive, she said; and vee Sep Bie i ; t - Ace - oe physicians that Mr. Winthrop will not sur- so she evinced no curiosity, but treated the gov- VT) xe wounds, though he may. 7oaer ae erness with a kind, motherly attention, very ome weeks longer. He has been removed from his pleasant to the recipient. hotel to a private house in Alexandria, where he will But before Mrs. Bell had been two months at he carefully attended to. It is said that the meeting Castle Hill, its young master would have given between the two gentlemen was caused by some all that he possessed for the power to comfort family affairs, which have not yet transpired, and her in her secret crief. He would have suffered with which we, at present, are not conversant, unutterable anguish but to have known that his _ There followed a long tirade against the prac- voice and his presence, brought happiness to the tice of dueling; a bitter editorial on the magni- soul of the beautiful woman! : tude of that man’s crime who stands ie But he held his peace; some strange influence to shoot down his fellow-man—but 4" Be kept him silent; and the young teacher found yead no further. She put down the paper, and — in him only the tenderness and fond care of a jeft the room. Up to her chamber sho went affectionate brother. é _ and passed an hour in silent, though troubled Mrs. Bell’s life at Castle Hill was calm anc thought. At the end of that time, she arose— _ pleasant. Mrs, Vernon was like a dear mother per course of action was determined upon. to her; and the children loved her sodearly ~The path of duty lay clear and plain before that they were ever ready to render the most jer! The man whom she had promised to hon- implicit ‘obedience to her wishes. Every night, or, obey and cherish, in sickness as well as in On, whether I will, or no; the stern, cold voice Of duty!” Our heroine had been at Castle Hill fifteen newspaper to his career at Washington. one cold morning in February, when Vernon came in with the week’s mail. While family newspapers—and tore off the wrapper of the first one that offered. Glancing listlessly over the damp sheet, her eye was caught by the following paragraph: months, and never a word of Mr. Winthrop had reached her, save occasional allusions in the ae She was sitting at her sewing, in the parlor, fee orace he was examining his letters, she took up the | om brown bundles he had thrown into her lap—the —_ rg |
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22 health, lay, perhaps, at the point of death, with no kindred hand to smooth his pillow, or wipe the clammy sweats from his brow. He was stricken down in his manhood—stricken by his own graceless act —the victim of a false code of honor—the outcast of good men—the compan- ion of the blood-stained. She felt no regard for Milford Winthrop; yet she would go to him now, in his dire extremity! . She hastily packed a few articles of necessary clothing in a basket; attired herself for travel- ing, and deseended ‘to the parlor, where Mrs, Vernon and her son were sitting, Her hand trembled as she entered the presence of those - good friends, for a moment she was tempted _ ~ not be! . limit if it be a reasonable one. to throw herself on their friendship and give them her entire confidence, but she resisted the impulse, and ‘in a few brief words informed them that a circumstance had occurred which rendered it necessary for her to go north for a while. She regretted, she said, while she could not obviate the necessity; and would, if Provi- dence permitted, return to Castile Hill, and ful- fill her engagement. Mrs. Vernon was sur- “a and pained. It was so sudden—could not rs. Bell defer the journey for a few days? No, the governess said—every moment’s deley Me an agony to her; she must set off immedi- ately. Well, Mrs. Vernon said, if she must leave them, she could only speed her on her way by placing no obstacles before her, and by wishing her a prosperous journey. and an early return. -Hlorace said nothing, though his handsome face clouded at the announcement of his favorite’s intended departure, and when she left the room, he followed her out into the hall. “ Must you go, Lucy? Can not you write or send some one in your stead?” he asked, anxious- y- “T, only, can attend to this call, Mr. Vernon. It is a duty—a sacred duty !” “May: inquire how far north this business will take you?” She hesitated, but at length replied—‘‘ Some distance north of Richmond, in Virginia.” “So far! and you think to go alone? It must I object to it, most decidedly!” “Thank you for your interest—but there is no need of apprehension. I shall be entirely safe, and—” “Mrs. Bell,” he said, with -decision, ‘you have been under my roof nearly fifteen months, and have I ever in that time given you reason to doubt me?” — ‘‘ No! never)!’ she returned, warmly. ‘¢ Well, then, I am going to accompany you a partof your way: you, yourself, shall set the Ido not wish to pry into your affairs; [do not seek to know wnat calls you away from us—I trust you in that, aaa can do ho evil! But you shall not undertake all that long journey alone! So, consider it settled that I am to go with you.” She was in too much haste to set out to argue with him, and so he had it all his own way. Mrs. Vernon se her son’s plan heartily; kissed both the travelers cordially; wished them God speed, and sent them away. Two days’ constant traveling by rail brought them within the borders of Virginia, and here Mrs, SINNED AGAINST. Bell entreated her escort to leave her. But he refused, and they went on together, to Fred- ericksburg. She would permit him to go no further, and Horace, seeing her evident distress at his persistence, forbore to urge his company upon her. The next day Mrs. Bell reached Washingto: city, and at early twilight she stood beside the bed of Milford Winthrop. CHAPTER XIV. CONFESSION. By each spot the most unholy, In each nook most melancholy— There the traveler meets, aghast, Sheeted memories of the past! —Epa@ar A. Pox. Mr. WintTsROP’s greeting to his wife partook of shame, surprise and pleasure. His intense suffering required the constant care of a nurse, and there was no hand so soft as Winifred’s; no voice so sweet and soothing. All other attendants were dismissed from the chamber, and his wife took the sole charge—he was grateful and penitent. If she quitted his presence, only for a moment, he was restless and uneasy until her return. Moreover, he wished to confess to some one the many sins that lay in such a burden {on his conscience.; and to whom could he humble himself so well as to his much-wronged wife? He knew that the sands of his life were fall- ing away—in