Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 95) (1881 09 06)
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tu) ° The Only Young Ladies’ Library of First-Class Copyright Novels Published! Price, but 5 cents each. eas a: Sia ths ~ $2.50 a year. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., at Second Class Mail Rates. Copyrighted in 1881 by BEADLE AND ADAMS. No. 95... Vou. IV. PRICE, 5 CENTS Lettice Arnold. BY MES. MARSH, hy CHAPTER IL. “4 No, dearest mother, no!” Icannot. What! after all the tender- “ness, care, and Jove I have received from you, for now one-and-twenty years, to leave you and my father, in your old age, to yourselves! Oh, no! Ob, no!” “Nay, my child,” said the pale, delicate, nervous woman, thus addressed by a blooming girl whose face beamed with every promise for future happiness, which health and cheerfulness, and eyes filled with “warm affections could give. ‘‘Nay, my child, don't talk so. You must not talk so. It is not to be thought.of.” And, as she said these words with effort, her poor. heart was dying - with- in her, not only from sorrow at the ‘thought of parting from her darling, but with all sorts of dreary, undefined terrors at the idea of the forlorn, deserted life -before her, Abandoned to her- self and to servants, so fearful, so weak as she was, and with the poor, invalided, and crip- pled veteran, her husband, a martyr to that long train of suf- ferings which honorable wounds, received in the service of coun- try, too often leave behind them, a man at all times so difficult. to soothe, so impossible to eatertain—and old age creep- ing upon them both; the little spirit she ever possessed failing; what should she do without this dear, animated, this loving, clever being, who was, in cne word everything to her? But she held to her resolution ~—no martyr ever more cour- ageously than this trembling, timid woman, A prey to ten thousand imaginary fears, and placed in a position where the help she was now depriving her- se!f of was so greatly needed. “No, my dear,” she repeated, “don't think of it; Con’t speak of it. You distress me very much, Pray don’t, my dearest Catherine.” « But I should be a shocking creature, mamma, to forsake you; and, I am. sure, Edgar would despise me as much as I should myself, if 1 could think of it. Icannot, I ought not to leave you.” ‘The gen’le blue eye of the mother was fixed upon the daughter’s generous, glowing face. She smothered a sigh. She wajtei awhile to steady her fal- tiring voiee. She wished to hide, if possible, from her daugh- ter the extent of the sacrifice she was making. 4 ‘ =— Ss ~~ ‘ea. SSS PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST., N.Y. At last she recovered herself sufficiently to speak with composure, and then she said: “To accept such a sacrifice from a child, I have always thought the most monstrous piece of selfishness of which a parent could be guilty. My love, this does not come upon me unexpectedly. I have, of course, anticipated it. I knew my sweet girl could not be long known and’ seen without inspiring and returning the. attachment of some valuable man. I have resolved—and God strengthen me in this resolve,” (she cast up a silent appeal to the fountain of strength and courage)—“ that nothing sbould tempt me to what I consider so base. A parent ac- cept the sacrifice of a life in exchange for the poor remnant of ‘her own! A parent who has had her own portion of the joys of youth in her day, deprive a child of a share in her turn? No, my,dearest love, never—never! I would die, and I will die first.” : But it was not death she feared. The idea of death did not appali’ her. What she dreaded was melancholy. She knew the unsoundness of her own nerves; she bad often felt her-elf, as it were, trembling up- on. the fearful verge of reason, when the mind, unable to sup-' port itself, is forced to rest upon another. Sbe had known a f.cling, common to many nervous people, I belicve, as though the mind would be overset when pressed far, if not helped, strengthened and cheered by some mcre wholesome mind} and she chrauk appalled trom the prospect, But even this could not make her waver in her resolution. She was a generous, just, disin- terested woman; though the ex- igencies of a most delicate con- stitution, and most susceptible nervous system, had too often thrown upon her—from those who did not understand such things, and whose iron nerves and vigorous health’ rendered sympathy et such times impos- sible —the reproach of being a whimsical,selfish ty pochondriac, Poor thing, she knew this well. It was the difficulty of making herself understood; the want of sympathy, the impossi- bility of rendering needs, most urgent in her case, comprelien- hensible by ber fiicnds, which bad added so greatly to the tim orous cowardice, the fear of circumstances, of changes, which bad been the bane of ber exist-- ence. : And, therefore, this kind, an- imated, affectiorate caughter, whose tenderness seemed never to weary iv the tack cf cheering “ber; whose activity was never exbavsted in the endeavor to’ assist and serve ber; whose gocd | sense and spirit kept every thing” right at home, and more ¢s- peciatly kept those terril ie things, the servants, in order— of whom tte poor mother, like many other feeble and Janguid_ people was so afraid; therefore, this kind daughter was as the’ very spring of ber existence; and pase Vee See - mw pees pees & TA Le - we 7A Va
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the idea of parting with her was really dreadful. Yet she hesitated not. So did that man behave who stood upon the rampart till he had finished his observation, though his hair turned white with fear. Mrs. Melwyn was a heroic coward of this kind. She had prayed ardently, fervently, that day, for courage, for resolution, to complete the dreaded sacrifice, and she had found it. “Oh, Lord! I am thy seryant. Do with me what thou wilt. Trembling in spirit, the victim of my infirmity—a poor, selfish, cowardly being, I fall down before Thee. Thou. hast. showed me what is right—the sacrifice I ought to make. Qh, give me strength in my weakness to be faithful to complete it!” Thus had she prayed. And now resolved in heart, the poor sinkling spirit failing her within, but, as I said, steadying her voice with an almost heroic. constancy, she resisted her grateful and pious child’s representation: “I have told Edgar —dear as he is to me—strong as are the claims his generous affection gives him over me—that I will not—I cannot forsake you.” “You must not call it forsake,” said the mother, gently. ‘My love, the Lord of life himself has spoken it: ‘Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife.’ ” “And so he is ready to do,” cried Catherine, eagerly. “ Yes, mother, he desires nothing better ; he respects my scruples; he has offered, dear Ed- gar! to abandon his profession and come and live here, and help me'to take care of you and my father. Was not that beautiful?” and the tears stood in her speaking eyes. “Beautiful! generous! devoted! My Catherine will be a happy woman;” and the mother smiled. A ray of genuine pleasure warmed her beating heart, This respect in the gay, handsome young officer for the filial scruples of her he loved was indeed beautiful! But the mother knew his spirit too well to listen to this proposal for a moment. ““ And abandon his profession? No, my sweet child, that would never, never do,” “But he says he is independent of his profes- sion—that his private fortune, though not large, . is enough for such simple, moderate people as he andI are. In short, that he shall be miserable without me, and all that charming stuff, mamma; and that he loves me better, for what he calls, dear fellow, my piety to you. And so, dear mother, he says if you and my father will but consent to take him in, he will do his very best in helping me +o make you comfortable; and he is so sweet-tem- pered, so reasonable, so good, so amiable, I am quite sure he would keep his promise, mamma.” And she looked anxiously into her mother’s face, waiting for an answer. The temptation was very, very clas 4 Again those domestic spectres which had so ap- palled her poor timorous spirit rose before her. A desolate, dull fireside; her own tendency to mel- ancholy; her poor maimed, suffering, and, alas, too often peevish partner ; encroaching, unmanage- able servants; the cook, with her careless, saucy ways; the butler, so indifferent and negligent, and her own maid, that Randall, who in secret tyran- nized over her, exercising the empire of fear to an extent which Catherine, alive as she was to these evils, did not suspect. And again she asked her- self, if these things were disagreeable now, when Catherine was here to take care of her, what would they be when she was left alone? : And then such a sweet picture of happiness presented itself to tempt her—Catherine settled there—settled there forever. That handsome, lively young man, with his sweet, cordial ways and polite observance of everyone, sitting by their hearth, and talking, as he did, to the gen- eral of old days and military matters, the only subject in which this aged military man took any interest, reading the newspaper to him, and making such lively, pleasamt comments as he read ! How should she ever get through the debates, with her breath so short, and her voice so indis- tinct andlow? The general would loose all pa- tience, he hated to hear her attempt to read such things,’ and always got Catherine or the young Lieutenant-colonel to do it. Oh! it was asore temptation. But this poor, creature resisted it. » A - . t . TAG lave,” coca, ater @ little pause, during * LETTICE ARNOLD. Se ai a eee Eee which this noble victory was achieved—laugh if you will at the expression, but it was a noble vic- tory over self—‘ my love,” she said, “don’t tempt your poor mother beyond her strength. .Gladly, gladly, as far as we are concerned, would we enter into. this arrangement; but it must not be. No, Catherine; Edgar ‘must not quit his profession. It*vould not only be a very great sacrifice I am sure now, but it would lay the foundation of end- less regrets in future. No, my darling girl, neither his happiness nor your happiness shall be ever sac- rificed to mine. A life against a few uncertain years! No, no,” The mother was inflexible. The more these good children offered to give up for her sake, the more she resolved to suffer no such sacrifice to be made. Edgar could not but rejoice. -He was an excel- lent young fellow, and excessively in love with the charming Catherine, you mav be sure, or he never would have thought of offering to abandon a pro- fession for her sake in which he had distinguished himself highly—which opened to him the fairest prospects, and of which he was especially fond— but he was not sorry to be excused. He had re- solved upon this sacrifice, for there is something in those who truly love, and whose love is elevated almost to adoration by the moral worth they have observed in the chosen one, which revolts at the idea of lowering the tone of that enthusiastic good- ness and self-immolation to principle which has so enchanted them. Edgar could not doit. He could not’ attempt to persuade this tender generous daughter to consider her own welfare and his, in preference to that of her parents. He could only offer, on his own part, to make the greatest sacri- fice which could have been demanded from him. Rather than part from her what would he not do ? Everything was possible but that. However, when the mother positively refused to accept of this act of self-abnegation, I cannot say that he regretted it. No; he thought Mrs. Mel- wyn quite right in what she said, and he loved and respected both her character and understanding very much more than he had done before. That night Mrs. Melwyn was very, very low indeed, And when she went up into her dressing-room, and Catherine, having kissed her tenderly, with a heart quite divided between anxiety for her, and a sense of happiness that would make itself felt in spite of all, had retired to her room, the mother sat down, poor thing, in the most comfortable arm-chair that ever was invented, but which imparted no conffort to her; and placing herself by a merry biazing fire, which was reflected from all sorts of cheerful pretty things with which the dressing-room was adorned, her feet upon a warm, soft footstool of Catherine’s own working, her elbow resting upon her knee, and her head upon her hand, she, with her eyes bent mournfully upon the fire, began ery- ing very much. And so she sat a long time, think- ing and crying, very sorrowful, but not in the least repentng. Meditating upon all sorts of dismal things, filled with all kinds of melancholy fore- bodings, as to how it wonld, and must be, when Catherine was really gone, she sank at last into a sorrowful reverie, and sat quite absorbed in her own thoughts, till she—who was extremely punc- tual in her hour of going to bed—for reasons best known to herself, though never confided to any human being, namely, that her maid disliked very much. sitting up for her—started as the clock in the hall sounded eleven and two quarters, and al- most with the irepidation of a chidden child, rose and rang the bell. Nobody came. This made her still more uneasy. It was Randall’s custom not to answer her mistress’ bell the first time, when sho was cross, And poor Mrs. Melwyn dreaded few things in this world more than cross looks in those about her, especially in Randall; and that Randall knew perfectly well. “She must be fallen asleep in her chair, poor thing. It was very thoughtless of me,” Mrs. Mel- wyn did not say, but would have said, if people ever did speak to themselves aloud. Even in this sort of mute soliloquy she did not venture to say, ‘ Randall will be very ill-tempered and unreasonable.” She rang again; and then, after a proper time yielded to the claims of of- fended dignity, it pleased Mrs, Randall to appear. “T gm very sorry, Randall. Really I had no idea bow laté it was. I was thinking about Yiss Catherine, and I missed it when it struck ten. I had not the least idea it was so late,” began the mistress in an apologizing tone, to which Randall vouchsafed not an answer, but looked like a thunder-cloud, as she went banging up and down the room, opening and shutting drawers with a loud noise, and treading with a rough, heavy step ; two things particularly annoying, as she very well knew, to the sensitive nerves of her mistress. But Randall settled it with herself—that as her mis- tress had kept her out of bed an hour-and-a-half longer than usual, for no reason at all but just to please herself, she should find she was none the better for it. The poor mistress bore all this with patience for some time. She would have gone on bearing the roughness and the noise, however disagreeable, as long as Randall liked; but her soft heart could not bear those glum, cross looks, and this alarming silence. “T was thinking of Miss Catherine’s marriage, Randall. That was what made me forget the hour. What shall I do. without her?” “Yes, that’s just’ like it,” said the insolent Abigail; “nothing ever can content some people. Most ladies would be glad to settle their daughters so well; but some folk make a crying matter of everything. It would be well for poor servants, when they’re sitting over the fire, their bones ach- ing to death for very weariness, if they'd some- thing pleasant to think about. They wouldn’t be crying for nothing, and keeping all the world out of their beds, like those who care for naught but how to please themselves.” Part of this was said, part muttered, part thought; and the poor timid mistress—one of whose domestic occupations it seemed to be to study the humors of her servants—heard a part and divined the rest. “Well, Randall, I don’t quite hear all you are saying; and perhaps it is as well I do not; but I wish you would give me my things and make haste, for I’m really very tired, and I want to go to bed.” “People can’t make more haste than they can.” And so it went on. The maid-servant never ro- laxing an atom of her offended dignity—continu- ing to look as ilJ-humored, and to do everything as disagreeably as she possibly could—and her poor victim, by speaking from time to time in an anx- ious, most gentle, and almost flattering manner, hoping to mollify her dependent; but all in vain, “Til teach her to keep me up again for nothing at all,” thought Randall. And so the poor lady, very miserable in the midst of all her luxuries, at last gained her bed, and lay there not able to sleep for very discom- fort. And the Abigail retired to her own warm apartment, where she was greeted with a pleasant fire, by which stood a little nice chocolate simmer- ing, to refresh her before she went to bed—not much less miserable than her mistress, for she was dreadfully out of humor—and thought no hard- ship upon earth could equal that she endured— forced to sit up in consequence of another’s whim when she wanted so sadly to go to bed. While, thus, all that the most abundant posses. sion of the world’s goods could bestow, was mar- red by the weakness of the mistress and the ill- temper of the maid—the plentiful gifts of fortune rendered valueless by the erroneous facility upon one side, and insolent love of domination on the other; how many in the large metropolis, only a few miles distant, and of which the innumerable lights might be seen brightening, like an Aurora, the southern sky; how many laid down their heads supperless that night! Stretched upon mis- erable pallets, and ignorant where food was to be found on the morrow to satisfy the cravings of hunger; yet, in the midst of their misery, more miserable, also, because they were not exempt from those pests of existence—our own faults and infirmities. And even, as it was, how many poor creatures did actually lay down their heads that night, far less miserable than poor Mrs. Melwyn. The tyranny of a servant is noticed by the wise man, if I recollect right, as one of the most irritating and insupportable of mortal miseries. Two young women inhabited one small room of about ten feet by eight, in the upper story of a set of houses somewhere near Masele:
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LETTICE ARNOLD. eee SSS SSS ee SS Eee Street. intended for rather substantial persons, but have gradually sunk into lodging-houses for the very poor. The premises look upon an eld grave- ‘yard; a dreary prospect enough, but perhaps preferable to a close street, and are filled with decent but very poor people. Every room ap- pears to serve a whole family, and few of the rooms are much larger than the one I have de- scribed. It was now half-past twelve o'clock, and still the miserable dip tallow candle burned in a dilapidated tin candlestick. The wind whistled with that pe- - guliar wintry sound which betokens that snowy is falling; it was very, very cold; the fire was out ; and the girl who sat plying her needle by the hearth, which was still a little warmer than the rest of the room, had wrapped up her feet in an old worn-out piece of flannel, and had an old black silk wadded cloak thrown over her to keep her from being almost perished. The room was scant- ily furnished, and bore an air of extreme poverty, amounting almost to absolute destitution. One by one the little articles of property possessed by its inmates had disappeared to supply the calls of ur- gent want. An old four-post bedstead, with eur- tains of worn-out serge, stood in one corner; one mattress, with two small, thin pillows, and a bol- ster that was almost flat; three old blankets, cot- ton sheets of the coarsest description upon it; three rush-bottomed chairs, an old claw-table, a very ancient dilapidated chest of drawers—at the * top of which were a few battered band-boxes—a miserable bit of carpet before the fire-place; a wooden box for coals; a little low tin fender, a poker, or rather half a poker; a shovel and tongs, much the worse for wear, and a very few kitchen utensils, was all the furniture in the room. What there was, however, was kept clean; the floor was clean, the yellow paint was clean; and, I forgot to say, there was a washing-tub set aside in one corner, The wind blew shrill, and shook the window, and the snow was heard beating against the panes ; the clock went another quarter, but sti!l the inde- fatigable toiler sewed on. Now and then she lift- ed up her head, as a sigh came from that corner of the room where the bed stood, and some one might be heard turning and tossing uneasily upon the mattress—then she returned to her occupation and plied her needle with increased assiduity. The workwoman was a girl of from eighteen to twenty, rather below the middle size, and of a face and form little adapted to figure in a story. One whose life, in all probability, would never be diver- sified by those romantic adventures which *eal life in general reserves to the beautiful and the highly- gifted. Her features were rather homely, her hair of light brown, without golden threads through it, her hands and arms rough and red with cold and Jabor ; her dress ordinary to a degree—her clothes being of the cheapest materials—but then, these clothes were so neat, so carefully mended where they had given way; the hair was so smooth and so closely and neatly drawn round the face; and the face itself had such a sweet expression, that all the defects of line and color were redeemed to the lover of expression, rather than beauty. She did not look patient, she did not look resigned; she could not look cheerful exactly. She looked earnest, composed, busy, and ex- ceedingly kind. She had not, it would seem, thought enough of self in the midst of her priva- tions, to require the exercise of the virtues of pa- tience and resignation ; she was so occupied with the sufferings of others that she never seemed to think of her own. She was naturally of the most cheerful, hopeful temper in the world—those people without selfish- ness usually are. And, though sorrow had a little lowered the tone of her spirits to eomposure, and work and disappointment had faded the bright colors of hope; still hope was not entirely gone, nor cheerfulnes exhausted. But the predominant expression of every word, and look, and tone, and gesture was kindness—inexhaustible kinduess. I said she lifted her head from time to time as a sigh proceeded from the bed, and its suffering inhabitant tossed and tossed; and at last she “broke silence and said: . “Poor Myra, can’t-you get to sleep ?” ad These houses appear to have been ence. “Tt is so fearful cold,” was the reply; “and when will you have done, and come to bed?” “ One quarter of an hour more, and I shall have finished it. Poor ‘Myra, you are so nervous, you never can get to sleep till all is shut up—but have patience, dear, one little quarter of an hour, and then I will throw my clothes over your feet, and I hope you will be a little warmer.” A sigh for all answer; and then the ¢rwe hero- ine—for she was extremely beautiful, or rather had been, poor thing, for she was too wan and wasted to be beautiful now—lifted up her head, from which fell a profusion of the fairest hair in the world, and leaning her head upon her arm, watched in a sort of impatient patience the progress of the indefatigable needle-moman.” “One o’clock striking, and you hav’n’t done yet, Lettice ? how slowly you do get on.” “JT can not work fast and neatly too, dear Myra. I can not get through, as some do; I wish I could. But my hands ‘are not so delicate and nimble as yours, such swelled clumsy things,” she said, laughing a little as she looked at them, swelled, in- deed, and all mottled over with the cold! “I can- not get over the ground nimbly and well at the same time. You are a fine race-horse, I ama poor little drudging pony, but I will make as much haste as I possibly can.” Myra once more uttered an impatient, fretful sigh, and sunk down again, saying, “My feet are so dreadfully cold |” “Take this bit of flannel then, and let me wrap them up.” “Nay, but you will want it.” “Oh, I have only five minutes more to stay, and Tecan wrap the carpet round my feet.” And she laid down her work and went to the bed, and wrapped her sister’s delicate, but now icy feet, in the flannel; and then she sat down; and_at last the task was finished. And oh, how glad she was to creep to that mattress, and to lay her aching limbs down upon it! Hard it might be, and wretch-. ed the pillows, and scanty the covering, but little felt she such inconveniences. She fell asleep al- most immediately while her sister still tossed and murmured. Presently Lettice, for Lettice it was, awakened a little, and said, “What is it, love? Poor, poor Myra! Oh, that you could but sleep as do.’ And then she drew her own little pillow from under her head, and put it under her sister’s, and tried to make her more comfortable; and she part- ly succeeded, and at last the poor delicate suffering creature fell asleep, and then Lettice slumbered like a baby. CHAPTER II. ““O, blessed with temper whose unclouded ray Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day : Fo Rant Beioshen Ss ee OAL Sighs for a sister with unwounded ear.” Porr.—* Characters of Women.” Eanrty in the morning, before it was light, while the wintry twilight gleamed through the curtain- less window, Lettice was up, dressing herself by the scanty gleam cast from the street lamps into the room, for she could not afford the extravagance of a candle. : She combed and did up her hair with modest neatness ; put on her brown stuff only gown, and then going to the chest of drawers—opening one with great precaution, lest. she should make a noise, and disturb Myra, who still slumbered— drew out a shawl, and began to fold it as if to put it on, rf Alas! poor thing, as she opened it, she became first aware that the threadbare, time-worn. fabric had given way in two places. Had it been in one, she might have contrived to conceal the injuries of age; but it was in two. She turned it ; she folded and unfolded; it would not do. The miserable shawl. seemed to give way under her hands. It was already so excessively shabby that she was ashamed to go out in it; and it seemed as if it was ready to fall to pieces in sundry other. places, this dingy, thin, brown, red, and green old shawl. Mend it would not; besides, she was pressed for time; so, with the appearance of considerable reluctance, she put her hand into the drawer, and took out another shawl. This was a different affair, It neat. but Myra still slumbers, Tt was a warm, and | had found it, impossible not very old, plaid shawl, of various colors, well preserved and clean-looking, and, this eold morn- ing, so tempting. Should she borrow it? Myra was still asleep, but she would be horridly cold when she got up, and she would want her shawl, perhaps; but then Lettice must go out, and must be decent, and there seemed no help for it. But if she took the shawl, had she not better light the fire before she went out? Myra would be so chilly. But then Myra seldom got up till half-past eight or nine, and it was now not seven. An hour and a half’s, perhaps two hours’, use- less fire would never do, So. after a little delibera- tion, Lettice contented herself with “ laying it,” as the housemaids say; that is, preparing the fire to be lighted with a match; and as she took out coal by coal to do this, she perceived with terror how very, very low the little store of fuel was, “We must have a bushel in to-day,” she said. “Better without meat and drink than fire, in such weather as this,” However, she was cheered with. the reflection that she should get a little more than usual by the work that she had finished. It had been ordered by a considerate and benevolent lady, who, instead of going to the ready-made linen warehouses for what she wanted, gave herself a good deal of trouble to get at the poor work-women themselves who supplied these houses, so that they should re- ceive the full price for their needle-work, which otherwise must of necessity be divided. What she should get she did not quite know, for she had never worked for this lady before; and some ladies, though she always got more from. pri- vate customers than from the,,shops, would beat her down to the last penny, and give her as little as they possibly could. p Much more than the usual price of such matters people can not, I suppose, habitually give; they should, however, beware of driving Head bargains with the very poor, pene’ Her bonnet looked dreadfully shabby, as Tr little Lettice took it out from one of the dilapidat- ed band-boxes that stood upon the chest of draiw- ers; yet it had been carefully covered with a sheet of paper, to guard it from the injuries of the dust and the smoke-loaded air. The young girl held it upon her hand, turning it round, and looking at it, and she could not help sighing when she thought of the miserably shabby appearance she should make; and she going to a private house, too; and the errand !~-linen for the trousseau of,a young lady who was going to be married. . am What a contrast did the busy imagination draw between all the fine things that young lady was to have and her own destitution! She must needs be what she was—a simple-hearted, God-fearing, gen- erous. girl, to whom envious comparisons of oth- ers with herself were as impossible as any other faults of the selfish—not to feel as if the differ- ence was, to use the common word upon such oc- casions, “ very hard.” She did not take itso. She did not think that it was very hard that others should be happy and have plenty, because she was poor and had noth- ing. They had not robbed her. What they had was not taken from her. Nay, at this moment their wealth was overflowing toward her. She should gain in her little way by the general pros- perity. The thought of the increased pay came into her mind at this moment in aid of her good and simple-hearted feelings, and she brightened up, and shook her bonnet, and pulled out the rib- bons, and made it look as tidy as she could; be- thinking herself that if it pessibly could be done, she would buy a bit of black ribbon and make it a little more spruce when she got her money. And now the bonnet is on, and she does not think it looks very bad, and, Myra’s shawl, as re- flected in the little three-penny glass, looks quite Now she steals to the bed in order to make her apologies to Myra about. the shawl, and fire, It is half-past seven and more, and she must be gone. The young lady for whom she made the linen lived about . twenty miles from town, but she had come up about her things, and was to set off home at nine o’clock that very morning. The linen wa: to have been sent in the night before, but. Lett* to get it done, Tt ny
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LETTICE ARNOLD. Sorce wait till morning to be carried’ home. Fhe object was to get to the house as soon as the servants should be stirring, so that there would be time for the things to be packed up and accompany the young lady upon her return home. Now, Lettice is in the street. Oh, what a morn- ing it was! the wind was intensely cold; the snow was blown in buffets against her face; the street slippery ; all the mud and mire turned into inky- looking ice. She could scarcely stand, ner face was blue with the cold, her hands, in a pair of cotton gloves, so numbed that she could hardly hold the parcel she carried. She had no umbrella. The snow beat upon her undefended head, and completed the demolition of the poor bonnet, but she comforted herself with the thought that its appearance would now be at- tributed to the bad weather having spoiled it. Nay (and she smiled as the idea presented itself), was it not possible that she might be supposed to have a better bonnet at home? _ So she cheerfully made her way, and at last she entered Grosvenor Square, where lamps were just dying away before the splendid houses, and the wintry twilight discovered the garden, with its trées plastered with dirty snow, while the wind rushed down from the Park colder and bitterer than ever. She could hardly get along at all. A few ragged, good-for-nothing boys were almost the only people yet to be seen about; and they al- most laughed and mocked at her, as, holding her bonnet down with one hand, to prevent its abso- lutely giving way before the wind, she endeavored to carry her parcel, and keep her shawl from flying up with the other. The jeers and the laughter were uncomfortable to'her. The things she found it most difficult to reconcile herself to in her fallen state were the ” scoffs, and the scorns, and the coarse jests of those once so far, far beneath her; ¢o far, that their very existence, as a class, was once almost unknown, and who were now little, if at all, worse off than herself. The rude brutality of the coarse, uneducated, and unimproved Saxon, is a terrible grievance to those forced to come into close quarters with such. At last, however, she entered Green Street, and raised the knocker, and gave one timid humble knock at the door of a moderate sized house, upon the right-hand side as you go up to the Park. Here lived the benevolent lady of whom I have spoken, who took so much trouble to break through the barriers which in London separate the employ- ers and the employed, and to assist the poor stitch- ers of her own sex, by doing away with the neces- sity’of that hand, or those many hands, through which their ware has usually to pass, and in each of which something of the recompense thereof must of necessity be detained. ‘She had never been at the house before ; but she had sometimes had to go to other genteel “houses, and she had too often found the insolence of the pampered domestics harder to bear than even the rude incivility of the streets. So she stood reeling very uncomfortable ; still more afraid of the effect her bonnet might pro- duce upon the man that should open the door, than upon his superiors. | But “like master, like man,” is a stale old proverb, which, like many other old saws of our now despised as childish ancestors, is full of pith and truth. ’ The servant who appeared was a grave, gray- haired man, of somewhat above fifty. He stooped alittle in his gait, and had not a very fashionable ~ air; but his countenance was full of kind mean- “ing, and his manner so gentle, that it seemed re- spectful even to a poor girl like this. Before hearing her errand, observing how cold she looked, he bade her come in and warm herself at the hall stove ; and shutting the door in the face of the chill blast, that came rushing forward as if to force its way into the house, he then returned to her, and asked her errand. “T come with the young lady’s work. I was so sorry that I could not possibly get it done in time to send it in last night ; but I hope I have not put her to any inconvenience, I hope her trunks are not made up. I started almost before it was light this in . ; a ~ “Well, my dea, I hope not; but i was a pity you could Bot gee it dous last night. Mra Danvers s likes people to be exact to the moment and pune- tual in performing promises, you must know, However, Pll take it up without loss of time, and I dare say it will be all right.” “Ts it come at last?” asked a sweet, low voice, as Reynolds entered the drawing-room. ‘“‘ My love, I really began to be frightened for your pretty things,” the speaker went on, turning to a young lady who was making an early breakfast before a noble blazing fire, and who was no other person than Catherine Melwyn. “Oh, madam! Iwas not if the least uneesy about them, I was quite sure they would come at last. “‘T wish, my love,” said Mrs, Danvers, sitting down by the fire, “I could have shared in your security. Poor creatures ! the temptation is sometimes so aw- fully great. The pawnbroker is dangerously near. So easy to evade all inquiry by changing one miserably obscure lodging for another, into which it is almost impossible to be traced. And, to tell the truth, I had not used you quite well, my dear ; for I happened to know nothing of the pre- vious character of these poor girls, but that they were certainly very neat workwomen; and they were so out of all measure poor, that I yielded to temptation. And that, you’ See, my love, had its usual effect of making me suspicious of the pow- er of temptation over others.” Mrs. Danvers had once been one of the loveliest women that had ever been seen: the face of an angel, the form of the goddess of beauty herself; manners the softest, the most delightful. A dress that by its exquisite good taste and elegance en- hanced every other charm, and a voice so sweet and harmonious that it made its way to every heart. Of all this loveliness the sweet, harmonious voice alone remained. Yet had the sad eclipse of so much beauty been succeeded by a something so holy, so saint-like, so tender, that the being who stood now shorn by sorrow and suffering of all her earthly charms, seemed only to have progressed nearer to heaven by the exchange. Her life had, indeed, been one shipwreck, in which all she prized had gone down. Husband, children, parents, sister, brother—all!—every one gone. It had been a fearfulruin. That she could not survive this wreck of every earthly joy was ex- pected by all her friends; but she had lived on. She stood there, an example of the triumph of those three—faith, hope, and charity, but the greatest of these was charity. In faith she rested upon the “ unseen,” and the world of things “seen” around her shrunk into insignificance. In hope she looked forward to that day when tears should be wiped from all eyes, and the lost and severed meet to part never again. In. charity—in other words, love—she filled that aching, desolate heart with fresh affections, warm and tender, if not possessing the joyous gladness of earlier days. Every sorrowing human being, every poor suf- ferer, be they who they might, or whence they might, found a place in that compassionate heart. No wonder it was filled to overflowing; there are so many sorrowing sufferers in this world. She went about doing good. Her whole life was one act of pity. Her house was plainly furnished. The “ mut- ton chops with a few greens and potatoes”— laughed at in a recent trial, as if indifference to one’s own dinner were a crime—might have served her. She often was no better served. Her dress was conventual in its simplicity. Every farthing she could save upon herself was saved for the poor, You must please to recollect that she stood per- fectly alone in the world, and that there was not a human creature that could suffer by this exercise of a sublime and. universal charity. Such peculiar devotion to one object is only permitted to those whom God has severed from their kind, and marked out, as it were, for the generous career, Her days were passed in visiting all those dismal places in this great city, where lowly want “re. pairs to die,” or where degradation and deprivity, the children of want, hide themselves. She sat by the bed of the inmate of the hospital, pouring the soft balm of her consolation upon the suffering and lowly heart. In such places her presence was hailed as the first and greatest of blessings. Every Se ae one was melted, or was awed into good behavior by her presence. ‘The most hardened of brandy- drinking nurses was softened and amended by her example. The situation of the young women who have to gain their livelihood by their needle had peculiarly . excited her compassion, and to their welfare she more especially devoted herself. Her rank and po- sition in society gave her a ready access to many fine ladies who had an immensity to be done for them: and to many fine dress-makers who had this immensity to do. She was indefatigable in her exertions to dimin- ish the evils to which the young ladies—“ improv- ers,” I believe, is the technical term—are in too many of these establishments exposed. She it was who got the work-rooms properly ventilated and properly warmed. She it was who insisted upon the cruelty and the wretchedness of: keeping up the poor girls hour after hour from their natur- al rest, till their strength was exhausted; the very means by which they were to earn their bread taken away; and they were sent into decline and starva- tion. She made fine ladies learn to allow more time for the preparation of their dresses ; and fine ladies’ dress-makers to learn to say, ‘‘ No.” One of the great objects of her exertions was to save the poor plain-sewers from the necessary loss occasioned by the riiddlemen. She did not say whether the shops exacted too much labor, or net, for their pay; with so great a competition for work, and so much always lying unsold upon their boards it was difficult todecide. But she spared no’ trouble to get these poor women employed direct by those who wanted sewing done; and she taught to feel ashamed of themselves those indolent fine ladies who, rather than give themselves a little trouble to increase a poor creature’s gains, pre- ferred going to the ready-made shops, ‘‘ because the other was such a bore.” In one of her visits among the poor of Mary- le Bone, she had accidentally met with these two sisters, Lettice Arnold. and Myra. There was something in them both above the common stamp, which might be discerned in spite of their squalid dress and miserable chamber; but she had not had time to inquire into their previous history— which, indeed, they seemed unwilling to tell. Catherine, preparing her wedding clothes, and well knowing how anxious Mrs. Danvers was to obtain work, had reserved a good deal for her; and Mrs. Danvers had entrusted some of it to Lettice, who was too wretchedly destitute to be able to give any thing in the form of a deposit. Hence her un- easiness when the promised things did not appear to the time. And hence the rather grave looks of Reynolds, who could not endure to see her mistress vexed. “Has the workwoman brought her bill with her, Reynolds ?” asked Mrs. Danvers. “J will go and ask.” “ Stay, ask her to come up; I should like to in- quire how she is going on, and whether she has any other work in prospect.” Reynolds obeyed ; and soon the door opened, and Lettice, poor thing, a good deal ashamed of her own appearance, was introduced into this warm and comfortable breakfast-room, where, however, as I have said, there was no appearance of luxury, ex- Sut the pretty, neat breakfast, and the blazing re, ‘“‘Good-morning, my dear,” said Mrs. Danvers, kindly ; ‘‘I am sorry you have had such a wretched walk this morning. Why did you not come last night? Punctuality, my dear, is the soul of busi- ness, and if you desire to form a private connection for yourself, you will find it of the utmost impor- tance to attend toit. This young lady is just going off, and there is barely time to put up. the things.” Catherine had her back turned to the door, and was quietly continuing her breakfast. She did not even look round as Mrs. Danvers spoke, but when a gentle voice replied : “Indeed, madam, | beg your pardon. did my very best, but” She started, looked up, and rose hastily from her chair. Lettice started, too, on her side, as she did so; and, advancing a few steps, exclaimed, “ Cath- erine !””, “Jo must—it is—it is yout” cried Catherine hastily, coming forward and taking her by the’ Indeed, I
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_ LETTICE ARNOLD. hand. She gazed with astonishment at the worn | and weather-beaten face, the miserable attire, the Picture of uttter wretchedness before her. “ You!’’ she kept repeating, “Lettice! Lettice Arnold! Good Heavens! where are they all? Where is your father? Your mother? Your sister?” “Gone!” said the poor girl. ‘ Gone—everyone gone but poor Myra!” “ And she—where is she? The beautiful erea- ture, that used to be the pride of poor Mrs. Price’s beart. How lovely she was! And you, dear, dear Lettice, how can you, how have you come to this ?” Mrs. Danvers stood like one petrified with as- tonishment while this little scene was going on. She kept looking at the two girls, but said nothing. “Poor, dear Lettice !” Catherine went on in a tone of the utmost affectionate kindness, “ have you come all through the streets and alone this most miserable morning? And working—working forme! Good Heavens! how has all this come about ?” “But come to the fire first,” she continued, tak- Ing hold of the almost frozen hand. Mrs. Danvers now came forward. “You seem to have met with an old acquaint- ance, Catherine. Pray come to the fire, and sit down and warm yourself; and have you break- fasted ?” Lettice hesitated. She had become so accus- tomed to her fallen condition, that it seemed to her that she could no longer with propriety sit down to the same table with Catherine. Catherine perceived this, and it shocked and grieved her excessively. ‘Do come and sit down,” she said, encouraged by Mrs. Danvers’s in- vitation, “and tell us have you breakfasted ? But though you have a warm cup of tea this cold morn- ing must be comfortable.” And she pressed her forward, and seated her, half reluctant, in an arm-chair that stood by the fire; then she poured out a cup of tea, and car- ried it to her, repeating: “Won't you eat? Have you breakfasted ?” The plate of bread-and-butter looked delicious to the half-starved girl; the warm cup of tea seemed to bring life into her. She had been silent from surprise, and a sort of humiliated embarassment ; but now her spirits began to revive, and she said, “T never expected to have seen you again, Miss Melwyn !” “ Miss Melwyn ! What does that mean? Lettice, how has all this come about 2” ““My father was jll the last time you were in Nottinghamshire, do you not recollect, Miss Mel- wyn? We never recovered of that illness; but it lasted nearly two years. During that time your aunt, Mrs. Montague, died; and her house was sold, and new people came; and you never were at Castle Rising afterward.” “No-—indeed—and from that day to this have never chanced to hear anything of its inhabitants. But Mrs. Price, your aunt, who was so fond of Myra, what is become of her?” “She died before my poor father.” “Well; but she was rich. Did she do noth- ing 9” “Everybody thought her rich, because she spent a good deal of money; but hers was only income. Our poor aunt was no great economist—she made no savings.” “Well; and your mother? I cannot understand it. No; I cannot understand it,” Catherine kept repeating. So horrible! dear, dear Lettice—and _ your shawl is quite wet, and so is your bonnet, poor, dear girl. Why did younot put up your um- brelia ?” “For a very good reason, dear Miss Melwyn; be- cause I do not possess one.” “Call me Catherine, won’t you? or I will not speak to you again.” But Mrs. Danvers’s inquiring looks seemed now to deserve a little attention. She seemed impatient to have the enigma of this Strange scene solved. Catherine caught her eye, and, turning from her friend, with whom she had been so much absorbed as to forget everything else, she said: “Lettice Arnold is a clergyman’s daughter, ma’am.” “T began to think something of that sort,” said Mrs. Danvers; “ but, my dear young lady, what can have brought you to this terrible state of des- titution ?” Dear “ Misfortune upon misfortune, madam. My father was, indeed, a clergyman, and held the little vicarage of Castle Rising. There Catherine,” look- ing affectionately up at her, “met me upon her visits to her aunt, Mrs. Montague.” “We have known each other from children,” put in Catherine. The door opened, and Reynolds appeared : “The cab is waiting, if you please, Miss Mel- wyn.” “Oh, dear! oh, dear! I can’t go just this mo- ment. Bid the man wait.” “Tt is late already,” said Reynolds taking out his watch. “The train starts in twenty minutes.” “Oh, dear! oh, dear! and when does the. next go? I can’t go by this. Can I, dear Mrs. Danvers ? It is impossible.” “ Another starts in an hour afterward.” “Oh! that will do—tell Sarah to be ready for that. Well, my dear, go on, go on—dear Lettice, you were about to tell us how all this happened —but just another cup of tea. Do you like it strong ?” “T like it any way,” said Lettice, who was be- ginning to recover her spirits, “I have not tasted anything so comfortable for a very long time.” “Dear me! dear me!” “You must have suffered very much, I fear, my dear young lady,” said Mrs. Danvers, in a kind voice of interest, ‘‘before you could have sunk to the level of that miserable home where I found you.” “Yes,” said Lettice. ‘Every one suffers very much, be the descent slow or rapid, when he has tofall so far. But what were my sufferings to poor Myra’s (7? “And why were your sufferings as nothing In comparison with poor Myra’s ?” “Ah, madam, there are some in this world not particularly favored by nature or fortune, who were born to be denied ; who are used to it from their childhood—it becomes a sort of second na- ture to'them, as it were. They scarcely feel it. But a beautiful girl, adored by an old relation, ac- customed to every sort of indulgence and Juxury ! They doated upon the very ground she trod on. Oh! to be cast down to such misery, that 2s dread- ful.” “T don’t see—I don’t know,” said Catherine, who, like the world in general, however much they might admire, and however much too many might flatter Myra, greatly preferred Lettice to her sis- ter. “T don’t know,” said she, doubdtingly. “Ah! but you would know if you could see!” said the generous girl. “If you could see what she suffers from everything—from things that I do not even feel, far less care for—you would be so sorry for her.” Mrs, Danvers looked with increasing interest upon the speaker. She seemed to wish to go on with the conversation about this sister; so. much pitied ; so she said, “I believe what you say is very true. Very true, Catherine, in spite of your skep- tical looks. Some people really do suffer very much more than others under the same circum- stances of privation. “Yes, selfish people like Myra,” thought Cathe- rine, but she said nothing. _ “Indeed, madam, it is so. They seem to feel everything so much more. Poor Myra—I can sleep like a top in our bed, and she very often cannot close her eyes—and the close room, and the poor food. I can get along—I was made to rough it, my poor aunt always said—but Myra!” “Well but,” rejoined Catherine, “do pray. tell us how you came to this cruel pass? Your poor father” “Tlis illness was very lingering and very painful —and several times a surgical operation was’ re- quired. My poor mother could not bear—could any of us?—to have it done by the poor blundering operator of that remote village. To have a surgeon from Nottingham was very expensive; and then -the medicines; and the necessary food and attend- ance, The kindest and most provident father cannot save much out of one hundred and ten pounds a year, and what was saved was soon all gone.” ’ j “Well, well,” repeated Catherine, her eyes fixed with intense interest upon the speaker. ‘His deathbed was a painful scene,” Lettice went on, her face displaying her emotion, while she with great effort restrained her tears; “ he trusted in God; but there was a fearful prospect before us, and he could not help trembling for his child- ren. Dear, dear father! he reproached himself for his want of faith, and would try to strengthen us, ‘but the flesh,’ he said, ‘was weak.’ He could not look forward without anguish. It was a fearful struggle to be composed and confiding—he could not help being anxious. It was for us, you know, not for himself.” “Frightful!” cried Catherine, indignantly; frightful! that a man of education, a sacle a gentleman, a man of so much activity in doing good, and so much power in preaching it, should be brought to this. One hundred and ten pounds a year, was that all? How could you exist ?” “We had the house and the garden besides, you know, and my mother was such an excellent man- ager; and my father! No religious of the severest order was ever more self-denying, and there was only me. My Aunt Price, you know, took Myra— Myra had been delicate from a child, and was se beautiful, and she was never made to rough it, my mother and my aunt said. Now, I seemed made expressly for the purpose,” she added, smiling with perfect simplicity. “And his illness, so long! and so expensive!” exclaimed Catherine, with a sort of ery. “ Yes, it was—and to see the pains that‘he took that it should ‘not be expensive. He would be quite annoyed if my mother got anything nicer than usual for his dinner. She used to be obliged to make a mystery of it; and we were forced almost to go down upon our knees to get him to have the surgeon from Nottingham, Nothing but the idea that his life would be more secure in such hands could have persuaded him into it. He knew how important that was tous. As for the pain which the bungling old doctor hard by would have given him, he would have borne that ‘rather than have spent money. Oh, Catherine! there have been times upon times when I have envied the poor They have hospitals to go to; they are not ashamed to ask for a little wine from those who have it; they can beg when they are in want of a morsel of bread. It is natural. It is right—they feel it to be right. But oh! for those, as they “call it, better born,’and educated to habits of thought like those of my poor father! Want is, indeed, like an armed man, when he comes into their dwellings.” “Too true, my dear young lady,” said Mrs. Dan- vers, whose eyes were by this time moist ; “but go on, if it does not pain you too much, your story is excessively interesting. _ There is yet a wide step between where your relation leaves us, and where I found you.” lens “We closed his eyes at last in deep sorrow, Excellent. man; he deserved a better lot! So at least, it seems to me—but who knows? Nay, he would have reproved me for saying so, He used to say of himsel/, so cheerfully, ‘It’s a rough road, but it leads to a good place.’ Why could, he not feel this for his wife and children? . He found that so very difficult !” 45 TA “He was an excellent and a delightful man,” said Catherine. Well?” “Well, my dear, when he had closed there was his funeral. . We could not havea par- ish funeral, The vyeriest pauper has’ a piety toward the dead which revolts at that. We did it as simply as we. possibly could, consistently with common decency; but they charge so enormously for such things; and my poor mother would: not contest it. When I remonstrated a little, and said I thought it was right, to prevent others being treated in the same way, who could not better afford it than we could, I never shall forget my mother’s face: ‘I dare say—yes, -you are right, Lettice; quite right—but not this—not Ais. I cannot debate this matter. Forgive me, dear girl; it is weak—but I cannot.’ “This expense exhausted all that was left of our little money; only a few pounds remained when our furniture had been sold, and we were obliged to give up possession of that dear, dear, little par- sonage, and we were without a raof to shelter us. You remember jt, Catherine !"" “Rememberit! yo be sure Ido, That sweet. little vi The tiny house, all covered over : with honey-suckles and jasmines, How sweet ihis eyes,