a little while the glass would be empty: and, in view of the great change that was coming upon him, Milford Winthrop grew humble and remorseful. Winifred tended bim with the utmost patience and gentleness. She hated him no longer; hi very helplessness disarmed all feelings but those of compassion. He i there weak, repentant and dying—the man who had darkened the best ears of her life—and for the sake of his suffer- ing, and remembering that as he was now lying at death’s door, so she must one day lie, she forgave him for the cunning art with which he ag influenced her father to require her to marry him. -At intervals, as his distress would permit, Mr. Winthrop made Winifred acquainted with the history of his life. The details were given in broken sentences, and in parts, accompanied with bitter repinings; so we connect and con- dense the essential portions of his relation, for the convenience of the reader. Milford Winthrop was born in the State of. New York, of wealthy parents, and early des- tined by his proud father for the bar. He was an only son, and the probable heir of a large fortune. At the age of nineteen, he came forth from the halls of New Haven university, a graduate; but, before he commenced the study of his profession, he indulged in two years of travel. He visited the principal points of in- terest in Europe; returned, a gay, dissolute ponte aristocrat, to the States, and set off on a outhern tour. f At college, he had become very intimate with a young Virginian, named Brandon Lawrence, and by invitation of this friend, his visit South was made, Lawrence resided in the western
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, SINNED AGAINST, 23 \ part of the Old Dominion, on a fine swell of and, which rose higher and higher at the north until it joined the Blue Ridge.. It was a capital lace for hunting and fishing, and Lawrence ing an orphan, with no relatives in the house, save a maiden aunt who had the supervision of the servants, there was nothing to hinder the young men from enjoying themselves continu- ally in out-of-door sports. ilford, as we have said, was rather a wild youth, and this kind of life suited him exactly. Lawrence was a noble-hearted young fellow, with a fine flow of spirits, and willing to do any thing to promote the enjoyment of his guest. But a change came, and the confreres were obliged to quit their pioneer sort of life. Law- rence’s cousin, Melicent Brandon, a fair, beauti- ful girl of seventeen, came for a visit to her aunt and cousin. Unlucky hour! Besides her personal attractions, Melicent was possessed of some fortune. She was the prouiscd bride of young Lawrence. He loved 1er truly and tenderly, with the whole strength of his fervid Southern nature, and she professed to return his affection. But the handsome face of Mr. Winthrop, and his stylish, fascinating manners, attracted the somewhat coquettish girl, and she grew cold and distant toward her cousin. hea was not slow to follow up his advantage. elicent was handsome, of an old family, and she was an heiress; be admired her beauty, coveted her fortune. He basely betrayed the confidence of his friend; propos- ing an elopement to the giddy girl—and thus consummated his villainy. The erring couple left the house at night, pro- ceeded to a small village some six miles distant, where ~~ were united, and returned to the ae of the outraged lover before break- fast. As a matter of course, they were indifferently received. The bride was sent home to her pa- rents at Bellemonte; and young Lawrence and the bridegroom met in a duel, which resulted in a wound to the former that kept him confined to his bed for two months. The parents of Melicent were almost heart- broken at the conduct of their daughter, Meli- cent had been their idol—the shrine about which the tenderest affections of their hearts clung, and the rending of Vae chords of confidence and love was very bitter. ‘ The match between her and her cousin had been long settled, and this rude sundering of the engagement broughtreproach and scandal upon the hitherto unsullied name of Brandon, Win- throp cared nothing for this; his very reckless- ness increased the distress of the aged parents of his wife. ; ; Mr: Brandon fell into a decline. His natural- ly feeble constitution was broken by the recent stroke—ere long, death released him. His wife, completely prostrated by the loss of her hus- band, sunk into a rapid consumption, and sur- vived him only a few short months. ; Thus the whole Brandon property fell into the hands of Milford Winthrop. F As for Mr, Lawrence, immediately on his re- covery from his wound, he sold his Virginian possessions, discharged his liabilities, and, bro- ken in health, oe and fortune, left the coun- es Whither he went no one knew. oung Winthrop, by this time, wearied of his pretty, capricious wife; and her wild grief for the loss of her parents, mingled, as it was, with bitter self-reproach, filled him with intense dis- satisfaction. He hated to see a woman forever in tears, he said; he wanted a wife to cheer him and make him happy, not a blubbering Niobe. In consequence, poor Milicent was treated with harshness, and often with cruelty. This conduct of her husband was not without its effect on the wretched girl. Her mind, never of the strongest type, became filled with one idea, upon which she dwelt day and night— hatred for Milford Winthrop. Her love had undergone a gradual buf sure transformation; and now she al horred bim as cordially as she had once loved. This hatred with her took the form of a fearful monomania. She poet as that if she could deprive her hus- band of life, she would be doing the world an immeasurable service; and thrice she had made attempts to murder him. He placed her in close confinement, and al- lowed no one to visit her room but himself. He seemed to take a sort of fiendish delight in her helplessness, and in taunting her with her im- potence todo him harm. But he was not so se- cure from her as he thought. He awoke one night to find her standing over him with a huge butcher knife, just ready to strike it to his heart. He dashed it aside, and succeeded in capturing her, but not until she had wounded him severely with a pair of scissors which were fastened to her girdle. After this occurrence, Winthrop felt himself justified in deserting her. However, he did not eave her alone, He placed her in the care of a servant after his own heart, and himself set out for the East, where he readily obtained a decree of divorce from his wife, on the ground of her — guar- The property, of course, saving enough for insanity. By the decree he was appointed