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> ' poor mother ! LETTICE ARNOLD. they did smell. And your flower-garden, Lettiee, how you used to work in it. It was that which made you so hale and strong, Aunt Montague said. She admired your industry so, you can’t think. She used to say you were werth a whole bundle of fine ladies.” “Did she?’ and Lettice smiled again. She was beginning to look cheerful, in spite of her dismal story. There was something so inveter- ately cheerful in that temper, that nothing could entirely subdue it, The warmth of her generous nature it was that kept the blood and spirits flow- ing. “Tt was a sad day when we parted from it. My How she kept looking back—look- ing back—striving not to cry; and Myra was drowned in tears.” * And what did you do?” “T am sure I don’t know; I wasso sorry for them both; I quite forget all the rest.” * “But how came you to London?” asked Mrs. Danvers. “Everybody, without other resource, seems tocome to London. The worst'place, especi- ally for women, they can possibly come. to. People are so completely lost in London. Nobody dies of want, nobody is utterly and entirely desti- tute of help or friends, except in London.” “ A person we knew in the village, and to whom my father had been very kind, had a son who was employed in one of the great linen-warehouses, and he promised to endeavor to get us needle- work; and we flattered ourselves, with industry, we should, all three together, do pretty well. So we came to London, and took a small lodging, and furnished it with the remnant of our furniture. We had our clothes, whieh, though plain enough, were a sort of little property, you know. But when we came to learn the prices they actually paid for work, it was really frightful! Work fourteen hours a day apiece, and we could only gain between three and four shillings a week each —sometimes hardly that. There was our lodging to. pay, three shillings a week, and six shillings. left for firing and food for three people; this was in the weeks of plenty. Oh! it was frightful!” “Horrible!” echoed Catherine, “We could not. bring ourselves down. to it at once, Wehoped and flattered ourselves that. by- and-bye we should get some work, that, would pay better; and when we wanted a little more food, or in very cold days a little more fire, we were tempted to sell or pawn one article after another. At last my mother fell sick, and then all went ; she died, and she had a pauper’s funeral,” concluded Lettice, turning very pale. They were all three silent. Atlast Mrs. Danvers began again : “That was not the lodging I found you in?” “No, madam, that was too expensive.. We left it, and we only pay one-and-sixpence a week for this, the furniture being our own.” “The cab is at the door, Miss Melwyn,” again interrupted Reynolds. “Oh, dear! oh, dear! I can’t go, indeed, Mrs. Danvers, I can’t go ;” with a pleading look, “may I'stay one day longer ?” “Most gladly would I keep you, my dearest love; but you father and mother—and they will have sent to meet you.” “ And suppose they have, John must go back ; but stay, stay, Sarah shall go and take all my boxes, and say I am coming to-morrow; that will do.” “ And you travel alone by railway ? Your moth- er will never like that.” “Tam ashamed,” cried Catherine, with energy, to think of such mere conventional difficulties, when here I: stand in the presence of real misery. Indeed, my dear Mrs. Danvers, my mother will be quite satisfied when she hears why I staid. I must be an insensible creature if I could ge away with- out seeing more of dear Lettice.” Lettice looked up so pleased, so grateful, so hap- Py Well, my love, I think your mother will not be uneasy, as Sarah goes; and I just remember Mrs. Sands travels your way to-morrow, so she will take care of you; for taken care of you must be, my pretty Catherine, till you are a little less young, and somewhat less handsome.” And she patted the sweet, full, rosy cheek. Catherine was very pretty indeed, if you care to know that, and’so it was) settled. And now, Lettice having enjoyed a happier hour than she had known for many a long day, began to recollect herself, and: to think of poor Myra. She rose from her chair, and taking up her bon- net and shawl, which Catherine had hung before the fire to dry, seemed preparing to depart. Then both Catherine and Mrs, Danvers began to think of her little bill, which had not been settled yet. Catherine felt. excessively awkward and un- comfortable at the idea of offering her old friend and companion money; but Mrs. Danvers was too well acquainted with real misery, had too much ap- probation for that spirit: which is not.above earn- ing, but is above begging, to. have.any embarrass- ment in such a case. “ Catherine, my dear,” she said, “you owe, Miss Arnold some money. Had.you not better settle it before she leaves?” Both the girls blushed. “Nay, my dears,” said Mrs. Danvers, kindly: “why this? I am sure,” coming up to them, and taking Lettice’s hand, “I hold an honest hand here, which is not ashamed to labor, when it has been the will of God that it. shall be by her own exer- tions that she obtains her bread, and part of the bread of another, if I mistake not. What you have nobly earned.as nobly receive. Humiliation belongs to the idle and the dependent, not to one who maintains herself.” The eyes of Lettice glistened, and she could not help gently pressing the hand which held hers. Such. sentiments were, congenial to her heart. She had never been able to comprehend the con- ventional distinctions between what is honorable or degrading, under the fetters of which so many lose the higher principles of independence—true honesty and true honor. To work. for her living had never lessened her in her own eyes; and she had. found, with a. sort of astonishment, that. it was to sink her in the eyes of others, To deny herself everything. in food, furniture, clothing, in order to escape debt, and add in her little way, to the comforts of those she loved, had ever/appeared to her noble and praiseworthy. She was. as, aston- ished, as many such a heart, has. been before her, with the course of this world’s esteem, too often measured by what people spend upon themselves, rather than by what they spare, I-cannot get that story inthe newspaper—the contempt. expressed for the dinner of one mutton chop, potatoes, anda few greens—out of my head. Catherine’s confusion had, in a moment of weak- ness, extended to Lettice. She, had felt ashamed to be paid as.a workwoman by one.once her friend, and in social rank her equal; but. now she raised her head, with a noble frankness and spirit. “T am very much oblidged to you for recollect- ing it, madam, for in truth the money is very much wanted; and if,” turning to her old. friend, ‘““my dear Catherine can find me alittle more work, I should be very much obliged to her.” Catherine again changed color. Work! she was longing to offer her money. She had twenty pounds in her pocket, a present from her god- mother, to buy something pretty for the wedding. She was burning with desire to put it into Lettice’s hand. She stammered—she hesitated. “ Perhaps you have no more work just now,” said Lettice. “ Never mind, then; I am sure when there is an opportunity, you will remember what a pleasure it will be tome to work for you; and that a poor needlewoman. is very much benefitted by having private customers.” ¢ My dear, dear Lettice !” and. Cathorine’s arms were round her neck. She could not help shedding a few tears. “ But to return to business,” said Mrs, Danvers, “for I see Miss Arnold is impatient to be gone. What is your charge, my dear? These. slips are tucked and beautifully stiched and. done.” “T should not get more than threepence, at most fourpence, at the shops for them. Should you think ninepence an unreasonable charge ? I be- lieve it is what you would pay if you had them done at the schools,” : “ Threepence, fourpence, ninepence! Good Heavens!” cried Catherine; ‘so beautifully done as these are; and then your needles and thread, you have made no charge for them,” ' nae ““We pay for those ourselves,” said Lettice. “ But, my dear,” said. Mrs, Danvers, “what Cath. erine would have to pay for this work, if bought from.a linen warehouse, would at least be fifteen pence, and not nearly so well done, for these are beautiful, Come, you must, ask eighteen pence; there are six of them; nine shillings, my dear.” The eyes of poor Lettice quite glistened, She could not refuse. She felt that to seem over deli- eate upon this little enhancement.of price would be really great moral indelicacy. ‘Thank you,” said she, “ you are very liberal; but it must. only be for this once. If Iam to be your needle- woman in ordinary, Catherine, I must only be paid what you would pay to others.” She smiled pleasantly as. she said this; but Catherine could not. answer the smile. She felt very sad as she drew the, nine shillings from her purse, longing to make them nine sovereigns. But she laid the money at last before Lettice, upon the table. Lettice took it up, and bringing out an old dirty leathern purse, was going, to. put it in. “At least, let me give you a better purse,” said Catherine, eagerly, offering her own handsome one, yet of a strong texture, for it was her business purse, “They would think I had stolen it,” said Lettice, putting it. aside. “No, thank you, dear, kind Catherine, Consistency in all things ; and my old leather convenience seems to me much more con- sistent with my bonnet than your beautiful one, Not but that I shall get myself a decent bonnet now, for really this is a shame to be seen, And so, good-bye; and farewell, madam. When you have work, you won’t forget me, will you, dear?” “Oh, Catherine has plenty of work,” put in Mrs. Danvers, “but somehow she is not quite her- self this morning”’—again looking at her very kindly. ‘You can not wonder, Miss Arnold, that she is much, more agitated by. this meeting than you can be. My dear, there are those pocket- handkerchiefs to be marked, which. we durst not trust. to an unknown person. That will be a. pro- fitable job. My dear, you would have to pay five shillings apiece at. Mr, Morris’s for having them embroidered according to that pattern you fixed upon, and which I doubt not your friend and her sister can execute. There are six of them to be done.” “‘May I look at the pattern? Oh, yes! I think I can do it. J will take the greatest possible pains, at five shillings each! Oh! madam !—Oh, Catherine !—what a benefit this will be.” Again Catherine felt it. impossible to speak. She could only stoop down, take the poor hand, so onenened with hardships, and raise it to. her ips, The beautiful handkerchiefs were brought. “T will only take.one at a: time, if you please. These are two valuable to be risked at. our lodg- ings... When. I have done this, I will fetch, an- other, and so on. I shall not lose time in getting them done, depend upon. it,” said Lettice, cheer- fully. “Take two, at all events, and then Myra. can help you.” “ No, only one at present, at least, thank you.” She did not say what she knew to be very true, that Myra could not help her, Myra’s_ fingers were twice as delicate as her own; and Myra, be- fore their misfortunes, had mostly spent her time in ornamental work—her aunt. holding plain sew- ng to bean occupation rather beneath so beauti- ful and distinguished a creature. Nevertheless, when work became of so much importance to them all, and. fine work especially, as gaining so much better a recompense in proportion to the time em- ployed, Myra’s accomplishments in this way preved very useless. She had not been accustomed to that strenuous, and to the indolent, painful effort, which is necessary to do anything well. To exercise self- denial, self-government, persevering industry, vir- tuous resistance against weariness, disgust, aching fingers, and heavy eyes—temptations which haunt the indefatigable laborer in such callings, she was incapable of : the consequence was, that she worked in a very inferior manner. While Lettice, as soon as she became aware of the importance ef this ac- complishment as to the means of increasing her power of adding to her mother’s comforts, had been indefatigable in her endeavors to accomplish
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LETTICE ARNOLD. q TTT eS euo3030V66wvOqO0DeOOe®eOeOS$<~$~$S$S$®$®™$™0 Oe OoTeYTemm==ax®i—_eeo oo? herself in the art, and was become’ a:very excel- lent workwoman. CHAPTER, III. « usky, melanchol i pee 0 the fair face of Pont Popa Anp now she is upon her way home. And oh! how lightly beats that honest, simple heart in’ her bosom; and, oh! how cheerily sits her spirit upon its throne. How happily, too, she looks about at the shops, and thinks of what she shall buy; not of the very cheapest and poorest that is to be had for money, but upon what'she shall choose / Then she remembers the fable of the Maid and the Milk-pail, and grows prudent and prosaic; and resolves that she will not spend her money till she has got it. She began’ to limit her desires, and to determine that she will only lay out six’ shillings this morning, and keep three in‘ her purse, as a re- source for contingencies. Nay, she begins to grow a little Martha-like and careful, and to dream about savings-banks; ‘and putting ‘half-a-crown in, out of the way of temptation, when she is paid for her first pocket-handkerchief. Six shillings, however, she means’ to expend for the more urgent wants. Two shillings coals; one shilling a very, very coarse straw bonnet; four- pence ribbon to trim it with; one shilling bread, and sixpence potatoes, a half-pennyworth of milk, and then, what is left? — one shilling and a penny-half-penny. Myra shall have a cup of tea, with sugar in it; and a muffin, that she loves so, and a bit of butter. Four-pennyworth of tea, three-pennyworth of sugar, two-pennyworth of butter, one penny muffin; and threepence-half- penny remains in the good little manager’s hands. She came up the dark stairs of her lodgings so cheerfully, followed by a boy lugging up her coals, she carrying the other purchases herself—so happy! quite radiant with joy—and opened the door of the miserable little apartment. It was a bleak wintry morning. Not a single ray of the sun could penetrate the gray fleecy cov- ering in which the houses were wrapped; yet the warmth of the smoke and the fires’ was sufficient so far to assist the temperature of the atmosphere as to melt the dirty snow; which now kept drip- ping from the roofs in dreary cadence, and splash- ing upon the pavement below. The room looked so dark, so dreary, so dismal! Such a contrast to the one she had just left! Myra was up, and was dressed in her miserable, half- worn cotton gown, which was thrown round her in the most untidy, comfortless manner: She could not think it worth while to care how such a gown was put on. Her hair was dingy and disordered ; to be sure there was but a broken comb to straight- en it with, and who could do anything with such acomb? She was cowering over the fire, which was now nearly extinguished, and, from time’ to time, picking up bit by bit of the’ cinders, as they fell upon the little hearth, putting them on again —endeavoring to keep the fire alive. “Wretched: ness in the extreme was visible in her dress, her attitude, her aspect. She turned round as Lettice entered, and saying pettishly, “I thought you never, would come back, * and I do so want my shawl,” returned to her former attitude, with her elbows resting upon her knees, and her chin upon the palms of her hands. “T have been a sad long time, indeed,” said Lettice,. good-humoredly; “you must have been tired to death of waiting for me, and wondering ~ what I coud be about. But I’ve brought some- thing back which will make you amends. And in the first place, here’s your shawl,” putting it over her, “ and thank you for the use of it—though I would not ask your leave, because I could not bear to waken you. But I was swre you would lend it me—and now for the fire. For once ina way we will have a good one. There, Sim, bring in the coals, put them in that wooden box there. Now for a good lump or two.” And on they went ; and the expiring fire began to crackle and sparkle, and make a pleased noise, and a blaze soon caused even that room to look a little cheerful. “Oh, dear! I am so glad we may for once be allowed to have coal enough to puta spark of life into us,” said M Lettice had br thie time filled the little old tin kettle, and was putting it upon the fire, and then she fetched an old tea-pot with a broken spout, a saucer without a cup, anda cup without a saucer ; and putting the two together, for they were usually divided between the sisters, said : “Thave got something for you which I know you will like still better than a blaze, a cup of tea. And to warm your poor fingers, see if you can’t toast yourself this muffin,” handing it to her upon what was now a two-pronged, but had once been a three-pronged fork. “But what have you got for’ yourself?” Myra had at least the grace to say. “Oh! I have had’ such a breakfast. And such a thing has happened! but I cannot and will not tell you till you have had your own breakfest, poor, dear girl, You must be ravenous—at least, I should be in your place—but you never seem so hungry as Iam, poor Myra. However, I was sure you could eat a muffin.” “That was very good-natured of you, Lettice, to think of it. It will bea treat. But oh! to think that we should be brought to this—to think a muffin—one muffin—a treat!” she added dis- mally. “Tet us be thankful when we get it, however,” said her sister; “upon my word, Mrs. Bull has given us some very good coals. Oh, how the kettle does enjoy them! It must be quite a treat to our kettle to feel hot—poor thing! Lukewarm is the best it mostly attains to. Hear how it buzzes and hums, like a pleased child.” And 50 she prattled, and put a couple of spoon- fuls of tea into the cracked teapot. There were but about six in the paper, but Myra liked her tea strong, and she should have it as she pleased this once. Then she poured out a cup, put in some milk. and sugar, and, with a smile of ineffable affection, presented it, with the muffin she had buttered, to her sister. Myra did enjoy it. To the poor, weedy, delicate thing, a cup of good tea, with something to eat that she could relish, was a real blessing. Mrs. Danvers was right so far; things did really go much harder with her than with Lettice; but then she made them six times worse by her discontent and murmuring spirit, and Lettice made them six times better by her cheerful- ness and generous disregard of self. While the one sister was enjoying her breakfast, the other, who really began to feel tired, was very glad to sit down and enjoy the fire. So she took the other chair, and, putting herself upon the opposite side of the little table, began to stretch out her feet to the fender, and feel herself quite com- fortable, Three shillings in her purse, and three- pence halfpenny to do just what she liked with! perhaps buy Myra a roll for tea; there would be butter enough left. Then she began herstory. But the effect it pro- duced was not exactly what she had expected. In- stead of sharing in her sister’s thankful joy for this unexpected deliverance from the most abject want, through the discovery of a friend—able and willing to furnish employment herself, and to recommend them, as, in her hopeful view of things, Lettice anticipated, to others, and promising them work of a description that would pay well, and make them quite comfortable—Myra began to draw a repining contrast between Catherine’s situ- ation and her own. The poor beauty had been educated by her silly and romantic old aunt to look forward to making some capital match. ‘‘She had such a sweet pretty face, and so many accomplishments of mind and manner,” for such was the way the old woman loved to talk. Accomplishments of mind and manner, by the way, are indefinite things; any- body may put in aclaim for them on the part of anyone. As for the more positive acquirements which are to be seen, handled, or heard and appre- ciated—such as dancing, music, languages, and so forth, Myra had as slender a portion of those as usually falls to the lot of indulged, idle, nervous girls. The poor beauty felt all the bitterness of the deepest mortification at what she considered this cruel contrast of her fate as compared to Catherine’s She had been indulged in that perni- cious habit of the mind—the making claims. “With claims no better than her own,” was her expres- sion. For though Catherine had more money, everybody said Catherine was only pretty, which last sentence implied that there was another per- son of Catherine’s acquaintance, who was posi- tively and extremely beautiful. \ Lettice, happily for herself, had never been ae- customed to make “claims.” She had, indeed, never distinctly understood whom such claims were to be made upon. She could not see why it was very hard that other people should be happier than herself. I am, sure she would have. been very sorry if she had thought that everybody was as un- comfortable. She was always very sorry when she heard her sister talking in this manner, partly because she felt it could not be quite right, and partly because she was sure it did no good, but made matters a great deal worse; but she said nothing, Exhorta- tions, indeed, only made matters worse; nothing offended Myra so much as an attempt to make her more comfortable, and to reconcile her to the fate she complained of as so hard. , Even when let alone, it would often be some time before she recovered her good humor; and this was the case now. Iam afraid she was a little vexed that Lettice and not herself had met, with the good luck. first to stumble upon Cathe- rine,and also a little envious of the pleasing im- pression it was plain her sister had made. So she began to fall foul of Lettice’s new bonnet, and to say, ina captious tone: ; “You got money enough to buy yourself a new bonnet, I see.” . “ Indeed, I did,” Lettice answered, with simplic- ity. “It was the very first thing I thought of. Mine was such a wretched thing, and wetted with the snow—the very boys hooted at it. Poor old friend!” said she, turning it upon her hand, “ you have lost even the shape and pretension to be a. bonnet. _What,must Ido with thee? The back of the fire? Sad fate! No, genereus companion of my cares and labors, that shall. not be thy des- tiny. Useful to the last, thou light to-morrow’s fire; and that will be the best satisfaction to thy generous manes.” : “ My bonnet is not so very much better,” said Myra, rather sulkily. ; “ Not so very much, alas! but better, far better than mine. And, besides, confess, please, my dear, that you had the last bonnet. Two years ago, it’s true; but mine had seen three; and then, remem- ber, Iam going into grand company again to-mor- row, and must be decent.” This. last remark did not sweeten Myra’s tem- per. ; “Oh! I forgot. Of course you'll keep your good company to yourself. I am, indeed, not fit to be seen in it, But you'll want a new gown and a new shawl, my dear, though, indeed, you can always take mine, as you did this morning.’ “Now, Myra!” said Lettice, “can you really be. so naughty? Nay, you are cross; I see it in your face, though you won’t look at me. Now don’t be so foolish, Is it not all the same to us both? Are we not in one box? If you wish for the new bon- net, take it, and Pll take yours: I don’t care, my dear. You were always used to be more hand- somely dressed than me—it must seem quite odd for you not to be so. I only want to be nt. when I go about. the work, which I shall have to do often, as I told you, because I dare not have two of these expensive handkerchiefs in my posses- sion at once. Dear me, girl! Have we not troubles enough? For goodness’ sake don’t let us make them. There, dear, take the bonnet, and I'll tak yours; but I declare, when I look at the two, this is so horribly coarse, yours, old as it is, looks the genteeler to my mind,” laughing, So thought Myra, and kept her own bonnet, Let- tiee. putting upon it the piece of new ribbon she had bought, and after smoothing and rubbing the faded one upon her sister’s, trimming with it her own. ; The two friends in Green Street, sat silently for a short time after the door kad closed upon Let- tice; and then Catherine began ; aoe “More astonishing things happen in the real world than one ever finds ina book. I am sure if such a reverse of fortune as this had been described to me in a story, I should at once have declared it to be impossible, I could not have believed it credible that, in a society such as ours—full of all sorts of kind, good-natured people, who are daily doing so. much for the n amiable girl like this, the daughter of a clergyman of the Church of
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LETTICE ARNOLD. ——~, England, could be suffered poverty.” “Ah! my dear Catherine, that shows you have only seen life upon one side, and that its fairest side—as it presents itself in the country. You cannot imagine what a dreadful thing it may prove in large cities. It cannot enter into the head of man to conceive the horrible contrasts of large cities—the dreadful destitution of large cities—the awful solitude of a crowd. In the country, I think, such a thing could hardly have happened, however great the difficulty is of helping those who still preserve the delicacy and dignity with regard to money matters, which distinguishes finer minds—but in London what can be done? Like lead in the mighty waters, the moneyless and friendless sink to the bottom. Society in all its countless degrees closes over them; they are lost in its immensity, hidden from every eye, and they per- ish as an insect might perish ;* amid the myriads of its kind, unheeded by every other living crea- ture. Ah, my love! if your walks lay where mine have done, your heart would bleed for these desti- tute women, born to better hopes, and utterly ship- wrecked.” “She was such adear, amiable girl,” Catherine went on, “so cheerful, so sweet-tempered—so clever in all that one likes to see people clever about! Her mother was a silly woman.” “So she showed, I fear, by coming to London,” aid Mrs, Danvers. “She was so proud of Myra’s beauty, and she seemed to think so little of Lettice. She was al- ways prophesying that Myra would make a great match; and so did her aunt, Mrs. Price, who was no wiser than Mrs. Arnold ; and they brought up the poor girl to such a conceit of herself—to ‘ not to do this,’ and ‘it was beneath her to do that’— and referring every individual thing to her comfort and advancement, till, poor girl, she could harly es- cape growing, what she certainly did grow into, a very spoiled, selfish creature. While dear Lettice in her simplicity—that simplicity ‘which thinketh no evil’—took it so naturally, that so it was, and so it ought to be; that sometimes one laughed, and sometimes one felt provoked, but one loved her above all things. I never saw such a temper.” “T dare say,” said Mrs, Danvers, “that your in- tention in staying in town to-day was to pay them a visit, which, indeed, we had better do. TI had only a glance into their apartment the other day, but it occurred to me that they wanted common necessaries. Ignorant as I was of who they were, I was thinking to get them put upon Lady A. s coal and blanket list, but that cannot very well be done now, However, presents are always permit- ted under certain conditions, and the most delicate receive them ; and, really this is a case to waivea feeling of that sort in some measure. As you are an old friend and acquaintance, there can be no harm in a few presents before you leave town,” “So I was thinking, ma’am, and I am very im- patient to go and see them, and find out what they may be most in want of.” “Well, my dear, Ido not sce why we should lose time, and I will order a cab to take us, for it is rather too far to walk this terrible day.” They soon arrived at the place I have described, and descending from their cab, walked along in front of this row of lofty houses looking upon the grave-yard, and inhabited by so much human mis- ery. The doors of most of the houses stood open, for they were all let in rooms, and the entrance and staircase were common as the street. What forms of human misery and degradation presented them- selves during one short walk which I once took there with a friend employed upon a mission of mercy ! Disease in its most frightful form, panting to in- hale a little fresh air. Squalid misery, the result of the gin-shop—decent misery ready to starve. Women shut up in one room with great heartless, brutal, disobedient boys—sickness resting untended upon its solitary bed. Wailing infants—scolding mothers—human nature under its most abject and degraded forms. No thrift, no economy, no at- tempt at cleanliness and order. Idleness, reckless- ness, dirt, and wretchedness. Perhaps the very atmosphere of towns; perhaps these close, ill-ven- tilated rooms; most certainly the poisonous gin- _ ghop, engender a relaxed state of nerves and mus- “ez, which deprives people of the spirits ever to to sink into such abject attempt to make themselves a little decent. Then water is so dear, and dirt so pervading the very at- mosphere, Poor things, they give it up; and ac- quiesce in, and become accustomed to it, and “ avec un malheur sourd dont lon ne se rend pas compte,” gradually sink and sink into the lowest abyss of habitual degradation. It is difficult to express the painful sensations which Catherine experienced when she entered the room of the two sisters. To her the dirty paper, the carpetless floor, the miserable bed, the worm- eaten and scanty furniture, the aspect of extreme poverty which pervaded everything, were so shock- ing, that she could hardly restrain her tears. Not so Mrs. Danvers. Greater poverty, even she could rarely have seen; but it was too often accompanied with what grieved her more, reckless. indifference, and moral degradation. Dirt and disorder, those agents of the powers of darkness, were almost. sure to be found where there was extreme want; but here the case was different. As her experienced eye glanced round the room, she could perceive that, poor as was the best, the best was made of it; that a cheer- ful, active spirit—the “How to make the best of it”—that spirit which is like the guardian angel of the poor, had been busy here. The floor, though bare, was clean; the bed, though so mean, neatly arranged and made; the grate was bright ; the chairs were dusted ; the poor little plenishing neatly putin order, No dirty gar- ments hanging about the room; all carefully folded and put away they were; though she could not, of course, see that, for there were no half-open drawers of the sloven, admitting dust and dirt, and offending the eye. Lettice herself, with hair neatly braided, her poor worn gown carefully put on, was sitting by the little table, busy at her work, looking the very picture of modest industry. Only one fig- ure offended the nice moral sense of Mrs, Danvers-- that of Myra, who sat there with her fine hair hanging round her face, in long, dirty, disheveled ringlets, her feet stretched out and pushed slipshod into her shoes... With her dress half put on, and hanging over her, as the maids say, “no how,” she was leaning back in the chair, and sewing very languidly at a very dirty piece of work which she held in her hand. Both sisters started up when the door opened. Lettice’s cheeks flushed with joy, and her eye spar- kled with pleasure as she rose to receive her guests, brought forward her only other chair, stirred the fire, and sent the light of a pleasant blaze through the room. Myra colored also, but her first action was to stoop down hastily to pull up the heels of her shoes; she then cast a hurried glance upon her dress, and arranged it a little—occupied as usual with herself, her own appearance was the first thought—and never in her life more disagreeably. Catherine shook hands heartily with Lettice, saying, “We are soon met again, you see;” and then went up to Myra, and extended her hand to her. The other took it, but was evidently so ex- cessively ashamed of her poverty, and her present appearance, before one who had seen her in better days, that she could not speak, or make any other reply to a kind speech of Catherine’s, but by a few unintelligible murmurs. “T was impatient to come,” said Catharine—she and Mrs. Danvers having seated themselves upon the two smaller chairs, while the sisters sat together upon the larger one—“ because you know, I must go out of town so very soon, and I wanted to call upon you, and have a little chat and talk of old times—and, really—really ” she hesitated. Dear, good thing, she was so dreadfully afraid of mortifying either of the two in their present fallen state. “And, really—really,” said Mrs. Danvers, smil- ing, “out with it, my love—really—really, Lettice, Catherine feels as I am sure you would feel if the cases were reversed, She cannot bear the thoughts of her own prosperity, and at the same time think of your misfortunes. I told her I was quite sure you would not be hurt if she did for you, what I was certain you would have done in such a case for her, and would let her make you a little more com- fortable before she went. The poor thing’s wed- ding-day will be quite spoiled by thinking about you, if you won't, Lettice.” Lettice stretched out her hand to Catherine by way of answer; and received in return the most warm and affectionate squeeze. Myra was very: glad to be made more comfortable—there was no doubt of that; but half offended, and determined to be as little obliged as possible. And then, Catherine going to be married too. How hard !— every kind of good luck to be heaped upon her, and she herself so unfortunate in every way. But. nobody cared for her ungracious looks. Catherine knew her of old, and Mrs, Danvers un- derstood the sort of thing she was in a minute. Her walk had lain too long amid the victims of false views and imperfect moral training, to be sur- prised at this instanee of their effects. The per- son who surprised her was Lettice, ‘“‘ Well, then,” said Catherine, now quite relieved, and looking round the room, “ where shall we be- gin? What will you have? What do you want most? I shall make you wedding presents, you see, instead of you making them to me. When your turn comes you shall have your revenge.” “ Well,” Lettice said, “what must be must be, and it’s nonsense playing at being proud. I am very much obliged to you, indeed, Catherine, for thinking of us‘at this time; and if I must tell you what I should be excessively obliged to you for, it is a pair of blankets, Poor Myra can hardly sleep for the cold.” “Tt’s not the cold—it’s the wretched, hard, lumpy bed,” muttered Myra. This hint sent Catherine to the bed-side. “Oh, dear! oh, dear!” cried she, piteously, “poor dear things, how could you sleep at all? Do they call this a bed? and such blankets! Poor Myra!” her compassion quite overcoming her dis- like. ‘‘Nowonder. My goodness! my goodness ! it’s very shocking indeed.” And the good young thing could not help erying. “Blankets, dear girls! and a mattress, and a feather bed, and two pillows. How have you lived through it? And you, poor Myra, used to be made so much of. Yoor girl! Iam so sorry for you,” And oh, how her heart smote her for all she had said and thought to Myra’s disadvantage. And oh! how the generous eyes of Lettice beamed with pleasure as these compassionate words were addressed to her sister. Myra was softened and affected. She could almost forgive Catherine for being so fortunate, “You are very kind, indeed, Catherine,” she said. Catherine, now quite at her ease, began to ex- amine into their other wants; and without asking many questions, merely hy peeping about, and forming her own conclusions, was soon pretty well aware of what was the most urgent necessity. She was now quite upon the fidget to be gone, that she might order and send in the things; and ten of the twenty pounds given her for wedding-lace was spent before she and Mrs. Danvers reached home ; that lady laughing, and lamenting over the wedding-gown, which would certainly not be flounced, with Honiton, as Catherine’s good god- mother had intended, and looking so pleased, con- tented, and happy, that it did Catherine’s heart good to see her. CHAPTER IV. ‘¢ The swain in barren deserts with surprise Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise : And starts amid the thirsty wilds to hear New falls of water murm’ring in his ear.’’—Popr. In the evening Mrs. Danvers seemed rather tired, and the two sat over the fire a long time, without a single word being uttered; but, at last, when tea was finished, and they had both taken their work, Catherine, who had been in profound meditation all this time, began: “My dear Mrs. Danvers, are you rested? TI have a great deal to talk to you about, if you will let me.” “I must be very much tired, indeed, Catherine, when I do not like to hear you talk,” was the kind reply. ae Danvers reposed very comfortably in her arm-chair, with her feet upon a footstool before the cheerful blazing fire; and now Catherine drew her chair closer, rested her feet upon the fender, and seemed to prepare herself for a regelar con*- dential talk with her beloved old friend, “ My dear Mrs. Danvers, you are such 4 friez,
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LETTICE ARNOLD. 9 TS Ss¥—¥x—_---------OROOrrworrnrnr ee: upon the increase—that I have not known what to do. But to-day, while I was.dressing for dinner, a sudden, blessed thought came into my mind—really, just like a flash of light that seemed to put every- thing clear at once—and it is about that I want to consult you, if you willlet me. That dear Lettice Arnold! I knew her from a child. You cannot think what a creature she is. So sensible, sv cheerful, so sweet-tempered, so self-sacrificing, yvt so clever, and firm, and steady, when necessury. Mamma wants a daughter, and papa wants a reader and backgammon player, Lettice Arnold is the very thing.” Mrs. Danvers made no answer. “Don’t you think so? Are you not sure? Don’t you see it?’ asked poor Catherine, anx- lously. " “ Alas! my dear, there is one thing I can scarce- ly ever persuade. myself todo;.and that is—ad- vise any one to undertake the part of humble friend.” . “Oh, dear! oh, dear! I know it’s a terrible part in general; and I-can’t think why.” 4 “ Because neither party in general understands the nature of the relation, nor the exchange of duties it implies. For want of proper attention to this, the post of governess is often rendered so un- satisfactory to one side, and so very uncomfortable to the other, but in that case at least something is defined. In the part of the humble friend there is really nothing—everything depends upon ‘the equity and good-nature of the first party, and. the candor and good-will of the second. Equity not’ to exact too much—good-nature to consult the com- fort and happiness of the dependent. On that de- pendent’s side, candor in judging of what is, ex- acted; and good-will cheerfully to do the best ‘in her power to be amiable and agreeable.” ; “Tam not afraid of mamma. . She will never’be exacting much. She will study the happiness’ of all who depend upon her; she only does it almost | too much, I sometimes think, to the sacrifice o® her own comfort, and to the spoiling of them—and though papa is sometimes so suffering that he can’t help being.,a little impatient, yet he is a perfect gentleman, you know. As for Lettice Arnold, if ever there was a person who knew ‘how to make the best of it,’ and sup cheerfully upon fried onions when she had lost her piece of roast kid, it is she. Besides, she is so uniformly good-natured, that it is quite a pleasure to her to oblige. The only danger between dearest mamma and Lettice will be—of their quarreling which shall give up most to the other, But, joking apart, she is a vast deal more than I have said—she is a remarably clever, spirited girl, and shows it when she is culled upon. You cannot think how discreet, how tient, yet how firm, shecan be. Her parents, } vor people, were. very difficult to live with, and were always running wrong. If it had not been for Lettice, affairs would have got into dreadful con- fusion, There is that in her 80 right, such an in- herent downright sense of propriety and justice —somehow or other I am contident she will not let Randail tyrannize over mamma when I am one, “Really,” said Mrs. Danvers, “what you say seems very reasonable. There are exceptions to every rule. It certainly is one of mine to have as little as possible to doin recommending young women to the situation of humble friends. Yet in some cases I have seen all the comfort you *an- ticipate arise to both parties from such a connec- tion; and I own I never saw a fairer chance pre- sented than. the present; provided Randall is_not too strong for you all; which may be feared,” “Well, then, you do not disadvise me to talk te mamma about it, and I will write to you as soon as I possibly can; and you will be kind enough to negotiate with Lettice, if you approve of the terms. As for Randall she shall ‘not be too hard for me. Now is my hour; Iam in the ascendant, and I wil] win, this battle. or perish ; that is, J will tell mam+ ma. that I wont be married upon. any other terms ; and to have ‘Miss’ married is quite ‘aS great q matter.of, pride to. Mrs. Randall as to that déares{ of mothers.” it et The contest with Mrs, Randall was as fierce ai Catherine, in her worst anticipations, could hav¢ expected, She set herself most doggedly again: | the plan. It, indeed, militated against all hv: ceuemes. She, had intended 0 lave: oyorything “both of my dear mother’s and mine, that I think I may, without scruple, open my whole heart to you upon a matter in which more than myself are con- cerned, If you think me wrong, stop me,” said She, laying her hand affectionately upon that of her friend, and fixing those honest, earnest eyes of hers upon her face. Mrs. Danvers pressed her hand, and said: “My love, whatever you confide to me you know is sacred; and if [ can be of any assistance to you, dear girl, I think you need not scruple opening your mind; for you know [ am a sort of general mother-confessor to all my acquaintance, and am as secret as such a profession demands.” Catherine lifted up the hand; she held ‘it, pressed it, and continued to hold it; then she looked at the fire a little while, and at last spoke. “Did you never in your walk in life observe one evil under the sun, which appears to me to be a most crying one in many families, the undue influ- ence exercised by, and the power allowed to ser- vants ?” “Yes, my dear, there are few of the minor evils —if minor it can be called—that I have thought productive of more daily discomforts than that. At times the evils assume a much greater magni- tude, and are very serious indeed. Alienated hearts ~——divided families—property to a large amount unjustly and unrighteously diverted from its natu- ral channel—and misery, not to be told, about old age and a dying bed.” Catherine slightly shuddered, and said : “T have not had an opportunity of seeing much of the world, you know; what you! say is rather what I feared it might be, than waat I have actu- ally observed ; but I have had, a-sort of divination of what might in future arise. It is inexplicable to me the power a servant may. gain, and the tyrannical way in which she will dare to. exercise it. The unaccountable way in which those who have every title to command, may be brought to ‘obey, is scarcely to be believed, and to be inexpli- cable.” “Fear and indolence, my dear. Weak. spirits and a weak body, upon the one side; onthe other, that species of foree which want of feeling, want of delicacy, want of a nice conscience, want even of an enlarged understanding—which rough habits and coarse perceptions bestow. Believe me, dear girl, almost as much power is obtained in this fool- ish world by the absence of certain qualities as by the possession of others. Silly people think it so nice and easy to-govern, and so hard to obey. It requires many higher qualities, and much more rule over the spirit to command obedience than to pay it.” “Yes, no doubt, one does not think enough of that, Jeremy: Taylor, in his fine. prayers, has one for a new-married wife just about to, enter a fam- ily ; he teaches her to pray for ‘a right judgment in all things ;-not to be annoyed. at trifles; nor discomposed by contrariety of accidents ;’ a spirit ‘to overcome all my infirmities, and comply with and bear with the infirmities of others ;: giving. of- fence to none, but doing good to all I. can;’ but I think he should have added a petition for strength to rule and guide that portion of the household which falls under her immediate care, with a firm and righteous hand, not yielding feebly to the un- due encroachment of others, not suffering, through indolence or a mistaken love of peace, evil habits to creep over those who look up to us and depend upon us, to their own infinite injury as well as to ourown, Ah! that is the part of a ~woman’s duty hardest to fulfill; and I almost tremble,” said the young bride elect, “when I think how heavy the responsibility ; and how hard I shall find it to acquit myself as I desire.” “Tn this as in other’things,” answered Mrs. Dan- vers, affectionately passing her hand over her young favorite’s smooth and shining hair, “T have ever observed there is but one portion of real strength ; one force alone by which we can move mountains, But in that strength we assuredly are able to move mountains. Was this all that you had to say, my dear?” “Oh, no—but—it is so disagreeable—yet I think. Did you ever notice how things went on at home, my dear friend ?” “Yes—a little I have. One cannot help, you know; if one’ stays Jong: in a house, sveing the\re- lation in which the different members of a family stand to each other.” 5 “T thought you must have done so; that makes it easier for me—well, then, that was one great reason which made me so unwilling to leave mam- ma.” “T understand.” “There is a vast deal of that sort of tyranny ex- ercised in our family already.. Ever since I have grown up I have done all in my power to check it, by encouraging my poor, dear mamma, to exert a little spirit ; but she is so gentle, so soft, so indul- gent, and so affectionate—for even that comes in her way. She gets attached to everything around her. She cannot bear new faces, she says, and I think the servants know, and take advantage of. They venture to do as they like, because they think it will be too painful an exertion for her to change them.” ‘‘Yes, my dear, that is exactly as things go on; not in your family alone, but in numbers.that 1 could name if I chose. It is a very serious evil. It amounts to a sin in many households. The waste, the almost vicious luxury, the idleness that is allowed! The positive loss of what might be so much better bestowed upon those who really want it, to the positive injury of those who enjoy it! ‘The demoralizing effect of pampered habits —the sins which are committed through the.temp- tation of having nothing to do, will make, I fear, a dark catalogue against. the masters and. mis- tresses of families; who, because they have money in abundance, and hate trouble, allow all. this mis- rule, and its attendant ill consequences upon their dependents. Neglecting ‘to rule with diligence,’ as the Apostle commands us, and satisfied, pro- vided they themselves escape suffering from the ill consequences, except as far as an overflowing plen- tiful purse is concerned. Few people seem to re- flect upon the mischief they may be doing to these their half-educated fellow creatures by such negli- gence.” Catherine looked very grave, almost sorrowful, at this speech. . She said : “ Poor: mamma—but she cannot help.it—indeed she cannot. She is all love, and is: gentleness it- self. ‘The blessed one ‘who. thinketh no evil.’ Ilow can that Randall find the heart to tease-her! as I am sure she does—though mamma never com- plains. .And:then, I am afraid, indeed, I feel cer- tain, when I am gone the evil will very greatly, in- crease. You, perhaps, have observed,” added she, lowering her voice, “ that,poor papa. makes it par- ticularly difficult in our family—doubly difficult. His old wounds, his injured arm, his age and in- firmities, make all sorts of little comforts indispen- sable to him. He suffers so much bodily, and he suffers, too, so much. from little invonveniences, that he cannot bear to have anything done for him in wi unaccustomed way, Randall and Williams have lived with us ever since I was five years old —when poor papa came back, from Waterloo al- most cut to pieces. -And he is so fond of them he wiil not hear a. complaint against them—not. even from mamma. On! it is not her fault—poor, dear mamma !” “No, my love, such a dreadful sufferer, asthe poor general too often is, makes things very. diffl- cult at times. I understand all that quite well ; but we are still only on the preamble of your dis- course, my Catherine; somethifg more than vain lamentations is to come of it, I feel sure.” __ “Yes, indeed. Dear, generous;mamma! She would not hear.of my staying with her and, giving up Edgar; nor would she listen to what he was noble enough to, propose, that he should abandon his profession and come and live at the Hazels, rather than that I should feel I was tampering with my duty, for his sake, dear fellow !” And the tears stood in Catherine’s eyes, “Nothing I could say would make her listen to it.. I could ‘hardly be sorry for Edgar’s sake. 1 kuew what a sacrifice it would be upon his. part —tmiore sthan a woman ought to accept from a lover, I think—a-man-in_ his dotage, as one may say. oDon’t you think so,.too, ma'am 2? - “Yes, my dear, indeed Ido. Well, go on.” “T have been so perplexed, so unhappy, so un- devided what to do—so sorry to leave this dear, generous mother to the mercy of those servants of hers—whose influence, when she is alone, and with y to-hearten her up a little, will. beso terribly