dian of the unfortunate woman. her maintenance, belonged to him according to the statute provided for such cases. After ob- taining the divorce, he returned to Bellemonte, disposed of all the Brandon heritage (except the np homestead), including lands, stock and slaves. Bellemonte he retained; and, having pur- chased four negroes from Louisiana, he them there in charge of his divorced wife’ declared her a nee undoubtedly, | she was sane save in her great hatred of him— | and had her confined to the green room, with | which the reader is already acquainted, The heavily-barred windows prevented her escape in that way; and the baize upon the walls was | to hinder the transmission of sound, in case any stranger should be within the grounds, and the captive should ery out. e feed the slaves who guarded her, liberally, with the money obtained from the sale of his wife’s patrimony, he proceeded to Massachu- setts, and purchased Maplewood. i His father’s death, occurring about this time, put him in possession of a princely revenue; and | soon after, having studied law at each leisure + ie thus keeping them true to his interests, and,— ee
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oo 24 moment since hfs departure from college, he commenced the practice of his profession in Boston. Occasionally he visited Virginia tq see that his wretched victim was not let loose. With the lapse of years, Melicent’s malady increased, and she became periodicaliy insane in reality. Still, she bad lucid intervals, in which her cries for release were heart-rending. Mr. Winthrop had been in business several ears when he first met Winifred Atherton. he girl’s beauty pleased him, and her father’s wealth was agreeable to his inordinate love of gold. By a crafty appearance of virtue, and many a well-timed act of kindness, he led the unsuspecting old man to place in him unlimited confidence. The result of his scheming is al- ready known. When Mrs. Winthrop had wished to leave Washington for some country retreat, and by a singular coincidence, had fixed upon Rappahan- nock county—the scene of her husband’s villainy —he had opposed her plan, because she would be brought into the vicinity of his first wife’s aa prison-house. But, on second thought, he fear- ed to persist in his objections, lest Winifred should suspect him of some hidden motive, and institute investigations which might lead to an expose of the whole affair. Therefore ho had made a journey into western Virginia, and removed Mekicent to an old hunt- ing-lodge on the other side of the mountains, some three or four miles from Woodstock. There he left her in care of two of his younger slaves, giving them strict directions not to allow her to quit her room on the peril of their lives. Melicent was possessed of exceeding artful- ness, and nosmall degree of craft. The negroes, believing her too thoroughly insane to heed or comprehend their conversation, had no scruple in discussing freely theit master’s affairs in her presence, and through their idle gossip she learn- “ed the whole particulars of the expected arrival at Bellmonte, and the preparations which were making. With infinite joy she found that the chamber which was to be appropriated to Mrs. Winthrop was the room which Mr. Brandon, her late father, had used for a cabinet; and behind the chimney of which there was a sliding panel, close down to the floor, that shut up a roomy recess, used by the former master of as a sort of safe for papers of value. This re- cess communicated with a narrow passage lead- ing under the north wing of the mansion, and terminating in an outlet in the open air which was closed by a movable stone. elicent knew this secret, but she had never divulged it to an stood that the wife and child of her enemy were to be domiciled in that chamber, she swore in her soul a terrible oath to take the lives of both. This would be a glorious revenge on her trai- tor husband, and she would give herself no rest until she found means toaccomplishit. But how was she to elude the vigilance of her keepers? Once clear of her prison she saw no obstacle to her purpose; but how was she to obtain her liberty? A thought struck her, which she caught at with lightning-like quickness. She was subject to fits, during which the llemonte | one; and when she under- SINNED AGAINST. } whole house would ring with her agonized shrieks; and for some time her attendants had been in the habit of quieting her with inhalations of ether. If she could but turn the tables upon them! The powerful drug once in her posses- session, and she would defy a whole army to ve her imprisoned. . othis end she complained of an excessive headache, and prayed that camphor might be brought, hoping that Chloe would fetch the medicine-basket also. But inthis latter expecta- tion she was disappointed. The girl gave her the camphor, and Milicent submerged her head in the liquid—using a great deal of it, and spill- ing a great deal more. She emptied the bottle at last, and concealed it in her clothing, an when Chloe asked for it she said that she had thrown it out of the window. Directly afterward, this cunning woman feigned a nervous spasm, and made the whole place hideous with her yells. Chloe rushed in with the ether, but Melicent cried out piteously: “Brandy and water! a drop! for the love of heaven!” She was accustomed to take this mixture as a stimulant, and the terrified slave unthinkingly set the ether on the floor, and flew down-stairs for the brandy. Quick as thought Melicent caught up the bed-quilt to her mouth and nose with one hand, and with the other transferred the ether into the bottle which had contained the camphor. Hiding this in her bosom, she filled the other jar with water from her jug, and just as she had completed this dextrous oper- ation, Chloe re-entered. Of course the negress was in the maniac’s power; and while Chloe stooped over her to administer the stimulant, Melicent dashed a part of the ether full into her nostrils. The girl fell to the floor like lead, and Meli- cent fled from the room, closing and bolting the door upon her luckless captive. In the buttery she met the negro man, and without ceremony treated him to the remainder of the ether, which stupefied him in an instant. She dragged him into a bedroom near by, and having fastened the door, she secured tke carving-knife from the kitchen, and set off for Bellemonte. It was night, but she knew the way well— every spot in the vicinity was familiar to her, for it was the haunt of her happy childhood. Like a wild deer she flew on, and reached the mouth of the secret passage without molesta- tion. The great stone swung back at her touch on the hidden spring, and, gave her ready in- gress to the passage. She ascended to the re- cess, and, removing the sliding panel, gained Winifred’s chamber. Mother and child were both sleeping, and both would have fallen a sac- rifice to the rage of the demon but for Wini- fred’s sudden and providential awakening. Once again, on a sucteeding night, was her de- “ge frustrated in the same manner. he third time she had been partially success- ful. The presence of Rosy had prevented her from murdering the mistress; so she contented herself with stealing little Willie. The child she proposed to carry to the lodge, and kill it at her leisure; but the poor innocent’s cries for its mother were so piteous, and its struggling rendered it such a burden, that her a
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a ; SINNED AGAINST, 25 patience gave out. She strangled it, and left it | dead on the banks of the river, where the un- happy father had subsequently discovered the remains. Melicent succeeded in reaching the lodge with- out discovery, and then, with a singularity that went far to establish the fact of her insanity, she released the two negroes, whom she had constantly fed during their incarceration, told them what she had done, and gave herself up to them at once. The extraordinary exertions which she had made, and the exposure that she had undergone, threw the miserable woman into a raging fever, which lasted three weeks. At the expiration of that time her disease took a favorable turn, and for more than a month it was expected that she would ultimately recover. Be relapse occurred, and her fate was de- cided. ; Mr. Winthrop arrived at the lodge the day preceding her death, and his threats wrung from the dying woman a minute confession of her sin. She revealed all, unreservedly; and with the last words trembling on her lips, she expired. _ Mr. Winthrop saw her decently interred by the side of her parents, gave the negroes who had served him so faithfully their freedom, shut up Bellemonte, and returned to Maplewood, to find his home desolate. He remembered Winifred’s words at the time he had brought home the dead child, and he had little hesitation in believing that she had fulfilled her threat, and would return to him no more. Suspecting, also, that she had heard rumors of his baseness, he had double reason to believe that it would be useless to prolong his stay at Maplewood in expectation of her appearance; saith leaving the house in charge of his servants, he returned to Washington without seeking for her retreat. Three weeks before the fatal duel, Brandon Lawrence, the cousin of Melicent, had arrived | in America. An accidental meeting had taken | placeat Washington between the former friends, | and some taunting words were exchanged. A Lawrence’s hot blood was in no wise cooled by the lapse of time. He challenged Mr. Winthrop | to mortal combat. 3 ‘his was the substance of his confession. ‘Winifred could only compassionate the poor, wasted piece of mortality before her, and com- cae him, with many prayers, to the mercy of xOd, . Mr. Winthrop grew worse. His wounds healed falsely—inflammation set in, and for six miserable days he suffered unspeakable agony. With vain longings for a little more of the fever called life, and clinging closely to the hand of his wife as though she could keep him back, the spirit of Milford Winthrop passed un- to the bar of its Judge. : Bee CHAPTER XV. THE PAINS OF SICKNESS. eg griefs unnumbered throng thee round, , Still in thy God confide! . Whose finger marks the seas their bound And curbs the headlong tide.—Mrrnricr. oe [ee WINIFRED accompanied the remains of her _ husband, in their splendid coffin, to the burial- place at Maplewood. Ita was duty that she owed tothe cold form beneath those rich rose- wood carvings, and she would not shrink from it. : | Directly after the performance of the pomp- ous funeral ‘rites, the will of the deceased was read—the will which had been drawn up while the testator lay on his death-bed—and it was found that his wife, Winifred Winthrop, was made sole heir of all the rich man’s possessions. The widow remained a few days at Maple- wood, to weep over the grave of her little Wil- lie, and then dus set out for Atherton Hall. The old servants there received her with wild de- monstrations of joy, and again she roamed through the spacious rooms, and indulged in melancholy reveries of the sweet, dim past. Every tree and shrub—every flower and tuft of grass, was a dear souvenir—a link between the now and then; a tender reminder of the happy life which was gone forever! ee he visited the tomb of her parents, at Mount Auburn, aid plucked from the green inclosure the first blue violet of spring. : _ Then, bidding farewell to the faithful domes- tics at Atherton Hall, she returned to Boston, where she placed the complicated affairs of her late husband in the hands of an eminent lawyer for settlement, and herself sojourning for a lew days with her old friend, Mrs. Marchmont. ee lady was exceedingly anxious to keep _ Winifred with her permanently, and used every argument to that effect, but Winifred, while she felt deeply her kindness, considered herself bound to return to Castle Hill, and fulfill her — ena ; ; ometimes she ota she would write, and, — explaining the turn affaifs had taken, ask to be excused from performing her agreement. But — she owed the Vernons much for their kindness to her, and she would go back, if only to testify morning, she set her gratitude. And so, one*bright April 7 forth on her return to Castle Hill. i was the middle of the month when she reached Columbia —wet, rainy, and extremely muddy. She took a stage-coach to a little village some ten miles from Castle Hill, and owing to the wretched state of the roads, washed by re- — heavy rains, her progress was exceedingly ow. : There was a poor woman, with a blue-eyed little girl passenger in the coach, and the child* seemed suffering with some unknown disease. Winifred, compassionating the stranger, sought her acquaintance, and divided with her the task — of holding the child. The mother thought it had the measles, as it had been exposed tothem, and the skin had something of that appearance. About half-way to the village before men- | tioned, the woman and child left the coach— | the latter being unable to ride further. Wini- | fred performed the remainder of the journe which occupied a week, alone. Arrived at t terminus of her stage journey, she rested two days at the hotel, and then engaged a private conveyance to take her to Castle Hill. During the last few days, a strange languor ~ : of spirits, and lassitude of body, had oppressed s ? é ; w ; 4 3 5 bat