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10 LETTICE ARNOLD. RE RS tt a a far more than ever her own way when “ Miss Catherine was gone ;” and though she had no doubt but that she should “keep the creature in her place,” and teach her “there was only one mis- tress here” (which phrase usually means the maid, though it implies the lady), yet sho hada sort of misgiving about it. There would be one at her (Lirs. Melwyn’s) ear as well as herself,and at, pos- sibly her master’s too, which was of still more impor- tance. And then “those sort of people are so artful and cantankerous. Oh! she’d seen enough of them in her day! Poor servants couldn’t have a moraicnt’s peace with a creature like that in the house, spying about and telling everything in the parlor. One can’t take a walk, or see a poor friend, or have a bit of comfort, but all goes up there. Well, those may put up with it who like. Here’s one as won’t, and that’s me myself; and so I shall riake bold to tell ‘Liss Catherine. General and Mrs. lielwyn must chose between me and the new-comcr.”” Poor Catherine! lrs, Melwyn cried, and said her daughter was very right: but she was sure Randall never would bear it. And the general, with whom Randall had daily opportunity for private converse while shc bound up his shattered arm, and dressed the old wound, which was perpetually breaking out afresh, and discharging splinters of bone, easily talked her master into the most decided dislike to the scheme. But Catherine stood firm. She had the support of her own heart and judgement; and the greater the difficulty, the more strongly she felt the ne- cessity of the measure. Edgar backed her, too, with all his might. He could hardly keep down his vexation at this weakness on one side, and in- dignation at the attempted tyranny on the other, and he said everything he could think of to en- courage Catherine to persevere. She talked the matter well over with her father. The general was the most testy, cross, and unreas- able of old men; always out of humor, because always suffering, and always jealous of everybody’s influence and authority, because he was now too weak and helpless to rule his family with a rod of iron, such as he, the greatest of martinets, had wielded in better days in his regiment and in his household alike. Hesuffered himself to be gov- erned by Randall, and by nobody else; because in yielding to Randall, there was a sort of conscious- ness of the exercise of free will. Heought to be influenced by his gentle wife, and clever, sensible daughter; but there was no reason on earth, but because he chose to do it, that he should mind what Randall said. “T hate the whole pack of them! I know well enough what sort of a creature you'll bring among us, Catherine. A whining, methodistical old maid, with a face like a hatchet, and a figure as if it had been pressed between two boards, dressed in a flimsy cheap silk, of a dingy brown color, with a cap like a grenadier’s. | Your mother and she will be sitting moistening their eyes all day long over the sins of mankind; and, Pli be bound, my own sins won’t be forgotten among them. Oh! I know the pious creatures of old. Nothing they hate like a poor old veteran, with a naughty word or two in his mouth now and then. Never talk to me Cath- erine; I can’t abide such cattle.” “Dearest papa, whata picture you do draw! just to frighten yourself. hy, Lettice Arnold is only about nineteen, I believe; and though she’s not particularly pretty, she’s the pleasantest-look- ing cfeature you ever saw. And as for bemoaning herself over her neighbors’ sins, I'll be bound she’s not half such a Methodist as Randall.” “ Randall is a very pious, good woman, I’d have you to know, Miss Catherine.” “Pm sure I hope she is, papa; but you must own she makes a great fuss about it. And I be- lieve, the habit she bas of whispering and turning up the whites of her eyes, when she hears of a neighbor's peccadillos, is one thing which sets you so against the righteous, dearest papa; now you know it is.” “You're a saucy baggage. How old is this thing you're trying to put upon us, did you say? “ Why, about nineteen, or, perhaps, twenty. And then, who’s to read to you, papa, when I am gone, and play backgammon? You know mamma must not read, on account of her chest, and she plays so badly, you say, at baskgammen,; it’s so dull, husband and wife playing you know.” (Poor Mrs. Melwyn dreaded, of all things, back- gammon ; she invariably got ridiculed if she played ill, and put her husband into a passion if she beat him. Catherine had long taken this business upon herself.) “Does she play backgammon tolcrably? and can she read without drawling or galloping ?” “Just at your own pace, papa, whatever that may be. Besides, you ean only try her; she’s easily sent away if you and mommr, don’t like her. And then think, she is a poor clergysaan’s daugh- ter; and it would be quite a kind action.” ‘““A poor parson’s! It would have been more to the purpose if you had said a poor officer’s, I pay tithes enough to the black-coated gentlemen, without being bothered with their children; and who ever pays tithes to us, wonder? I don’t see what right parsons have to marry at all; and then, forsooth, come and ask other people to take care of their brats !” “Ah! but she’s not to be taken care of for noth- ing; only think what a comfort she’ll be.” “To your mamma, perhaps, but not to me. And she’s always the first person to be considered in this house, I know very well; and I know very well who it is that dresses the poor old soldier’s wounds, and studies his comforts—and he’ll study hers; and I won’t have her vexed to please any of you,” “But why should she be vexed? to her. She's not to live with Lettice. must say, if Randall sets herself against this mea- sure, she behaves in a very unreasonable and un- worthy manner, in my opinion.” “ Hoity toity ! the welfare of us all? She’s told me so a thousand times.” “J daresay. Well, now, papa, listen tome. I’m going away from you for good—your little Cathe- rine, Just for once grant me this as a favor. Only try Lettice. I’m sure you'll like her; and if, after she’s been here for a quarter of a year, you don’t wish to keep her, why part with her, and [ll promise not to say a word about it. Randall has her good qualities, I suppose, like the rest of the world; but Randall must be taught to keep her place, and that’s not in this drawing-room. And it’s here you want Lettice not in your dressing-room, Randall shall have it all her own way dhere, and that ought to content her. And besides, papa, do you know, Ican’t marry Edgar till you have consented, be- cause I cannot leave mamma and you with nobody to keep \ou company.” “Edgar and you be d——n! like. ter. I shan’t have my own way till you’re gone. You’re a sad coaxing baggage, but you Aavea pret- ty face of your own, Miss Catherine.” If the debate upon the subject ran high at the Well, do as you Hazles,so did it in the little humble apartment which the two sisters occupied. “A humble friend! first.” “ Dying of hunger is a very horrible thing,” said Lettice, quietly, “and much more easily said than done. We have not, God be thanked for it, ever been quite so badly off as that; but I have stood near enough to the dreadful gulf to look down, and to sound its depth and its darkness. I am very thankful, deeply thankful, for this offer,which I should gladly accept, only what is to become of you?” “Oh! never mind me. It’s the fashion now, I see, for everybody to think of you, and nobody to think of me, I’m not worth caring for, now those who cared for me are gone. Oh! pray, if you like to be a domestic slave yourself, let me be no hind- rance,”” “A domestic slave! why should I be a domestic slave? I see no slavery in the case.” “J call it slavery, whatever you may do, to have nothing to do cll day but play toad-eater and flat- terer to a good-for-nothing old woman ; to bear all her ill-humors, and be the butt for all her caprices. That’s what humble friends are expected to do, I believe; what else are they hired for ?” and| “I shauld neither t nor flatter, I bape”. “ It’s nothing And I To be sure; and who’s behaving in an unreasonable and unworthy manner now, | wonder, abusing her behind her back, a worthy attached creature, whose soul object it is to study The sooner you’re out of the house the bet- No,” cried Myra, “ that I would never, never be; rather die of hunger said Lettice: and as for bearing zeople’s ill-humors, and being now and then the epers of their ccprices, why that, as you say, is very disagreeablo, yet, per- haps,it is what we must rather expect, But Mrs. Mel- wyn, I have always heard, is the gentlest of human bring. And if she is like Catherine, she must be free from caprice, and nobody could help quite lov- ing her,” ‘‘Stuff—love! love! A humble friend love her unhumble friend; for I suppose one must not venture to call one’s mistress a tyrant, Oh, no, a friend! a dear friend!” in a tauntmg ironical voice. ‘““Whomever it might be my fate to live with, I should éy to love; for I believe if one tries to love people, one soon finds something lovable about them, and Mrs. Melwyn, I feel sure, I should soon love very much.” “So like you! ready to love anything and every- thing. I verily believe if there was nothing else to love but the little chimney.sweeper boy, you’d fall to loving him, rather than love nobody.” “J’m sure that’s true enough,” said Lettice, laughing; “I have more than once felt very much inclined to love the little boy who carries the soot- bag for the man who sweeps these chimneys—such a saucy-looking, little sooty rogue.” “As if a person’s love could be worth having,” continued the sister, “ who is so ready to love any- body.” “No, that I deny. it hard to love.” “ Me for one.” “Oh, Myra!” “Well, I beg your pardon. You're very kind tome, But T’'ll teli you who it will be impossi- ble for you to love—if such a thing can be; that’s that testy, cross, old general.” ““T don’t suppose I shall have much to do with the old general, if I go.” " “Tf you go. Oh, you’re sure to go, You're so sanguine; every new prospect is so promising. But pardon me, you seem quite to have forgotten that reading to the old general, and playing back- gammon with him, are among your specified em- ployments.” “Well, I don’t see much harm in it if they are. Aman can’t be very cross with one when one’s reading to him—and as for the backgammon, I mean to lose every game, if that will please him,” “Oh, aman can’t be cross with a reader? I wish you knew as much of the world as I do, and had heard people read. I’m sure I’ve been put into such a worry by people’s way of reading, that I could have pinched them. Why, nothing on earth puts one in such a fidget. Really, Lettice, your simplicity would shame a child of five years old.” “Well, I shall do my best, and besides I shall take care to set my chair so far off that I can’t get pinched, at least; and as for a poor, ailing, suffering old man being a little impatient and cross, why one can’t expect to get fifty pounds a year for just doing nothing. 1 do suppose it is expected that I should bear a few of these things in place of Mrs. Melwyn; and I don’t see why I should not.” “Oh, dear! Well, my love you’re quite made for the place, I see; you always had something of the spaniel in you, er the walnut tree or any of those things which are the better for being ill- used. It was quite a proverb with our poor mother, ‘a worm will turn, but not Lettice. ” Lettice felt very much inclined to turn now. But the mention of her mother—that mother whose mismanagement and foolish indulgence had contributed so much to poor Myra’s faults—faults for which she now paid so heavy a penalty— silenced the generous girl, and she madc no answer, I No answer, let it proceed from never so good « motive, makes cross people often more cross; though perhaps upon the whole it is the best plan. So Myra in a still more querulous voice went on: “This room will be rather dismat all by one’s self, and I don’t know how I’m to go about, up and down, fetch and carry, and work as you are able to do, I was never used to it. It comes very hard upon me.” And she began to ery. “ Poor Myra! dear Myra! don’t ery; I never jn- Some few people I do find tended to leave you.. Though I talked ws if did,
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‘when the two are at issue. LETTICE ARNOLD. < 6 * ca ln i 9 Fad RDS PG snc umn RB RE RR, ET PSE SSE GPE. NSERC TSTESACATNE BET VOCI EL EA aCe © ome Sa Sr a ees it was only in the way of argument, because I thought more might be said for the kind of life than you thought; andI felt sure if people were tolerably kind and candid, I could get along very well and make myself quite comfortable. Dear me! after such hardships as we have gone through, a little would do that. But do you think, pocr dear girl, I could have a moment’s peace, and know you were here alone? No, no.” And so when she went in the evening to carry her answer to Mrs. Danvers, who had conveyed to her Catherine’s proposal, Lettice said, “that she should have liked exceedingly to accept Catherine’s offer, and was sure she should have been very hap- py herself, and would have done everything in her power to make Mrs. Melwyn happy, but that it was impossible to leave her sister.” If that is your only difficulty, my dear, don’t make yourself uneasy about that. I have found a place for your sister which I think she will like very well. It is with Mrs. Fisher, the great mil- liner in Dover street, where she will be taken care of, and may be very comfortable. Mrs. Fisher is a most excellent person, and very anxious, not only about the health and comfort of those she employs, but about their good behavior and their security from evil temptation. Such a beautiful girl as your sister is, lives in perpetual danger, exposed as she is without protection in this great town. “But Myra has such an abhorence of servitude, as she calls it—such an independent high spirit— I fear she will never like it,” “Tt will be very good for her, whether she likes it or not. Indeed, my dear, to speak sincerely, the placing your sister out of danger in the house ef Mrs, Fisher ought to be a decisive reason with you for accepting Catherine’s proposal—even did you dislike it much more than you seem to do.” “Oh! to tell the truth, I should like the plan very much indeed—much more than I have wished to say, on account of Myra; but she never, never will submit to be ruled, I fear, and make herself happy, where, of course, she must obey orders and follow regulations, whether she likes them or not. Unfortunately, poor dear, she has been so little accustomed to be contradicted.” “Well, then, it is high time she should begin; for contradicted, sooner or later, we all of us are certain to be. Seriously, again, my dear, good Lettice—I must call you Lettico—your innocence of heart prevents you from knowing what snares surround a beautiful young woman like ‘your sister, I like you best, I own; but I have thought much more of her fate than yours, upon that account. Such a situation as is offered to you she evidently is quite unfit to fill; but I went—the very day Catherine and I came to your lodgings and saw you both—to my good friend, Mrs. Fisher, and, with great difficulty have persuaded her at last to take your sister. She disliked the idea very much; but she’s an ex- cellent woman; and when I represented to her the peculiar circumstances of the case, she pro- mised she would consider the matter. She took a week to consider of it—for she is a very cau- tious person, is Mrs. Fisher ; and some people call her very cold and severe. However, she has de- cided in our faver, as Texpected she would, Ter compassion always gets the better of her prudence, And so you would not dislike to go to Mrs. Melwyn’s ?” “Wow could 1? Why, after what we have suf- fered, it must be like going into Paradise.” “Nay, nay—a little too fast. No dependent sit- uation is ever exactly a Paradise. I should be sor- ry you saw things in a false light, and should be disappointed.” “Qh, no, no, I do not wish to do that—I don’t think—thank you for the great kindness and in- terests you are so kind to show by this last re- mark, but I think I never in my life enjoyed one day of unmixed happiness since I was quite a lit- tle child; and I have got so entirely into the habit of thinking that everything in the world goes so— that when I say Paradise, or quite happy, or so on, it is always in a certain sense—a comparative sense,” “T am glad to see you so reasonable, that is one sure way to be | PPY3 but .you will find, your crosses atthe Wazles. The general is not very sweet-tempered ; and even dear mild Mrs. Melwyn is not perfect.” “ Why, madam, what am I toexpect? If I can not bear a few disagreeable things, what do I go there for? Not to be fed, and housed, and paid at other people’s expense, just that I may please my own humors all the time. That would be rather an unfair bargain, I think. No; I own there are some things I could not and would not bear for any consideration ; but there are a great many others that I can, and I shall, and I will—and do my best, too, to make happy, and be happy; and, in short, I don’t feel the least afraid.” “No more you need, you right-spirited creature,” said Mrs, Danvers, cordially. Many were the difficulties, endless the objections raised by Myra against the proposed pian of going to Mrs, Fisher. Such people’s objections and dif- ficulties are indeed endless. In their weakness and their selfishness, they like to be objects of pity —they take a comfort in bothoring and wearying people with their interminable complaints, Theirs is not the sacred outbreak of *he vverloaded heart, casting itself upon another heart for support and consolation under suffering that is too strong and too bitter to be endured clone. Sacred call for sympathy and consolation, and rarely made in vain ! It is the wearying and futile attempt to cast the burden of sorrowing and suffering upon others, in- stead of seeking their assistance in enduring it one’s self. Vain and useless endeavor, and which often bears hard upon the sympathy even of the kindest and truest hearts ! Ineffectually did Lettice endeavor to represent matters under a cheerful aspect. Nothing was of any avail. Myra would persist in lamenting, and grieving, and tormenting herself and her sister ; bewailing the cruel fate of both—would persist in recapitulating every objection which could be made to the plan, and every evil consequence which could possibly ensue. Not that she had the slightest in- tention inthe world of refusing her share in it, if she would have suffered herself to say so. She rather liked the idea of going to that fashionable modiste, Mrs. Fisher; she had the “ame de den- telle”” with which Napoleon reproached poor Jose- phine. There was something positively delightful to her imagination in the idea of dwelling among rich silks, Brussels laces, ribbons and feathers; it was to her what woods, and birds, and, trees were to her sister. She fancied herself elegantly dress- ed, walking about a show-room, filled with all sorts of beautiful things; herself, perhaps the most beautiful thing in it, and the object of a sort of flattering interest, through the melancholy cloud ‘“upon her fine features.” Nay, her romantic im- agination traveled still farther—gentlemen some- times come up with ladies to show-rooms—who could tell? Love at first sight was not altogeth- er a dream. Such things had happened. Myra had read plenty of old, rubbishy novels when she was a girl, Such were the comfortable thoughts she kept to herself; but it was, as I said, one endless ¢om- plaining externally. Catherine insisted unon being allowed to ad- vance the money for the necessary clothes, which, to satisfy the delicacy of the one and the pride of the other, she agreed should he repaid by install. ments as their salaries became due. The sale of their few possessions put a sovereign or so into the pocket of each, and thus the sisters parted; the lovely Myra to Mrs. Fisher’s, and Lettice, by rail- way, to the Hazels. ; CHAPTER V. Since trifles make the sum of human things.... Oh ! let the ungentle spirit learn from thence, A small unkindness is a great offence : Large favors to bestow we strive in vain, But all may shun the guilt of giving pain. : Hannan Moore, Ir Lettice had made her reflections, and had started upon her new undertaking witha heart yearning with tlie desire to perform 1:5 duties well, Mrs Melwyn had not been without undergoing a somewhat similar process upon her side, and this was her course of thought. She had at first felt the utmost dislike to the plan. She had, in the course of her life, seen so much discimfort, and dissatisfaction arise updw both sides from this sort of connection, that she had ta- ken up quite a prejudice against anything of the sort. i ; “It was a very great pity,” she often said to herself, “that so it should be, but the case wax universal, If it could be otherwise, what desir. able connections might be formed in a world such as the present! Such numbers of women of all ages, and all degrees of mental qualifications, find themselves suddenly without resource, through the accident of early death in the case of the profes- sions, or of disaster in commercial life; and so many others, through disease or advanced age, or the still more cruel stroke of death, find them- selves stranded, !onely and deserted, and languish- ing for a ureside friend. What comfortable, ben- eficial unions might be brought about in such cases, one should think; and, ‘yet why did they never or seldom turn out well? - “Faults there must be. Where did they lie? On_ both sides,” answered her understanding. “Not surely alone upon the side of the new comer—the paid one, conseq! vntly the obliged one, consequently the only one of the parties who had duties that she was pledged to “iform, and which, it is true, she too often very imperfectly perform- ed—but also upon the other She, it is true, is pledged to nothing but the providing meat, lodg- ing, and salary ; but that will not dispense her from obligations as a Christian, and as a. member of the universal sisterhood, which are not quite so easily discharged. “ Tt must double the difficulty to the new-comer,” thought Mrs. Melwyn, “the being treated so care- lessly as she too often is. How hard it must be to perform duties such as hers, if they are not per- formed in love! and how impossible it must be to love in such a case—unless we meet with love. Even to be treated with consideration and kind- ness will not suffice upon the one side, nor the most scrupulous endeavor to discharge duty upon the other—people must try tolove, _ “‘ How soothing to a poor, deserted orphan to be taken to the heart! How sweet to forlorn old age to find a fresh object of affection! Ah, but then these sort of people seem often so disagreeable, do one’s best, one cannot love or like them. But why do they seem so disagreeable? Partly be- cause people wiil overlook nething—have no mu- tual indulgence in relations which require so much. If one’s child has little ways one does not quite like, who thinks of hating her for it? If one’s mother is a little provoking and tedious under the oppressive weight of years or sickness, who thinks of making a great hardship of it? But if the poor, humble friend is only a little awkward or ungainly, she is odious; and if the poor, deserted mother, or widow, wife, or aged suffering creature is a little irritable or tedious, she is such a tyrant! “ Oh, how I wish! “Well, Catherine is a sensible, well-judging creature, and she assures me this Miss Arnold is a remarkably sweet-tempered, affectionate, modest, judicious girl, Why should I not try to make such a being love me? Why should we not be very happy together ? ‘There is Randall, to be sure, sets herself extremely against it; but, as Catherine says, ‘Is Randall to be mistress in this family, or am I?’ It is come quite to that point, And then it will be a great thing to have somebody between me and Randall. She will not be so necessary to me then, whatever she. may to the general; and when she makes herself so disagreeable, if this young lady is as comfortable to me as Catherine says she will be, I really shall not so much care. “Then,” continuing her meditations, which, though I put down in black and white, were thought, not spoken, “then Catherine says she is so greatly to be pitied, and is so exemplary; and she said, in her darling, coaxing way, ‘ Dear mamma, it will give you so much pleasure to make the poor thing amends for all her hardships, and if poor papa is a little cross at times, it will be quite an interest to you to contrive to make up for it. She will be quite a daughter to you, and in one respect you will have more pleasure in making her happy than even your own loving daughter, because oae is dear from our natural affections, and the other will be so from §enerous beneficence ; and though natural affection is such a sweet, precious, inestimable thing, generous beneficonce is yet nobler, and brings us still nearer to Gud.’