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" gress, who ha: See ee * 26 . SINNED AGAINST. her; and now her temples throbbed hotly with a raging headache. \ The jolting of the carriage increased the pain almost beyond endurance, and she feared that her strength would not sustain her throughout the transit. She became incredibly anxious to get on—the horses went at a snail’s pace, and the bold swell of Castle Hill wasso long in break- ing on her view! rom the parlor windows, Horace Vernon saw the approaching carriage—his heart told him who was its occupant, and he hurried cut, bareheaded, into the driving rain to welcome her. Winifreé had just strength enough to _ Murmur: “Take me to the house!” when she fell back unconscious, for the first time in her life. Horace tore open the carriage door, and, clasp- ing the inanimate form in his arms, bore her into the parlor, and laid her on a sofa by the fire. With all haste, he dispatched a servant for a physician, who. was visiting their next neighbor, and in a few moments might be ex- pected at Castle Hill. With singular forethought, Horace did not arouse his mother, who was taking her after- - noon nap in her chamber; and the children, who were spending the day with their aunt on the other side of the river, were not there to disturb the dear wanderer. In a brief space, Dr. Urphan arrived. He examined the patient critically; made some singular inquiries, and shook bis head. “She has the small-pox; of the most violent type, I should judge by the fever. I have sel- dom “felt so high a pulse.. She bas a hard three weeks’ work before a den saad girl!” In this time of trial, Horace Vernon’s strong decision of character led him to act quickly. He called his mother, gathered together his servants, and bade them prepare for an imme- diate journey. His mother objected to his plan —but he was firm, and in two hours from the time of Winifred’s arrival, the entire household (with the exception of Horace and an old ne- had the disease) were on their way to a small plantation belonging to the family, and situated six or seven miles further up the river. , Horace Vernon never felt a more intense thrill of satisfaction than at the moment when he knew that Winifred was to be his charge; that to him she was to owe all the careful tenderness that a sick one requires. And never had a sufferer a more assiduous and gentle nurse. His whole life seemed bound up in the effort to make her comfortable. All that the tenderest and most thoughtful mother could have done for ber sick child, he did for the helpless girl. } Her illness was long and.tedious; she endured terrible spasms of pain—varied by seasons of lethargic slumber—or delirious raving—and from her unconscious revelations, Horace learn- ed much of her past life. And the more he knew of her the dearer she became to him, He rarely left her; his sleep was taken in a chair by hat bedside, during her rare intervals of painless rest; and every medicine passed through his hands before she swallowed it. There came, at length, a time when her life was despaired of! The fearful disease had reached its crisis; the burning fever tugged desperately at the foun- tains of existence, and the live-long night Horace bent above her, in wild agony, asking God to spare her yet a little longer! Toward morning there was a change—and the anxious physician, and the pale watcher, held their breath in suspense. She lay perfectly motionless—white as the illow—not a pulse fluttered, and the heaving of er breast in respiration was scarcely percepti- ble. At sunrise she stirred slightly, and opening her eyes, she spoke the name of Horace Vernon, A glad ery escaped the young man’s lips—and as he bowed his head over her, his tears fell in a torrent on her face. ‘““T can not see you!” she said,in a troubled voice, ‘‘my eyes are so dim! But isn’t it Horace Vernon?’ ‘“Yes, dear one! it is none other! God be thanked! you are better!” “Much better! The terrible pain has gone out of my temples, and I feel cool and calm, But my sight is so feeble! I have been very ill, haven’t I? ; “Yes, dear; but don’t talk about it, now.” “What has ailed me? It was something very strange! Don’t refuse to tell me—I want to know!” He hesitated. She went on, disregarding his admonition: ‘ “Do not keep me in suspense, It is ten times worse than certainty. Ican bear to know all, now. ; ; “You have had the—the—varioloid—small- pox, the Doctorseemed to think.” She lay quiet a moment, with closed eyes and slightly ouverts lips. Then she spoke again: * Am I very hideous?” ‘* Hideous! no, heaven be praised! There is nothing on your face, save pallor, to show that you have suffered!” “God is good! very good—merciful and — good!” hands. ‘Yes, dearest, he is the very spirit of good- ness.” She was ing which ber lips were eloquent in mental prayer. Then she asked: “Where is your mother, and the dear chil- Gren?’ *.. “* At the upper plantation, dear girl; all well and happy except for their anxiety on your ac- count.’ * Are you?” ‘Was never in better health! and sweet con- tent filis my breast to see you so much improv- ea.” , she murmured, softly, clasping her “TY can rest now,” she said, sweetly; and — closing her eyes she lay still, murmuring at in- tervals, ‘‘ Yes, God is good!” When all danger from contagion was over, _ Mrs. Vernon and the family came back to Castle Hill, and Winifred was in great danger of being tended to death. The children gave up all their sports, for feat uiet and silent for some time, dur- — ee. ae ee
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ae ~~ “ SINNED AGAINST. . =o “Ratan at gg gr Ea ee ee ee ae rg ee ee of making her head ache; and Mrs. Vernon could never concoct any delicacy half good enough for her, in her own opinion. As soon as Winifred was strong enough to talk, she confided her whole history to those ex- cellent friends—keeping back only the portion relating to Gerard Middleton. Zhat she could not bring herself to reveal. d when she had finished, Horace Vernon longed inexpressibly to take the sweet uand to his bosom, and kiss all tears from the -pallid cheeks save those of joy. To the surprise and infinite distress of her friends, Wiuifred’s sense of vision continued to orem less and less, until, in a few weeks, total lindness came upon her! Physicians, without number, were consulted— they all prophesied that return to health would restore the power of sight; but time passed, and brought no favorable issue. Horace in a frenzy of doubt and apprehen- sion, besought her to consent to a journey to Paris, where