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12 LETTICE ARNOLD. ie enn s “Tf I could make her love me—and with such an affectionate temper why should I not? She wants a parent, I want a child. happiness disinterestedly, kindly, truly, she cannot help loving me; but I will try to study Aer good, her well-being; and I will let the love for me come or not asit may, and God will help me. He always does help me, when I have the courage to dare to forget myself, and leave the issue of things to His Providence.” Such were the dispositions upon both sides with which the two met. But the best resolutions win no battle. They are part, and a very serious part of every undertaking, but they are far from being all.. We are so imperfect ourselves, and we have to do with such imperfect beings, that evils and difficulties, unexpected, are sure to arise in our communication with others, even when both sides meet with the very best intentions; ' therefore, ‘whoever intends to carry out such good in- tentions, and make aright piece of work of it, must calculate upon these things, just as the me- chanie is obliged’ to make a large allowance for unavoidable obstructions in carrying out any of his theories into action and reality—into useful, every- day working order. In due time a fly from the railway—one of those dirty, hired carriages which are the disgrace of _ England—deposited Miss Arnold and her luggage - at the door of General Melwyn’s handsome mansion of the Hazels, and in all due form and order she was introduced into the dining-room. It was be- tween six and seven o’clock in the evening when she entered the very handsomely-furnished apart- ment, where over a half-and-half sort of fire—it having been rather a warm February day—sat the - general and his lady. Lettice was tired, heated and red with the jumb- ling of the railway, the bother at the station, and the knocking about inthe very uneasy carriage in which she had come up; and she felt in that dis- agreeable sort of journey disorder of toilet, which makes people feel and look so awkward. But she put the best face upon the matter, and entering, sats ‘avery respectful courtesy to Mrs. Melwyn, _ who met ber, holding out her hand ; and “with her - face and her appearance Lettice felt charmed in a ‘moment. Mrs. Melwyn, who did not want penetra- tion, saw that in Lettice, spite of présent disad- ” vantages, which ‘she was sure she should like very “much. Not so the general. ' He was a perfect fool of the eye, as military men are too apt to be. Whatever was awkward or ill-dressed, was perfectly ‘abhorrent to him; and he took a dislike to “the “creature” the moment he cast his eyes upon her. It seemed but an unpromising beginning. ’ The heart of poor Lettice sunk within her in a way she was little accustomed to, ag the general, in a very pettish mood, stirred the fire,‘and said, “When are we to have dinner, Mrs. Melwyn? What are we waiting for? Will you never teach that cook of yours to be” punctual ?” ~ “Tt is not her fault, indeed,” was the’ ansiver, in a low, timid voice ; “I ventured to order dinner ‘to be put ‘off half an hour, to’ suit the railway “time.” — fe) wal ; The general was too well bred to utter what he’ very plainly looked—that to have béen thus kept aiting for Miss Arnold he thought a very unwar- ‘rantable propeeine indeed. | He stirred ef made it blaze fiercely—then ‘complained of these abominable coals, which burried ‘like touchwood, and had no heat in them,'and wondered whether up the fire with additional vigor— Mrs, Melwyn would ever have the energy to order ““gea-borne coal, as he had desired; and then, cast- ing a most ungracious look’at the new-comier, who Stood ‘during this scené, feeling shocked and un- comfortable to a degree, he asked Mrs. Melwyn “how long shé tntended to keep the young lady ' gtanding there’béfore she dressed for dinner ?” and _ suggested that’ the housemaid should be sent for, ‘to show her to her room. | “J will take that office upon myself,” said Mrs. Melwrn. “Come, Miss Arnold, will you follow me” And lighting a candle, for it was now dark, she proceeded toward the door. “For heaven’s sake, don’t be long,” said her ~ husband, in an irritable tone; it’s striking six and - three-quarters. Js dinner to be nner to be upon the table at seven o'clock, or i¢ if not?” 8 If I study her ~ SOWho?” asked “Then, Miss—Miss—I beg your pardon—and Mrs. Melwyn, I hope you willbe ready to take your ‘usual place at table.” They heard no more; for Mrs. Melwyn closed the door, with the air of one esecaping—and, looking uncomfortable and half-frightened, led the way up stairs. It was a pretty, cheerful little room, of which she opened the door; and a pleasant fire was blaz- ing in the grate. The bed was of white dimity, trimmed with a border of colored chintz, as were the window-curtains ; the carpet quite new, and uncommonly pretty; chairs, dressing-table, writ- ing-table, all very neat and elegant; and the tables comfortably covered each with its proper append- ages. It was quite a pretty little den. Mrs. Melwyn had taken much pleasure in the fitting up of this small room, which was next to her own dressing-room. She had fancied herself going to receive into it a second Catherine, and though the very moderate amount of money of which she had the power of disposing as she pleased, and the noisy remonstrances and objec- tions of Randall, had prevented her indulging in many petty fancies which would have amused and occupied her pleasantly since the dismal day of Catherine’s wedding, still she had persisted, con- trary to her wont, in having in some degree her own way. §o, in spite of all Randall could do, she had discarded the ugly old things—which the lady’s maid, excessively jealous of this new-comer, declared were more than too good for such as her —and had substituted this cheerful simplicity ; and the air of freshness and newness cast over everything rendered it particularly pleasing. “What a beautiful little room!” Lettice could not help exclaiming, looking excessively delighted. She liked pretty things and ‘elegant little comforts as well as anybody, did Lettice, though they sel- dom fell to her share, because she was always giv- ing them up to other people. “Do you like it, my dear?” said Mrs. Melwyn, in what Lettice thought tlie sweetest, softest voice she had/ever heard, ‘I have taken’great pleasure in getting it ready for you; I shall be glad, indeed, if you can make: yourself happy in it.” “Happy! Who could help being happy in such a paradise?” “And with such a sweet, gentle, charming person as Mrs. Melwyn,” mentally added Lettice. ‘What matters it how cross the poor old general is,” thought she. “But, my dear, I don’t see your trunks. Will you ring the bell for them? The general must not be kept waiting for his dinner, and he can not en- dure those who sit down at his table, either to be too late, or not to be in an evening dress. Mili- tary men, you know, are so used to this sort of precision, that they expect it from all around them. You will remember another day, my dear, and ”— then the under housemaid opened the door. “ Tell them to bring up Miss Arnold’s trunks directly.” ¥ Them, : bts, ; ‘She did not at that moment exactly know which was the proper servant whose office it ought to be “to carry Miss Arnold’s trunks.’ Miss Arnold was an anomaly. There was’no'precedent. Nota ser- vant in this family would stir without a precedent. The trunk was probably too heavy for the under. housemaid to carry up—that under-housemaid, one of the fags of an establishment like this, kept merely to do what the upper-servyants are too fine todo. In households like the one before us, you must have two in every department; there is a chance, then, if you want anything done, you may get itdone. The under-servant is always, as I said, a sort of fag or slave ini ‘the eyes of the. upper ones. ‘They will allow her to make herself “useful, though it should not be exactly her place.. Mrs. Melwyn had provided for the attendance upon Miss Arnold. by having recourse to this said under- housemaid, and adding a couple of sovereigns to her wages unknown to Randall, but she had for- gotten the carrying up of her trunk. Had it been Catherine, this would have been don¢ as a matter of coursé by the two footmen, and she had a sort of faint hope they would do it of course now. But, she did not like to ask such a thing, so she said “them,” hoping somebody would answer to it some way or other, but— @ point. * ‘| you. Bridget, bringing the. matter to. cst t= yt... [dishes shining in the light of four wax candles; a “Why, Iam sure I don’t exactly know. Who is there below? I suppose you could not carry them up yourself, Bridget ?” “T am afraid not, ma’am; there’s only one trunk, and it looks heavy.” “Oh!” cried Lettice, “I can come and help you. We can carry it up together, for Myraand I carried it down together.” And, she was quitting the room. But Mrs. Melwyn laid her hand upon her shoulder. ‘‘No, my dear, upon no account ; Bridget, fetch up the gardner’s boy, he’ll help you to carry the trunk up.” Mrs. Melwyn looked excessively annoyed and distressed. Lettice could not imagine what could be: the matter. The gentle, kind lady seemed nervous and em- barrassed. At last, evidently making a very great effort with herself, she got out, ‘Excuse me, my dear, but there is a little thing—I wou a rather not, if you please—servants are so insolant, you know they are ill brought up; if you please, my dear, it will be better not to offer to. do things for yourself, which young ladies don’t usually under- take todo; such as carrying up trunks... And then, I think, it will be better not to allude to past. cir- cumstances, servants are apt to have such a con- tempt for people that have not been very rich. It’s very strange and wrong, but so itis. . You will be more comfortable, I think, if you maintain your own dignity. I hope you will not be hurt at me for giving you this little hint, Miss Arnold.” “Hurt! Oh, madam!’ And Lettice could not forbear taking up the beautiful white hand of this most fair and delicate woman, and kissing it with the most respectable reverence. ‘ Whatever you will be so very kind to suggest to me I will so carefully attend to, and I shall be so much obliged to you.” How sweet was this gentle. manner to poor Mra. Melwyn! She began to feel lightened from quite a load of anxiety. She began to believe, that hap- pen what would, she should never be afraid of Lettice. ‘Catherine was quite right; oh, what a comfort it would be !” “‘Well then,” she continued with more cheerful- | ness, “I will go away and see that your things are sent up to you, for there is no time to be lost. Bless me! it’s striking seven. You never can be ready. Oh! here it comes! I forgot to tell you that Bridget is to answer your bell and wait upon I have settled all that—you. will find her quite good-natured and attentive; she’s really an obliging girl.” And so she was. The upper-housemaid took care to preserve strict discipline, and exact prompt obedience in her own department, whatever the mistress of the mansion might do in hers. “Well, then, I will leave you and make your excuses to the general, and you will follow me to the dining-room as soon as you can. We must not keep dinner waiting any longer. You will excuse that ceremony, I am sure, The general is an in- valid, you know, and these matters are important to his health,” And so saying, she glided away, leaving Lettice almost too much astonished to be delighted with all this consideration and kindness—things to which she had been little accustomed. But the impression she received, upon the whole, was yery sweet. The face and manner of Mrs, Melwyn were so excessively soft; her very dress, the color of her hair, her step, her, voice; everything spoke so much gentleness. Lettice thought her the loveliest being she had ever met with. More charming even than Catherine, more attaching even than Mrs. Danvers. She felt very much inclined to adore her. She was but a very few hours longer in the house before pity added to this rising feeling of attach- ment; and I believe there is nothing attaches the inferior to the superior like pity. Dressed in one of her best new dresses, and with her hair done up as neatly as she possibly could in that hurry, Lettice made her way to the dining. room. It was a large, lofty, very handsome, and rather awfully resounding room, with old family pictures upon every side. There was a sideboard set out -sparkling with glass and plate; a small table in the middle of, the apartment with silver covers and
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1 NRE aE Rr SO ee ee a Ce Oe Pe LETTICE ARNOLD. is blazing fire, a splendid Indian screen before the door; two footmen in liveries of pink and white, and a gentleman’ in a black suit, waiting. The general and Mrs. Melwyn were seated opposite. to each other at table. The soup had been already discussed, and the first course was set upon the table when Miss Arnold entered. _ Had she been a young lady born, an obsequious footman would have been ready to attend her to ~ her seat, and present her with a chair; as it was, she would have been spared this piece of etiquette, and she was making her way to her chair with- out missing the attention, when the general, who observed this saucy footmen standing lounging about, without offering to move forward, frowned in what Lettice thought a most alarming way, and said in a stern yoice, and significant manner, “What are you about?” to the two footmen. This piece of attention was bestowed upon her to her surprise and to Mrs. Meliwyn’s great satisfaction. “We thought you would excuse us. The soup has been set aside for you,” said the lady of the house. “Qh, thank you, ma’am, pray don’t trouble your- self.” “Give Miss Arnold soup.” Again in a stern, authoritative voice from the general. Mrs. Melwyn was used to the sternness, and most agreeably surprised at the politeness, and quite grateful for it. Lettice thought the voice and look too terrible to take pleasure in anything connected with it. She had no need to feel gratitude either—it was not done out of consideration for her. The gen- eral, who, with the exception of Randall, kept, as far as he was concerned, every servant in the’ ut- most subservience, did not choose that anyone who had the honor of a seat at his table should’ be neglected by those “rascals,” as he usually styled his footmen. ; It being the first evening, Mrs. Melwyn had too much politenesss to require Miss Arnold to enter upon those after-dinner duties, the performance of which had been expressly stipulated for by Cathe- rine; stipulated for, not only with Lettice, but with the general himself. She had made her father promise that he would suffer this young lady to undertake the place of reader—which Catherine had herself filled for some time, to the inexpressible relief of her mother—and that Miss Arnold should be permitted to try whether she could play well enough at backgammon to make an adversary worth vanquishing. He had grumbled and objected, as a matter of course, to this arrangement, but had finally con- sented. However, he was not particularly impa- tient to begin; and besides, he was habitually a well-bred man, so that any duty which came under his category of good manners he punctually per- formed. People are too apt to misprize this sort of politeness of mere habit; yet, as far as it goes, it is an excellent thing. It enhances the value of a really kind temper in all the domestic relations, to an incalculable degree—a degree little appreciated by some worthy people, who think roughness a proof of sincerity, and that rudeness } marks the honest truth of their affections, And where there is little kindness of nature, and a great deal of selfishness and ill-tempered indul- Genes, ‘as in this cross old man before us, still the habit of politeness was not without avail; it kept him in a certain check, and certainly ren- dered him more tolerable. He was not quite such a brute bear as he would have been, left to his uncorrected nature. ; Politeness is, and ought to be, a habit so con- firmed, that we exercise it instinctively—without consideration, without attention, without effort, as it were; this is the very essence of the sort of politeness I am thinking of, It takes it out ‘of the category of the virtues, it is true, but it places it in that of the qualities ; and, in some matters, good qualities are almost a3 valuable, almost more valu- able, than if they still continued among the virtues —and this of politeness, in my opinion, 1s one. By virtues, I mean acts which are performed with a certain difficulty, under the sense of respon- sibility to duty, under. the self-discipline of right principle ; by qualities, I mean what is spontane- ous. Constitutional good qualities are spontane- ous. Such as natural sweetness of temper—natu- ral delicacy of feeling—natural intrepidity ; others are the result of habit, and end by being spontane- ous—by being a second nature: justly are habits called so. Gentleness of tone and manner—atten- tion to conventional proprieties—to people’s little wants and feelings—are of these. This same. po- liteness being a sort of summary of such, I will end this little didactic digression by advising all those who have the rearing of the young in their hands, carefully to. form them in matters of this description, so that they shall attain habits—so that the delicacy of their perceptions, the gentleness of their tones and gestures, the propriety of their dress, the politeness of their manners, shall be- come spontaneous acts, done without reference to self, as things of course. By which means, not only much that is disagreeable to others is avoided, and mueh that is amiable attained, but.a great deal of reference to self is in after-life escaped; and temptations to the faults of vanity—pride—envious comparisons with our neighbors, and the feebleness of self-distrust very considerably diminished, And so, to return, the politeness of the general and Mrs. Melwyn led to this result, the leaving Miss Arnold undisturbed to make her reflections and her observations, before commencing the task which Mrs. Melwyn, for the last time, undertook for her, of reading the newspaper and playing ‘the hit. Lettice could not help feeling. rejoiced to be spared this sort of public exhibition of her powers, till she was in a slight degree better acquainted with her ground; and she was glad to know, with- out being directly told, what it was customary to do in these respects. But in every other point of view, she had_ better,. perhaps, have been reader than listener. For, if she gained a lesson as to the routine to be followed, she paid for it by receiving at the same time a considerably alarming impres- sion of the-general’s ways of proceeding, ‘Shall I read the newspaper this evening?” be- gan‘Mrs, Melwyn, timidly. “TJ don’t care if you do,” roughly. Polite men, be it observed, en passant, do not at all make it a rule to evercise that habit to their wives. The wife is a thing apart from the rest of the world, out of the category of such proprieties. To berude to his wife is no impeachment of a man’s gentleman-like manners at all, “Ts there anything worth reading in it ?” “J am sure I don’t know what. you will think worth reading. Shall I begin with the leading article ?” “ What is it all about ?” \ “Tam sure Ican’t say.” “Can't you look ?” “The sugar question, I think.” ’ “Well, what has the fool to say about that?” “¢The speech'of Lord last. night upon the much discussed subject of the sugar question, has nc doubt been read and) commented upon, in their various ways, and according to their different: im- pressions—shall we say prejudices ?—by our read- ers. The performance, it is upon all hands agreed, was masterly, and, as far as eloquence is concerned, that the accomplished statesman who. uttered this remarkablespeech did only justice to’ ” “Well—well—well—ell,”.in a sneering tone, “Treally do wonder how long you could. go on ‘droning and dinning, and dinning and droning such palpably empty editorial nonsense as that into a man’s ears. Now, i would be glad to ask you— merely to ask you, as a rational woman, Mrs, Mel- wyn—what possible amusement or profit can be drawn from a long exordium which says absolutely nothing—tells one absolutely nothing but what everyone knew hefore—stuff with which all editors of newspapers seem to think it necessary to pre- face their remarks. What in the name. of —— is the use of wasting your-breath and my patience— can’t you skip ? «Are you a mere reading machine, madam ?” hae “Shall I pass on to the next subject ?” “No, that’s not my meaning—if you could take a meaning. What I want is only what every ra- tional person expects when these confounded lucu- brations of a stupid newspaper editor are read up —that the reader will have the sense to leave all these useless phrases and useless syllables out, and give the pith: and marrow to the listener. Well— well, never mind—if you can’t, you can’t; get. on, at all events.” r Mrs. Melwyn colored faintly, looked nervous and uneasy, glanced down the columns of the news paper, and hesitated. ““Well—can’t you goon? What’s the use of sitting there, looking like a child of six years old who’s afraid of being whipped? If you can’t, you can’t—if you haven’t the sense, you haven’t; but for sake get. on,” eae rose, and in a manner upon which we cannot exactly bestow our approbation, but which, nevertheless, seemed to us in an unaccount- able manner to obtain the earand the attention of a very crowded house, &¢., &¢.2” “There you are again! why the deuce can’t you pass over all that, and tel! us what the confounded blockheads on that side did really say?” “T read this debate to you yesterday, you’ know. These are only the editor’s remarks upon it. Shall I give you the summary of last night’s debate?” “No, let’s hear what the fool says upon this cursed sugar question. He's against the measure, that’s one comfort.” “Tle does not seem to be so exactly,” glancing down the page. “TI take the liberty of judging that matter my- self, Mrs. Melwyn, if you'll only be so particularly ‘obliging as to read on.” Which she did. Now reproached for reading in such a low, cluttering manner, with that d—d soft voice of hers, that it was impossible to hear; and when she raised it, asked, “ What the deuce was the use of shouting so as to be heard by the fel- lows in the servants’ hall ?” In this style the newspaper was at last, for bet- ter for worse, blundered through, inthe most un- comfortable manner possible, by the terrified reader. Lettice sat by, deeply attentive, She was a brave, high-spirited girl, and she did not feel dis- mayed; her predominant sentiment: was self-con- gratulation that she should be able to spare that sweet, soft, kind Mrs. Melwyn the ungrateful task. She sat observing, and laying down her own plans of proceeding, It was not the first time in her life she had been exposed to’ what is called scolding ; a thing every day, I verily believe—and am most happy to do so—going more and more out of fashion, though still retained, as a habit, by many people otherwise well-meaning enough. It was retained in its full vigor by the general, who was not well-meaning at all; he usually meant noth- ing on earth by what he did, but the indulgence of the present humor, good, bad, or indifferent. Lettice had lived in.a sphere of life where this sort of domestic violence used to be very common; and she had learned to bear it, even from the lips of those she loved, with patience, She knew this very well, and she thought to herself, “ If I could get in- to the habit of hardly caring for it from those-very near and dear to mé, surely it will be. easy, enough to meet it with indifference, from ja poor, cross, peevish, suffering old man, whom I don’t care for in the least. The way must. be, to get’ into the habit of it from the first, to let the words: ae “*Pass by me as t!e idle wind which I regard not.’ I must pi’ ail my vanity, all my spirit, all my own little tempers, quietly out of the way; and never trouble myse:f with what he says, but go read- ing on in tho best way I can, to please him, but with the most unruffled outwatd appearance of tranquility ; and the utmost secret indifference as to whether I succeed or not. He shall.be sooner tired of scolding,than I of looking as if never heard it. He'll give over if I can persevere, instead of looking all colors and all ways, as that dear, gentle Mrs. Melwyn does.” ; Spek The trial at backgammon was, if such a thing could be, worse. It seemed as if it was impossible to give satisfaction here. The general. not. only played his own ‘game, but insisted upon playing that of his adversary; and was by turns angry at | her stupidity in missing an advantage through want of skill, asking, “ What could be the possible in- terest or pleasure of playing with such a mere child?” and yexed, if the plan he pointed out ended in his own discomfiture, for he could’ not bear to lose, “ Backgammon, too, was an unlucky game to be played with one of a temper such as his, Evr favorable throw of the dice, it is true, filled hi with a disagreeable sarcastic exultation; but positively bad one, and still more, a succession «. | had ones, drove him furious... After along course ¥
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4 . of provoking throws, such a3 sometimes happen, he would seem half mad, storm, curse, and swear, in the most ridiculous, if it had not been blasphe- mous, manner; and sometimes end by banging the tables together, and vowing he would never play at this confounded game again as long as he lived. There was an exhibition of this sort that very evening. Mrs. Melwyn looked much distressed, and almost ashamed, as she glanced at Lettice to see how she took it; but Lettiee appeared to be too much engaged with a knot in her netting to seem to take it at all, which evidently relieved Mrs. Melwyn. The scene had not, however, been lost upon our friend, who had observed it with a smile of secret contempt. Mentally, however, congratulating herself upon her good, robust nerves; such things, she well knew, being perilous to those cursed with delicacy of that sort. The best endeavors, the best inten- tions, would be without avail in such cases; such sufferers would find their powers of endurance de- stroyed by these successive acts of violence, till it would be impossible to meet them tolerably. Again she looked at Mrs. Melwyn, and with great pity. Again she rejoiced in the idea of saving her from what she perceived was, indeed, to such a frame and temper as hers, a source of very great suffer- ing; and again she resolved to keep up her own spirits, and maintain the enly true defense, courage and indifference. She felt sure, if she could enly, by a little effort, do this fer a short time, the effort would terminate in a habit; after which it would eost her little or nothing more. The general, though polite to Lettice in their first communications, held her in far too little esteem to care one doit what he did or said before her. He was an excessively proud man; and the idea that a girl, so greatly his inferior in every way, should keep him in check, or venture even to make a remark upon him, far less presume to judge his conduct, never entered his head. I wender what he would have felt, if he could have been made aware of that secret smile. Now a tray with wine, spirits, and water, was in- troduced. The general took his accustomed glass of whisky-and-water, then opened his cigar-box, and began to smoke. This process invariably made Mrs. Melwyn feel rather sick, and she rose this evening to go away; but being asked what she was moving for, she resumed her seat, and sat till two cigayvs had been smoked, and the clock told half-past ten; when, as the general loved early hours, she was suffered to take her depar- ture. The servant entered with lighted candles. Mrs. Melwyn took one, and bade him give Miss Arnold another; and they went up stairs together. “Good-night, my dear,” said the lady of the house, with a wearied, worn air, and a tone in which there was a good deal of sadness. She never could get used to these scenes, poor thing ; every time the general was cross she felt it acutely; he had grown dreadfully cross since Cath- erine married. Mrs. Melwyn hardly knew what to do with him, or how to bear it. “ Good-night, my dear, I hope you will sleep comfortably.” “Can I be of any further use to you, madam, to-night ?” “Oh, no, thank you; don’t come into my dress- ing-room; Randall is very particular; she consid- ers thet her own territory. She does not like any- one to come in, especially at night ; but just let me look whether your fire burns,” she added, entering Lettice’s room. The fire was blazing merrily; Mrs. Melwyn put ner candle down upon the chimney-piece, and stood there a little while before it, looking again irreso- lute. It seemed as if she wished, and did not know how, to say something. Lettice stood at a short distance, respectfully expectant. “T declare it’s very cold to-night,” with a little shiver. “T did not feel it cold, but then this is so thor- oughly eomfortable a house.” “Do you think so? Shall you find it so? The ’ wind comes sharply down the passages sometimes, but I wish, I hope, you won’t care much for that— or—or—or—any little painful things; they can’t be helped, you know, in this world.” “Ah, madam! if I may venture to say so, there LETTICE ARNOLD. is one good thing one gets out of great hardships —little things do seem so very little afterward.” “Ay, if they are really little, but” “Things that are—that don’t seem little to peo- ple of more gentle nurture, who have lived in a different way, seem, and are, little to those who have roughed it till they are themselves roughened. That was what I tended to say. One is so very happy to escape dreadful, real, positive distress, that all the rest is like mere play.” Mrs. Melwyn looked at her in a pensive, anx- ious, inquiring manner. She wanted to see if she was understood; she saw that she was. She saw something truly heartening and encouraging in the young girl’s countenance. She shook hands with her and bade her good-night very affection- ately, and went to her own dressing-room, Ran- dall was cross that night as it was possible for the most tyrannical servant to be, but some way or oth- er, Mrs. Melwyn did not feel as if she cared for it quite so much as usual; she had her mind filled with the image of Lettice. Something so very nice about her, she thought to herself, in one respect even better than Catherine. She should not be so afraid of her being distressed by disagreeable things ; she should venture to tell her about Ran- dall, and other vexations which she had carefully concealed from Catherine, lest they should make her unhappy. Thus she represented it to herself ; the truth was, lest Catherine should make a point of Randall being parted with, an effort she knew herself quite incompetent to make. She should be able to complain of Randall, with- out feeling that she should be urged to conquer her weakness, and part with her. There was some- thing very comfortable in this ; so Randall pouted away, and Mrs, Melwyn heeded it not very much, not nearly so much as usual; and when Randall perceived this, she was excessively offended, and more and more cross and disagreeable. She had quite quickness enough to perceive how much her despotism must be weakened by the rule being thus divided, and she saw even so early something of the effects she deprecated. The observation, how- ever, did not tend to soften her or to render her more obliging, it was not the least in her plan to contend with the new-comer in this way; she meant to meet her, and her mistress, with open de- fiance, and bear both down by main force. CHAPTER VI. ““Cowards die many times before their death.” —SHAKESPEARE, Tue courage of Lettice, as I have told you, was strong, and her nerves good, but in spite of this, as- sisted by the best resolutions in the world, she did find it a hard matter to stand the general. She was very hopeful the first day or two, the habitual politeness, of which I have spoken, came in aid. It exercised a sort of instinctive and involuntary check upon the ld man’s rude intemperance of language when irritated. Lettice did her very best to read the newspaper to his satisfaction ; skipping every unnecessary word, just as Catherine had been accustomed to do, without hurting the sense in the least; and getting over the ground with all the rapidity the old veteran desire. This was a plan poor Mrs. Melwyn was far too nervous to adopt. If she missed a word it was sure to be the wrong one to miss—one necessary to, instead of encumbering the meaning, It was quite indespensable that she should read simply and straightforwardly what was put before her, or she was certain to get into con- fusion, and have herself scolded. Even the dread- ed and dreadful backgammon did tolerably well, while the general’s politeness to the stranger lasted. Lettice was surprised herself, to find how easily the task, which had appeared so awful, was dis- charged; but she had not long to congratulate her- self. Gradually, at first by slow degrees, but af- terward like the accelerated descent of a stone down the hill, acquired habit gave way to constitu- tional ill-humor. Alas, they tell us nature expelled with a pitchfork will make her way back again ; most true of the unregenerated nature—most true of the poor blind heathen, or the poor untutored Chris- tian, to all intents and purposes a heathen—too true even of those assisted by better considera- tions, higher principles, and higher aids. First it was a little low grumbling ; then a few impatient gestures ; then a few impatient words— words became sentences ; sentences of invective— soon it was with her, just as it had been with oth- ers. This graduated progression assisted, how- ever, gradually to harden and prepare her She was resolved not to look frightened, though her very knees would knock together at times. She was de- termined never to allow herself to feel provoked or burt, or ill-used, let the general be ever so rude ; and to soften her heart by any such ideas she never allowed herself. Steadily she kept in mind that he was a suffering, ill-disciplined, irritable old man, and by keeping these considerations in view, she actually achieved the most difficult—almost heroic effort. She managed to attain a frame of mind in which she could pity his sufferings, feel indulgence for his faults, and remain quite placid under their effects as regarded herself. This conduct before a very long time had elapsed produced an effect far more agreeable than she had ever ventured to anticipate. The general began to like her. Like many other cross people, he was excessive- ly difficult to be pleased in one article—the way people took his scoldings. He was offended if they were received with cheerfulness, in the way Edgar had tried to laugh them off, he was still more vexed if people seemed hurt or suffering under them; if they cried, it was bad, indeed. Like many others not absolutely wicked and cruel, though he could not control his temper, he really did feel vexed at seeing the pain he had produced. His conscience would cry out a little at such times. Now, nothing made him so uncomfortable and ir- ritabie, as having a quarrel with his conscience; a thing that did not very often happen, to be sure, the said conscience being in his ease not a very watchful guardian, but it was all the more dis- agreeable when it spoke. The genuine good tem- per and habitual self-possession, the calmness with- out disrespect, the cheerfulness without ecareless- ness, the respectful attention stripped of all mean- ness or subservience which Lettice managed to pre- serve in her relations with him, at last made its way quite to his heart, that is to say, to his taste or fancy, for I don’t think he had much of a heart. He began to grow quite fond of her, and one day delighted, as much as he surprised Mrs. Melwyn, by saying, that Miss Arnold really was a very pret- ty sort of young woman, and he thought suited them very well. And so the grand difficulty of managing with the general’s faults was got over, but there remained Mrs, Melwyn’s and the ser- vants, Lettice had never laid her aceount at finding any faults in Mrs. Melwyn. That lady from the first moment she beheld her, had quite won her heart. Her elegance of appearance, the dove-like softness of her countenance, the gentle sweetness of her voice, all conspired to make the most charming impression. Could there lie anything under that sweet outside, but the gentlest and most indulgent of temper? No, she was right there, nothing could be more gentle, more indulgent than was Mrs. Melwyn’s temper; and Lettice had seen so much of the rough, the harsh, the captious, and the unamiable during her life, that grant her the existence of those two qualities, and she could scarcely desire anything more. She had yet to learn what are the evils which attend the timid and the wenk. She had yet to know that there may be much concealed self-indulgence, where there is a most yielding disposition; and that they who are too cowardly to resist wrong and violence courageous- ly, from a weak and culpable indulgence of their own shyness and timidity, will afford a poor de- fense to those they ought to protect, and expose them to innumerable evils. Lettice had managed to become easy with the general; she could have been perfectly happy with Mrs. Melwyn, but nothing could get over the diffi- culties with the servants. Conscious of the mis- rule they exercised; jealous of the new-comer— who soon showed herself to be a clever and spirit- ed girl—a sort of league was immediately insti- tuted among them, its declared object being either to break her spirit, or get rid of her out of the house. The persecutions she endured, the daily minute troubles and vexations, the difficulties cast in her path by these dangerous yet contemptible foes, it would be endless to describe. Whatever she wanted she could not get done.
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LETTICE ARNOLD. 15 Even Bridget, under the influence of the upper- housemaid, proved a broken reed to lean upon. Her fire would never be lighted, nor her room done at the proper time; and when she came down with red hands, purple cheeks, and, worst of all, a red nose, looking this cold spring the very picture of chill and misery, the general would look cross, and Mrs, Melwyn not pleased, and would wonder ‘“‘ How she could get so starved, and why she did not make them light her fire.” She could make no reply but that she would ask Bridget to be more punctual. It was worse, when do what she would—ring as she would—nobody would come to fasten her dress for dinner till the last bell was sounding; and when it was impossible for her to pay all those nice attentions to her appearance which the gen- eral’s critical eye demanded. Though he said nothing he would upon such occasions look as if he thought her a sloven; and Mrs. Melwyn, on her side, seemed excessively fretted and uneasy, that her favorite would do herself so little justice, and run the risk of forfeiting the general’s favor; and this last piece of injustice, Lettice did feel it hard to bear. It was the same in all the other minutiz of do- mestic life, Every trifling circumstance, like a midge’s sting, though insignificant in itself, was rendered in the sum total most troublesome. If they were going out walking, Miss Arnold’s shoes were never cleaned. She provided herself with several pairs, that one at least might always be ready, and she not keep the general and Mrs. Melwyn waiting. It was of nouse. The shoes were never ready. If there were several pairs, they were lost, or odd shoes brought up. She did not care for labor. She had no foolish pride about serving herself, she had been used to that sort of thing; she had not the slightest wish on earth to be a fine lady; but that was forbidden. It was one of the things Mrs. Melwyn had made a point of, and continued to make a point of; but then, why did she not take care she should be better served? . She, the mistress in her own house! Was it in- difference to her guest’s comforts? No, her un- remitting personal kindness forbade that idea. What was it then, that left her helpless guest thus exposed to want and insult? Yes, want/ I may use the word; for in her new sphere of action, the things she required were absolute necessaries. The want in its way was as great as she had ever known. Yes, insult—for every little negli- gence was felt as an insult—Lettice knew too well that as an insult it was intended. What made this kind Mrs. Melwyn permit such things? Weak- ness, nothing but weakness—culpable weakness— horror of that which would give her feeble spirit ain. 3 Lettice found it extremely difficult to be candid i this instance. She who had never experienced what this weakness of the spirit was, found it almost impossible to be indulgent to it. She felt quite vexed and sore. But when she looked so, poor Mrs. Melwyn would put on such a sad, anxious, weary face, that it was impossible not to feel con- cerned for her, and to forgive her at once. And so this good, generous, kind-hearted being’s temper achieved another victory. She was able to love Mrs: Melwyn in spite of all her weakness, and the evil she in consequence suffered; and this indul- gent affection made everything easy. There were times, however, when she found it almost too difficult to get on; but upon one occa- sion after another occurring of this nature, and still more when she discovered that Mrs. Melwyn was a yet greater sufferer from this servile tyranny than herself, she at last determined to speak out, and see whether things could not be established upon a more reasonable and proper footing. fe _ There was one day a terrible quarrel with Ran- dall. It happened that Randall was from home, drinking tea with a friend. She had either bound up the general’s ailing arm too tight, or the arm had swelled; however, for some reason or other the injured part became extremely painful. The general fidgeted and swore, but bore it for some time with the sort of resolute determination, with which, to do him justice, he was accustomed to meet pain. At last the aching became so intolerable that it was scarcely to be endured; and after ringing twanty times to inquire whether Randall was come home, and uttering a heavy imprecation each time he was answered in the negative; what between pain and impatience he became so fevered that he really seemed quite ill, and his sufferings were evi- dently more than he could-well endure. Poor Mrs. Melwyn, helpless and feeble, dared not propose to do anything for him, though she suffered—soft, kind creature that she was—almost more in wit- nessing his distress than he did in the midst of it. At last Lettice ventured to say, that she thought it a great pity the general should continue to suffer this agony, which she felt assured must be posi- tively dangerous, and modestly ventured to suggest that she should be allowed to undo the bandage and relieve the pressure. “Dear me,” said Mrs. Melwyn, in a hurried, frightened way, ‘could you venture ? Suppose you should do mischief; better wait, perhaps.” “ Kasily said, ma’am,” cried the general. “It’s not your arm that’s aching as if it would drop from your body, that’s plain. What's that you’re say- ing Miss Arnold?” — “Tf you could trust me to do it, I was saying; if you would give me leave, I would undo the ban- dage and endeavor to make it more comfortable. I am afraid that this pain and tight binding may bring on positive inflammation. I really should not be afraid to try; I have seen Mrs, Randall do it hundreds of times. There is no difficulty in it.” “Dear Lettice, how you talk!” said Mrs. Mel- wyn, as if she were afraid Randall was behind the door. ‘No difficulty! How could Randall bear to hear you say so?” : “T don’t know ma’am; perhaps she would con- tradict me. But I think at all events there is no difficulty that I could not manage.” “Well, then, for Heaven’s sake, try, child!” eried the general; ‘for really the pain is as if all the dogs in Hockley were gnawing at it.’ Come along ; do something, for the love of. ee He suffered Lettice to help him off with his coat, and te undo the bandage, which she accomplished very handily; and then observed that Mrs. Ran- dall, in her haste to depart upon her visit, had bound up the wound in a most careless manner; and the irritation had already produced s0 serious an inflammation that she was quite alarmed, and suggested that the doctor should be sent for. The general swore at the idea of the doctor, and yet more violently at that old hag Randall’s con- founded carelessness.» Mrs. Melwyn looked miser- able; she saw the case was bad, and yet she knew that to send for the doctor, and take it out of Ran- dall’s hands, would be an insult never to be for- given. ~ But Lettice was steady. She was not quite ig- norant in these matters, and she felt it her duty to be firm. She expostulated and remonstrated, and was just carrying her point when Mrs, Randall came home; and, having heard below how things were going on, hurried, uncalled for, into the din- ing-room, She came in in a mighty pucker, as she would herself have called it, and began asking who had dared to open the wound and expose it to the air; and, seeing Miss Arnold preparing to apply a bread- and.water poultice, which she had made, fell into such a passion of rage and jealousy that she forgot herself so far as to snatch it from Lettice’s hand, vowing, if anybody was to be allowed to meddle with her arm, she would never touch’ it again so long as she lived. Mrs. Melwyn turned pale, and began in her soft- est way: “ Now, really, Randall. Don’t be angry, Randali —do listen, Randall. The bandage was too tight ; I assure you it was. We should not have thought of it else.” “What the devil, Randall, are you about to do now 2” cried the general, as she took possession of the arm, in no gentle fashion. “Bind it up again, to be sure, and keep the air out of it.” ‘But you hurt me confoundedly. Ah! it’s more than I can bear. Don’t touch it—it’s as if it were on fire!” “ But it must be bound up, I say,” going on with- out the least regard to the torture she was evident- ly putting him to. But Lettice interfered. “Indeed, Mrs. Randall,” she said, “I do not think that you seem to be aware of the state of inflammation that the arm is in. I assure you, you had better apply the bread-and-water poultice, and send for Mr. Lysons.” “You assure me, Much you know about the matter, I should fancy.” “T think I know this much. Dear Mrs. Melwyn! Dear general! It is more serious than you think. Pray, let me write for Mr. Lysons !” “T do believe she’s right, Randall, for the m- fernal torture you put me to is more than I can bear. Ach! Let it go, will you? Undo it! Un- do it!” ; But Mrs, Randall, unrelentingly, bound on. ‘“Have done, I say! Undo it! Will nobody undo it? Lettice Arnold, for Heaven’s sake!” His face was bathed with the sweat of agony. : Randall persisted ; Mrs. Melwyn stood pale, help- less, and aghast; but Lettice hastened forward, scissors in hand, cut the bandage, and liberated the tortured arm in a minute. Mrs. Randall was in an awful rage. She for- got herself entirely; she had often forgotten her- self before; but there was something in this, being done in the presence of a third person, of one so right-minded and spirited as Lettice, which made both the general and his wife view it in a new light. A sort of vail seemed te fall from before their eyes; and for the first time, they both seemed—and simultaneously—aware of the impropriety and the degradation of submitting to it. “Randall! Randall!” remonstrated Mrs. Mel- wyn, still very gently, however; but it was a great step to remonstrate at all—but Randall was abusing Lettice most violently, and her master and mistress into the bargain, for being governed by such as her! “Randall! Randall! Don’t—you forget yourself !’” But the general, who had been silent a second or two, at last broke forth and roared : “Have done with your infernal noise! won't you, you bedlam! Here, Lettice, give me the poul- tice; put it on, and then write for Lysons, will you?” In matters such as this, the first step is every- thing. Mrs. Melwyn and her fiery partner had both been passive as a poor bewitched hen, we are told, is with a straw over herneck. Once shift her position and the incubus is gone. The arrival of Mr. Lysons completed the victory. Mortification was upon the eveof setting in. _ The relief from the bandage, and the emollient poultice applied by Lettice, had in all probability saved the general’s life. ‘ Little Mrs. Randall cared for this demonstration of hermistaken treatment; she had been too long accustomed to triumph, to yield the field undis- puted to a rival. She took refuge in sulky silence, and when Mr, Lysons was gone, desired to speak with Mrs. Melwyn. The usual harangue was made. “ As she could no longer give satisfaction—would Mrs. Melwyn please to provide herself in a month.” The blood ran cold to Mrs, Melwyn’s heart. . What! Randall! Impossible! _ What should she do? What would the general do? What would become of the servants? Who would look after them? What could be done without the faithful Randall ? “Oh, Randall! you don’t think of leaving me,” she began. Iam not going to repeat the dialogue, which was much the same as that which usually ensues when the mistress entreats the maid to stay, thus -putting herself into an irremediably false position, The result of such entreaties was the usual one. Randall, assured of victory, took the matter with a high hand, and, mest luckily forall parties, refused to be mollified. Then poor Mrs. Melwyn, in dismay and despair, returned to the drawing-room. She looked quite ill; she dared not tell the general what had hap- pened—positively dared not. She resolved to make one other appeal to Randall first; to bribe her, as she had often done before, to bribe high, —higher than ever, Anything rather than part with her, But she was so nervous, so restless, so miserable, that Lettice observed it with much compassion, and came and sat by her, which was her way of ;. comforting her friend when she saw she wanted '” -comfort. Mrs, Melwyn took her hand, and held