she might have the advice of eminent oculists, but she steadily refused. She felt, she said, that it would only be a useless at- tempt—and if hope was once reawakened, it would be doubly hard to crush it out again. - And after a time he ceased to urge her. - sand-fold “to It-was a terrible trial to this proud, beautiful woman; but, in passing through the deep waters of affliction, she learned to put faith in the goodness of a gracious God. All pride, and scorn, and bitterness, went out from her heart —she became humble and trustful as a little child. It was good for her to be afilicted. Her very helplessness endeared her a thou- Horace Vernon. It was his . privilege to bear her about in his arms; to de. *~ scribe to her the sunset skies; paint to her blind- ed vision the glory of the summer landscape; to soothe and comfort ber as a mother does her beloved child. ey His happiest hours were spent with her when, leaning trustfully on his arm, together they took long walks in the glowing calms of evening, and sat down together on the grassy river- banks. She was gentle, and quict always; she said little by way of thanks—yet her lovely at and sightless eyes were eloquent of grati- UW 2. But it is a hard fate to be shut out forever from the beautiful things of earth! To be blind—groping in darkness—shrouded in a night which never breaks into morning! God help thee, Winifred! It is hard for thee to realize it! CHAPTER XVI. A WOMAN’S TRUTH. T fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone; A woman, s her gen so is The seeming paragon Her health! rail wonld on earth there stood Some more of such a frame! ‘That life might berall Donny i name. peipigien gg —E. OC. PINCKNEY. But what of those other lovers whose fortunes _ We have thrust upon our readers? The heart of the young es, Li A pastor of Windfall grew heavy within him. His love as well ashis _ inclination said to him: ; “Go to Ruth Mowbray, tell her how strongly and tenderly you love her! Tell her that with- out her, life will be worse than a blank. Con- — fess all to her, and perhaps her affection will be stronger than her Vena os was it pride on the other hand that said: : ‘*No; remain where you are. Let her choose for herself. You do not wish to take for a wife one who has a single thought or feeling reach- ing out after other shrines. Wait.” . t was a beautiful spe tite ti evening. The moon rose from out the bosom of aridge of dense black clouds, and gave to the sable dra- peries of the east a silver fringe. The western heavens were clear, and gemmed with stars— there was no wind to stir the leaves with mur- murous complaint; and Charles River gleamed like a polished crystal. The hum of the distant city had fallen to silence—men rested from their labors—sleep was upon the earth with her balm of rest—the universal heart of Nature was at eace. ; But there was one who took no rest—one whose whole soul was in tumult. Back apd forth, in the shrubbery behind the church, w proclaimed no resignation within. It was near midnight, he knew, for the clock on the neighboring steeple bad just given the warning. He had hoped against hope for some message from little Ruth. The hope was dead now, and in its place had come despair. It was midnight—-the last rs that the fair — is girl would spend in her native land. So report said, and why should he hesitate to believe it? Only a few more brief hours, and they would be irrevocably separated. The thought was maddening, and he struck his head violently with his clenched hand. He would go into the house, he said—in where no buman eye could witness his agony; he would go in and ask strength from the source from whence he never failed to receive it. He turned to enter the house, where he might spend his night of sorrow alone. A hand was laid lightly on hisarm. He stood face to face _ with Ruth Mowbray. The white moonlight eyes were lifted to his. There was no guile, no sbrinking, in those calm, truthful orbs. He took both her hands in his, and said, simply: ‘“*Well, Ruth, I have waited for you.” “And I could not stay away longer, John. I. . hoped you would come to me, but you did not; and now that I have come, you will not think — me bold and forward?” ' “No, Lady Ruth.” “Lady Ruth! never call me thus again! Ire- | nounce all claim to rank and title, John. There | is but one earthly throne where I covet to reign! | ** And that is where?” ' In your heart!” He caught her rapturously in his arms, yeep- - ing over her as we weep over those returned to us from the dead. alked John Rutherford; his face pale and stormy; his arms folded in the semblance — . of resignation upon a breast whose wild beating | shone full upon her brow; her deep, earnest —
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=i, re always!” * 28 o ‘My own little Ruth once more! God bless her true loyal heart! And she will not leave eee lover for British titles and British old” “Never, John; how could you think so?” she said, seriously and fervently. There was childing in her tears, and perhaps he thought he deserved it, for he held her closer to his side. After a little while she went on: ‘*T have empowered Mr. Montague to dispose of all my new inheritance, and transmit to me the proceeds. We can do a great deal with that money, John. Providence has given it to us for that purpose. The title I relinquish to my young cousin across the seas, who has a handsome share of the heritage. I can afford to give up an empty name, when I have you -and your love instead,” Think you John Rutherford was happy? Two months later, there was a wedding in the little church of Windfall. The pale-browed young clergyman, and the blue-eyed milliner were made, before God, ‘‘ one flesh.” People wondered, as people often will. Med- dling ones censured Ruth for relinquishing her right to be called ‘‘my lady,” and ambitious maidens wondered how she could bear to cell those fine old English castles, with their broad acres, without once seeing them. But Ruth re- gretted nothing. She was too happy for regrets —too full of peace to feel unrest. The life of John Rutherford and his wife was blessed? CHAPTER XVIL DARKNESS AND DAWN. “Darkened! this life, henceforth, a shadowy dream, Blinded and helpless float I down the stream.” HORACE VERNON, in his noble, generous love but yearned the more tenderly over Winifred on account of her blindness; he hungered to be to that shadowed life all in all—to place his sight, his reason, his existence—all that he had —at her service. And it was not long before he ‘told her so. He would make any sacrifice; wait any length _of time; endure any degree of probatioh—if she would only give him one little ray of hope to cling to! He did not ask her to be his then—he would give her time—that she might learn to love him—learn to feel toward him the affection that would be to him the foretaste of Eden. She listened to him quietly, but her beautifui face grew paler and sadder; she sorrowed over the pain she must inflict. She did not answer him directly, but spoke of her misfortune. She _ was helpless and blind, she said, of what value sae f could her existence be to any one? She would only be a drawback, in which a husband could hope for neither pride nor pleasure. Vernon replied, passionately: _* Winifred, my love is the stronger on that account! for that my heart longs for you yet more tenderly and powerfully. You, blinded as you are, helpless as you would make me be- lieve you, are more precious to me than all the women in the world! Winifred, my true love would be content to lead you through life SINNED AGAINST. She let him finish—then putting both he hands in his, she said: ““My dearest and best friend, in answer to what you ask, I must make a ¢onfession whose secrets have never before passed my lips. Since I was fifteen years of age, every thought, feel- ing and emotion of my heart has been bestowed on one whose name my lips never speak! Him I love, entirely, wholly, and eternally! It is not probable that I shall ever meet him again in this life—I know not beneath what sky he is wandering—but in the land of everlasting peace we shall be reunited. In this hope alone do IL live; and the thought of this meeting will make the way over Death’s river look pleasant to me! Forgive me, Horace, but Ican give you only a sister’s love.” The young man’s face underwent a change. His lips quivered, and great beads of perspiration stood upon his brow. There was a desperate struggle in his heart. But he triumphed over this emotion; he saw the mute distress of the blind lady, and he was generous enough to pity her rather than himself. He stooped over her and kissed her forehead. ‘‘ Winifred, forgive me; and hereafter look upon me as a brother, if Ican be no more. I will accept, thankfully, the humblest place in your heart.” ‘ And she, grateful and happy for this new love, rested her head on his arm, and with her tears sealed the compact. The country rung with the fame of the great French physician, Dr. Gerard. His name reach-— ed the secluded home of the Vernons, loaded with praise. He was a singularly successful oculist, who had performed some astonishin operations. Horace Vernon besought Winifre to make the journey to New York, and consult’ this great operator. Early in October she set forth for the metropolis, accompanied by Horace. They made their journey a long one, for Wini- fred was still feeble, but finally arrived at their destination. Two days elapsed, during which Winifred rested from her fatigue, and Horace had an in- terview with Dr. Gerard. On the third day the fair patient, attended by her friend, was ushered - into the doctor’s presence. Dr. Gerard was standing at a window, gazing out on the dense throng of life continually jost- ling down the street, when his visitors were an- nounced. He turned quickly around to greet them, but he gave them no welcome; his. eyes were riveted upon the sweet countenance of the lady, while slowly all the color went out from his face, leaving it white and clear as marble. He did not oe he did not move; all the powers of his life seemed to be concentrated in that absorbing gaze. Horace, in his anxiety, scarcely noticing the singular conduct of the physician, said: “This is the lady whom I mentioned to you, yesterday.” Dr Gerard, regaining self-control by an effort, — came forward, He greeted ifred in a few - constrained, embarrassed words, and turned t0— Horace. “The lady is your wife, I presume?” he said, in a constrained voice, ks “st 7%
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i 4 i ‘ i% but I do not despair. Horace blushed painfully. ‘‘No, sir; not my wife, friend.” A strange gleam of satisfaction shot athwart the dark, handsome face of the doctor. He took Winifred gently by the arm, and led her to an easy-chair in a shadowy corner of the room. / “Will you trust her with me a little while?” he asked, speaking to Horace. “To be sure, if she consents.” “Certainly, Horace; I am not afraid,’-was her reply. The soft tones of her voice seemed to strike Some sensitive chord in the being of Dr. Gerard. is breast heaved, a tide of crimson surged id is cheek, his dark, passionate eyes took a depth of tenderness hardly compatible with the usual grave dignity for which he was distinguished. He touched the white eyelids of the girl—a thrill ran through her; she opened wide those but my very dear beautiful, sightless eyes, and leaned toward im, as if to understand what presence was | near. He passed his hand soothingly over her hair, while an expression of unutterable tender- ness dwelt on his face. ‘*Be quiet, madam; I will not be long.” How gentle he was! €xamined those-shrinking eyes! How particu- za ve was not to agitate her by word or mo- jion At last—it seemed an age to the impatient Waiter—he called Horace, and to his rapid in- {uiries replied, encouragingly: “T can give you no certain grounds for hope, To-morrow, if the lady : has the courage, I can decide.” Operation?” i n what manner?’ cried Horace. ‘‘ By an “* Yes, and by that only.” Horace shuddered. “Will it be painful?” } “No, not if it should be in any manner suc- essful. If the contrary—I will not deceive you e 2 ye 2 , 7¥ : j | fo th a “ch M4 2 qi air —&Ven —it will occasion some degree of suffering; per- Ps more, perhaps less.” ; “Dear Winifred! my poor friend! Can you ®ndure it?” She smiled sweetly and hopefully. than suspense. Try me and see.” a es _ SINNED AGAINST, fully. 29 Be spoke a word; there was too mtich at stake. 3 Nota nerve of the doctor trembled, his hand _ was firm as steel, his lips never quivered, though the unspeakable anxiety of his feelings made his face white and stern. It was done at last. A low cry burst from the sufferer’s lips. The doctor bent down over her. ‘*T see! I see! though dimly!” she cried, joy- “*T see! Oh God, whom do I see? ts this an illusion? Js Gerard Middleton before me?” He stood upright, where the light fell faintly in from a shaded window. There was a mighty struggle in his breast, and he was powerless to conquer it. His‘arms reached out after her. “Come to me, Winifred, come tome. I must hold you to my heart, or it will burst!” She sprung up: “ Gerard.” She buried her face in his bosom. “Thank God!” was all he could utter. He sat down, yet holding her to his breast et feeling her arms clasped about bis neck, an er cheek laid against his. She thought not of ‘her restored. sight, nothing of poor, anxious How very carefully he ; Horace waiting without; all the world was swallowed up in the one idea—Gerard Middle- a } n. Many days of weakness and pain did Wini- fred pass In a darkened chamber, forbidden to look even upon that dear face which hovered continually over her. His presence soothed her like a strain of sweet music. Perfect vision came to her never again. could enjoy the pleasure of viewing near objects, and the companionship of books- For this in- caleulable favor she was very grateful. When the light of day was admitted into her’ chamber, Dr. Middleton brought a ‘white- haired man to the sofa where Winifred reclined; and, while Gerard supported the pale woman in his arms, the aged man of God united these two, so.long severed in marriage. Horace Vernon, his face hidden in the drapery of the window, was the only witness. the clergyman had pronounced his blessing on the new-made husband and wife, and departed, ; ' Horace conquered his emotion, and came forth. es, Horace, I can bear any thing better Dr. Gerard cast upon her a look of intense | feeling, followed the visitors down the stairs, and the door of their carriage. _ To-morrow, at teo,” he said, by way of a Teminder, as the carriage bore them away. CHAPTER XVIII. THE COMING OF LIGHT. O’er the deep seas there isacalm, _, Full as the hush of all Heaven’s psalm! Their golden goal—the victor palm !—Massey. we hour arrived. ; : inifred, pale but firm, sat in the operating of Dr. Gerard. in the private surger r % y Not lace was cleared re all attendants. orace was allowed to remain. head of the patient was supported on the he t of the surgeon. Dead silence reigned— | He took a hand of each. ‘May God bless you!” he said, earnestly. **God bless you forever! Tam content.” It was not until Winifred had ‘been many weeks a happy wife, and the pair were settled down to blissful their life at Atherton Hall, that she knew the truth and tenderness with which, she had been loved through those long years of separation. Gerard Middleton had wandered over Europe, studying his profession here and there; lonely and desolate in heart, but firm in his resolution to win for himself a name that all should speak with praise. ~ ; He had sueceeded. His fame spread over the continent. Gold came to his coffers, and the granenes of thousands of human beings to his eart. But peace of mind never came. His heart had an unfilled void. At length he had read in an American paper of the dueland subsequent death of Milford She, hen 2 | é eR ein 3 ae Psa yt ene Oe ae re | Seo ae
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30 SINNED AGAINST. + ‘ Winthrop. Newly-awakened hope swelled his bosom, and he sailed for America immediately. He had established himseif in New York, and sent faithful agents all over New England to obtain some clew to his beioved Winifred. Providence brought ber to his door. Dear reader, your good heart can imagine the happiness of those two persons who bad loved each other so faithfully through years of doubt and despair; and perhaps you can also picture to yourself the desolation of Horace Vernon, when once more in the calm of his Southern home. He never married, but through a long and virtuous life, the poor blessed his name, and men loved and respected him. And he found his greatest joy below, in the long visit, which Ha co annually, to his friends. at Atherton all. Jobn Rutherford and his wife, living as they did, within a day’s ride of the Middletons, found much pleasure in their society; and Mr. Rutherford felt no jealousy, but only content when the older friendship between Mrs. Ruth- -erford and Dr. Middleton was renewed. And thus, in peace and happiness, we leave them. THE END. HIME DIALOGUES AND SPEAKERS FOR SCHOOL EXHIBITIONS AND HOME ENTERTAINMENTS. Dialogues, Nos. 1 to 81 inclusive, 15 to 2% popu- lar dialogues and dramas in each book. Each vol- ume 100 pages 12mo. Speakers, Nos. 1 to MU inclusive. Each speaker 100 pages 12mo, containing from 50 to 75 pieces, YOUNG PEOPLE’S SERIES. Dime Book of Winter Sports. Dime Book of Summer Athletic Sports, Dime Gents’ Letter Writer. Dime Book of Etiquette. Dime Book of Verses. Dime Book of Dreams. Dime Fortune Teller, Dime Ladies’ Letter Writer. Dime Lovers’ Casket. “Dime Ball-Room Companion, Dime Book of 100 Games. Dime Chess Instructor. Dime Book of Beauty. (> The above books are sold by newsdealers everywhere, or will be sent, post-paid, to any ad- dress, on receipt of price, ten cents each. BEADLE AND ApAms, Publishers, 98 William st., N. Y. ‘ Half-Dime Singer's Library 1 Wo, Exmma! and 59 other Songs, 2 Caprain Curr and 57 other Songs, 3 THE GAINnssoRO’ Hat and 62 other Songs. 4 Jounny Morean and 60 other Songs. 5 Put Srrme You Wits a Frarser and 62 othera. 6 GEORGE THE CHARMER and 56 other Songs. 7 Tue BevLte or Rockaway and 52 other Songs, 8 Youne Freitas, You’re Too Frresx and 60 others 9 Say Youne Grr and 65 other Songs, 10 I’m tHE GoveRNor’s OnLy Son and 58 other Songs. 1i My Faw and 65 other Songs. 12 Comin’ Toro’ run Rye and 55 other Songs. ‘a 18 Tue Roiiickine Irisuman and 59 other Songs, 14 Otp Doe Tray and 62 other Songs, a 15 Wuoa, CHArLiz and 59 other Songs. 16 IN THIS WHEAT By AND By and 62 other Songs. 17 Nancy Lee and 58 other Songs. fe 18 I’m THE Boy THAT’s Bounp To BLAZE and 57 others, 19 THe Two OrpHans and 59 other Songs, 20 Waar are THE Witp Waves Sayine, Sister? — and 59 other Songs. | 21 Inprianantr Potty Woe and 59 other Songs. 22 Tue OLD ArM-CHarr and 58 other Songs. 23 On Conny Istanp Beacon and 58 other Songs, 24 OLD SIMON, THE Hor-Corn MAN and 60 others, 25 I’m in Love and 56 other Songs. 26 PARADE OF THE GuaRDs and 56 other Songs, 27 Yo, Heave, Ho! and 60 other Songs, 28 "Twinn NEVER Do To GiB iT up So and 60 others, 29 Buur Bonners Over THE Borper and 54 others. 30 ‘au Merry Lavantne Man and 56 other Songs, 31 SwEET Forart-me-Nor and 55 other Songs. 82 Lerrite Bapy Mine and 53 other Songs. i 33 Dm BANJO AM DE INSTRUMENT FoR ME and 58 others. — 34 Tarry and 50 other Songs. al 85 Just To PLEASE THE Boys and 52 other Songs. 36 SKATING ON ONE IN THE GuTTER and 52 others. 37 Kotorep Krayxs and 59 other Songs. ie 38 Ni Desperanpum and 53 other Songs. a 39 Tux Gir I Lerr Bemrnp Me and 50 other Sengs 40 "Tis pur a Larrus Fapep Frower and 50 others — 41 Prerry WHiLeeiMra and 60 other Songs. 42 DANCING IN THE Barn and 63 other Songs, Pet, etd beak Sold everywhere by Newsdealers, at five cents per copy, or sent post-paid, to any address, 0D re ceipt of Six cents per number. es BEADLE AND ADAMS, PusiisHers,