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16 LETTICE ARNOLD. it between both hers, and looked as if she greatly wanted comfort, indeed. The general, soon after this, rose to go to bed. It was earlier than his usual hour, for he was quite worn out with what he had suffered. So he left the two ladies sitting over the fire, and then Mrs. Melwyn at. last opened her heart, and disclosed to her friend the dismal tidings— the cause of her present misery—and related in detail the dreadful occurrence of Randall’s resig- nation. It was. time, Lettice thought, to speak out, and she determined to venture upon it. She had long anxiously desired to emancipate the woman she loved with all the intensity of a child, from the fearful yoke under which she suffered; to dissolve the pernicious enchantment which surrounded her. She spoke, and she did so with so much gentle- ness, reason, firmness, good nature, that Mrs. Mel- wyn yielded to the blessed influence. In short, it was that night determined that Randall’s resigna- tion, so far as Mrs Melwyn was concerned, should be accepted. If that potentate chose to communi- cate her resolution herself to the general, it was well, and he must decide; otherwise Lettice would take upon herself to do this, and, unless he op- posed the measure, Randall should go. With little difficulty Lettice persuaded Mrs. Mel- wyn not to ring for Randall that night, saying that now she had resigned her position, her mistress had better allow herself to be put to bed by her friend. This was not a difficult task. That she should not meet Randall again was what Mrs. Mel- wyn in her terror as much desired as Lettice did in her prudence. In short, the general, under the influence of Lettice’s representations—she was be- ginning to gain great influence with him—consent- ed to part with the maid; and Lettice had the in- conceivable satisfaction of herself carrying to that personage her wages, and a handsome gratuity, and of seeing her that very morning quit the house, which was done with abundance of tears, and bitter lamentations over the ingratitude of mankind, How the house felt after she was gone, those who have been visited with a domestic plague of this nature will understand. To those who have not, so great a result from so apparently insignifi- cant a cause would be utterly unimaginable. “And so they lived very happy ever afterward.” Well—don’t stare—they really did. A good genius was substituted for an evil one. Under her benign influence it is astonishing how smoothly and merrily things went on. The gen- eral was so comfortable that he very often forgot _to be cross; Mrs. Melwyn, content with every- _thing, but her. power of showing her love for Lettice—though she did this in every way she could think of. '. And so I will leave this good, sensible, God-fear- ing girl for the present, “ blessing and blest in all she does,” and tell you how Myra went to Mrs. Fisher, and something about that lady. CHAPTER VIL Bless the Lord, oh my soul ! and all that is within me bless his holy name ; ™yho forgiveth all thy iniquities and healeth all thy : 6 saveth thy life from destruction, and crowneth thee with loving kindness and tender mercies. MRS. FISHER. _ J} wesr now introduce you to Mrs. Fisher: she is _ 80 great a favorite of mine, that before I relate what, became of Myra, I must make you acquainted with this lady. Mrs. Fisher was a respectable gentlewoman-like personage of about fifty-four, of a grave, authorita- tive and somewhat severe aspect; but with the re- mains of very extraordinary personal beauty which she had once possessed in an eminent degree. She was somewhat above the middle size, of an erect, firm, full figure, her hair now gently turning gray, drawn over her finely proportioned forehead ; her _ eyes large, and of a fine color and form—clear and steady ; her mouth expressive of sense and temper ; and her dress and character with the rest. Mrs. Fisher was always handsomely dressed in silks of ‘the best description, but in slight mourning, which sas always wore; and on her head, also, a cap rather plainer than the mode, but of the finest and most expensive materials: nothing could be more dignified and complete than her appearance. When first Myra was introduced to her she was both daunted and disappointed; the gravity amounting almost to’sternness, with which Mrs. Fisher received her, and explained to her the duties she was expected to perform, awed in the first place, and mortified in the second. The establish- ment of this fashionable modiste, with which Myra had associated nothing but laces and ribbons, dresses and trimmings, embroidery and. feathers, flattery and display, struck cold and dull'upon her imagination. She was introduced into a hand- somely but very plainly furnished sitting-room, where no one trace of any of those pretty things were to be seen, and heard of nothing but regular- ity of hours, persevering industry, Quaker neatness, attention to health, and the strictest observance of the rules of what she thought quite a prudish propriety. Mrs. Fisher’s. life had been one of vicissitude, and in its vicissitudes, she, a strong, earnest-minded woman, had learned much. She had known sor- row, privation, cruelly hard labor, and: the loneli- ness, of utter desolation of the heart. She had, moreover, been extremely beautiful, and she had experienced those innumerable perils to which such a gift exposes an unprotected girl, struggling for her bread, under the cruelest cireumstances of op- pressive labor. Every description of hardship, and every description of temptation belonging’ to perhaps the hardest and almost the most danger- ous position of female life, Mrs. Fisher had gone through. She had outlived its suffering and escaped its snares, The suffering, thanks to one of the finest con- stitutions in the world; the snares, thanks to what she always, with inexhaustible gratitude, acknowl- edged as the special mercy and providence of God. An orphan at the dangerous age of seventeen, the lovely blooming young creature was placed by her friends in one of the most fashionable and largest milliners’ establishments at that time in London, and had found herself at once miserable and excited, oppressed and flattered. The mistress of this flourishing house, intent upon making a rapid fortune before the years in which she could enjoy it should come to a close, cared little—I might say nothing—for the welfare of the poor creatures whose labors were to con- struct that edifice. She, in fact, never thought about them. Want of thought may be pleaded as the excuse, wretched one as it is, for the cruelties of those days. People certainly had not the claim of common humanity sounded into their ears as it is into all earsnow. A few admirable philanthro- pists talked of it, and preached it; but it was not to be heard calling in the streets, as it is the tri- umph of our day to acknowledge, till the hardest heart for very shame is forced to pay some atten- tion to the call. “ It never entered into Miss Lavington’s head that she had any other business with her young women, but to get all the work she possibly could out of their hands, and as well done, and as speedily done as possible. If she objected to night-work in addition to day-work, it was not in the slightest degree out of compassion forthe aching limbs and wearied eyes of the poor girls; but because wax candles were expensive, and tallow ones were apt to drip; and there was always double the duty re- quired from the superintendent (her special favorite), to keep the young women at those times to their duty, and prevent the materials from being injured. ; ; Oh! those dreadful days and nights of the sea- me “i the poor Lucy Miles at that piace went through. She—accustomed to the sweet fresh air of the country, to the cheerful variety of daily labor in her father’s large farm, and under the care of a brisk, clever, but most kind and sensible mother— to be shut up twelye, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, nay twenty hours before a birthnight, in the sickening atmosphere of the close work-room. The windows were rarely opened, if ever; for the poor young things were so unnaturally chilly for want of ex- ercise and due circulation of the blood, that they ‘said they should, and perhaps they might, have taken cold if fresh air were admitted: There was nothing they all dreaded so much as taking cold ; those fatal coughs, which every season thinned the ranks, to be filled with fresh victims, were in- variably attributed to some particular occasion when they had “taken cold.” They did not know that they were rejecting the very cordial of life and inhaling poison when they kept the room so close. Oh! for the dreadful weariness which proceeds from inaction of the limbs! so different, from the wholesome fatigue of action. Inaction where the blood is stagnating in every vein; inaction, after which rest is not rest, but a painful. effort. of the repressed currents to recover their circulating power—so different from the deliglitful sensation of wholesome rest after physical exertion. At first she felt it almost insupportable, . Ihave heard her say that it seemed: at times as.if she would have given years of her existence to be al- lowed to get up and walk up and.down the room for a few minutes. The sensation was so insup- portable. That craving desire of the body for what it is in want of—be it water, be it bread, be it rest, be it change of posture—is so dreadful in its urgency. The most abominable tortures men have in their wickedness invented are founded upon this fact—tortures that render the black his- tory of inquisitors yet blacker; and. here it was, in one at least of its numerous forms, daily. inflict- ed upon a set of helpless young women, by a per- son who thought herself perfectly justifiable, and whose conscience never pricked her in the least. Such is negligent moral habit. Oh! the delight, at meal-times, to spring up, I was going to say—I meant to get up, for there was no spring left in these poor stiffened frames, Oh! the delight when the eye of that superintend- ent was no longer watching the busy circle, and her voice calling to order anyone who durst just to raise a head, and pause in the unintermitting toil. Oh! the delight to get up and come to breakfast, or dinner, or tea. They had not much appetite when they came to their meals, to be sure, There was only one thing they were always ready to enjoy, and. that was their tea. That blessed and long-abused tea, which has done more to sweeten private life with its gen- tle warmth and excitement, than any cordial that has ever been invented. It is but a cordial, how- ever; it is not a nourishment; though a little sugar, and wretched blue milk, such as London milk used to be, may be added to it. Most of the young ladies, however, preferred it without these additions; they found it more stimulating so, I believe, poor things! Such nourishment. as they received, it is plain, would ill supply the rapid exhaustion of their em- ployment. One by one in the course of the season they sickened and dropped off ; some died out and out; some, alas! tempted by suffering and insup- portable fatigue, or by that vanity and levity which seems to be too common a result with many girls living together, did worse. There would have been a heavy record against her every June, if Miss Lavington had taken the trouble to note down what had become of her missing young ladies, I said they were relieved from their irksome con- tinuance in one posture by going to their meals, and what a relief it was; but they did not always get that. When there was more than usual to be done, their tea would be brought to them where they sat, and there would be no intermission. So things went on at Miss Lavington’s. in those days. I wonder in how many establishments of the same description things goon so now! How many to which that voice of humanity which “calls in the streets”? has not yet penetrated ! We shall by-and-by see what was the case in Mrs. Fisher’s, but for the present we will go on with her history. So beautiful a young creature as she was could not long escape trials, yet more to be. lamented than those of physical suffering. In the first place, there was the conversation of the young ladies themselves ; a whispering manner of conversation when at work; a busy chattering of emancipated tongues during the intervals. And what was it all about ? ‘Why, what was it likely to be about ?—loye and » lovers, beauty and its admirers, dress and its ad- vantages, he and him, and, dear me, weren’t you
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fn the Park last Sunday ? and did you, not see the carrisge go by? What had you on? Qh, that pink bonnet. I cribbed a bit of Mrs. M——’s blond for a voilette. If peo- ple will send their own materials they deserve as much. I’ve heard Mrs. Saunders (the superin- tendent) say so scores of times. Weil, well, and I ' saw it, ’'m certain of it. Well, did anything come of it? Alas! alas! and so on, and so on, and so on. And Lucy was very soon taught to go on Sun- days into the Park. ' At first, poor girl, merely to breathe the fresh air and inhale the delicious west wind, and look at trees and grass, and cows and deer once more, and listen to the birds singing. At first she thought the crowds of gayly-dressed people quite spoiled the pleasure of the walk, and tried to coax her companions to leave the ring, and come and walk in the wood with her; but she soon learned better, and was rapidly becoming as be- witched with the excitement of gazing, and the still greater excitement of being gazed at,as any of them. She was so uncommonly beautiful that she got her full—and more than her full share of the lat- ter pleasure; and it was not long before she had those for whom she looked out amid the crowds upon the ring, and felt her heart beat with secret delight as she saw them. Then, as her health began to decline, as dislike insupportable for her occupation and its confine- ment; as weariness not to be described, came on; as longings for little luxuries to be seen in every shop which she passed by, for fruit or confection- ary, haunted her palled and diseased appetite as the _ vision of food haunts the wretch who is starving ; as the desire of fine clothes, in which her compan ions managed to array themselves; as the more in- sidious, and more honorable longings of the heart, the disconsolate heart, beset her; cravings for affection and sympathy; when all these tempta- tions were embodied together in the shape of one, but too gentle, and insinuating—oh, then it was perilous work indeed! Her mother had tried to give her a good, honest, homely education; had made such a christian of her, as going to church, reading a chapter in the Bible on a Sunday, and the catechism makes of a young girl.- There was nothing very vital, or earnest about it, buf such as it was, it was honest, and Lu- ey feared her God and reverenced her Savior. Such sentiments were something of a defense, but it is to be feared that they were not firmly enough rooted in the character to have long resisted the force of overwhelming temptation, Tais she was well aware of, and acknowledged Where could you be? to herself; and hence her deep, pervading, ineffa-' ble gratitude, for the Providence which shé be- lieved had saved her. She was getting along very fast on the evil road upon which she had entered. Every Sunday the progress which she made was fearful. A few more, at the pace at which she was advancing, and there would have been an end of it, when a most unexpected accident arrested her in the fatal career. One remarkably fine Sunday, when all the mem- bers of the establishment had been enjoyiug their usual recreation in the Park, just as Lucy and her - giddy friends were coming through Grosvenor ate, they saw the superintendent before them. “ There’s that old Saunders, I declare!” cried one. “Stand back a little, won’t ye? she’ll see our bonnets else, and I'll be bound she’ll know the rosetts, and where they come from.” . There was time for no more. Mrs. Saunders, who was rather late, being in haste to get home, attempted to cross, as a curricle at full speed came driving down Park Lane and before the gentleman within could draw up, the unfortunate woman was under the horses’ heels. There wasa terrible bus- tle.. The young ladies with the rosetts managed to escape; but Lucy, who had at least preserved integrity thus far, and had nothing about her dress not strigtly her own, rushed forward, and helped to raise the poor woman, declaring she knew who « She was, and was placed with her by the assis- - tants in the hackney coach in which she was car- ried home, . Lucy was of a naturally kind and humane dis- position; and her care of the poor suffering wo- man during the transit to Miss Lavington’s—vai- LETTICE ARNOLD, ted to the kindness snd assiduity with which, every one else but the under-maid of all being absent, she tended and waited upon her—so engaged Mrs. Saunder’s affection, that afterward, during the whole of the subsequent illness, which broken limbs and ribs occasioned, she made it her partic- | ular request to Miss Lavington that Lucy might be spared from the work-room to nurseand keep her company; adding for that lady’s satisfaction, that though the best nurse, and nicest young girl of the lot, she certainly, being the youngest, was the least of a proficient in the peculiar art she followed. The poor woman lay groaning piteously upon herbed, waiting the arrival of the surgeon. The surgeon, an eldery man, was out of town, and could not attend; a young man appeared in his place. He had just joined himself to the old man in the quality of an assistant and future partner ; and hearing that the case was one of an accident, and urgent, lie hurried to the house, resolving to send for more experienced assistance, if such should be found necessary. He was shown up stairs, and hastily entered the room in which the sufferer lay. She was-very much bruised about the chest,and she drew her breath with difficulty; and though exceedingly weak and faint, was unableto lay down. She was resting in the arms of one who. appeared. to the young man like an angel. The lovely girl, with a face of the tenderest pity, was holding the poor groaning woman upon one arm, bending over her with an air of almost divine kindness, and softly wiping the dew-drops which in the agony came starting upon the patient’s brow. The young man received an impression which death alone effaced, though the bright. visionary glance was only momentary.» He was instantly by the side of his patient, and soon with much skill and courage doing what was necessary for imme- diate relief, though at the very first moment when he discovered the serious nature of the case, he had begged the young lady to tell Miss Lavington that it would be proper to send for some surgeon of more experience and eminence than himself to take the direction of it. “Don’t go away,” said Mrs. Saunders feebly, as Lucy was rising to obey. “ Don’t send her away, mister—I can’t do without her—Miss Lavyington’s not at home—one need not ask her for me. Who should be sent for?” The young man named a gentleman high in his profession. Was it that able and benevolent man whom the world has so lately lost ? That kind, frank, manly, courageous man of genius, whom no one approached but to find help and comfort? I don’t know—but be he who he might, when he did at length arrive, he gave the most unqualified praise to the proceedings of our young gentleman, and called the color to the pale cheek of the young and serious-looking student by his approbation. He finished his visit by assuring Mrs, Saunders that she could not be in safer hands than those in which he had found her, and recommended her to to put herself entirely under the charge of the young practitioner, adding an assurance that he would be ready at any instant to come if he should be wanted; and that he would, at all events, call once or twice as a friend during the progress of the case. Mrs. Saunders liked the looks of the young man much—and who did not? and was quite contented with this arrangement, to which, as I told you, was added the comfort of retaining Lucy Miles as her nurse and companion during what threatened to be a very tedious confinement. Miss Lavington well knew the value of a Mrs. Saunders in such an es- tablishment as hers, and was willing to make any sacrifice to forward her recovery, So Lucey left the wearying work-room and the dangerous recreations of the Sunday, to sit and watch by the bedside of a peevish, uncomfortable sort of an old woman, who was perpetually mak- ing demands upon her patience and good-nature, but who really suffered so greatly from her acei- dent, that Lucy’s pity and kindness were proof against everything. The young surgeon went and came—went and came—and every time he came, this angel of beauty and goodness was ministering by the old woman’s bed. And those eyes of his, eyes of such prevailing power in their almost en- thusiastic expression of serious earnestness, were bent upon her; and sometimes her eyes, soft and 17 ese — melting as those of the dove, or bright and lus- trous as twin stars, met his, He could not but linger in the sick woman’s room a little longer than was necessary, and the sick woman unwittingly favored this, for she took a great liking to him, and nothing seemed to re- fresh and amuse her amid her pains like a little chat, with this nice young man, And then the young surgeon remarked that ai such times Lucy was allowed to sit quietly down and amuse herself with a little needlework, and he thonght this an excellent reason for making his visits as long as he decently could. The young nurse and the young doctor ail this while had conversed very little with each other; but she listened and she gazed, and that was quite enough. The case proved a very serious one. Poor Mrs, Saunders, superintendent as she was, and not workwoman-driver, not slave—yet could no more than the rest escape the deleterious ef- fects of the close work-room. Her constitution was much impaired. The wines and cordials she had accustomed herself to take to support nature, as she thought, under these fatigues, had increased the mischief, the wounds would not heal as they ought; contusions would not disperse; the inter- nal injury in the chest began to assume a yery threatening appearance. Mr. L. came to the assis- tance of the young surgeon repeatedly ; all that human skill could do was done, but Mrs. Saunders grew alarmingly worse. , For a long time she resisted the evidence which her own sensations might have afforded her, and avoided asking any questions which might enlight- en her. She was determined not to die;and, even in a case so awfully serious and real as this, peo- ple seem to cling to the persuasion, so prevailing in lighter circumstances, that because a thing shan’t be, it won’t be, and because they are determined it is not, it 7s not. So, for many days, Mrs. Saunders went on, exceedingly angry if everybody did not say she was getting better, and half inclined to dismiss her young surgeon, much as she liked him, because he looked grave after he had visited her injuries. He did look grave, very grave. Ie was exceed- ingly perplexed in his mind as to what he ought to do: young surgeon’ as he was, fresh from those schools which, alas! so many who are acquainted with them represent as the very nurseries of infi- delity and license both in speech and action, he was. a deeply, seriously pious man, Such young men there are, who, like those three, walking unscathed through the furnace of fire in the faith of the Lord their God, walk through a more terribly destructive furnace—the furnace of temptation—-in the same faith, and “upon their bodies the fire hath no pow- er, neither is a hair of the head singed.” In what tears, in what prayers, in what anguished hope, what fervent aspiration, this sole treasure of a widowed mother, steeped in poverty to the very lips, had been reared, it would be long to tell; but she had committed him to one never found faith- less, and under that blessing she had found in her pure and disinterested love for the being intrusted to her charge, that which had given her an elo- quence, and a power, and a strength, which had told upon the boy. Me proved one of those rare creatures who pass through every stage of existence, as child, as school- boy, as youth; through nursery, school, college, marked as some bright peculiar being—peculiar only in this one thing, sincere unaffected goodness, His religion had been, indeed, with him a thing lit- tle professed, and rarely talked about, but it had been a holy panoply about his heart—a bright shield, which had quenched all the darts of evil: it shone around him like something of a radianco from a higher world. There was a gort of glory round the young saint’s head, ° Such being the man, you will not be surprised to hear that his practice called forth most sericas re- flections—most melancholy and sad thoughts—and in no sick-room where he had ever attended more than in the present one, He could not frequent the house as much as his attendance rendered necessary without being pretty well aware of the spirit of the place; and while he grieved ‘over the ruinous waste of health to which these young creatures were exposed, he was struck to the heart with horror at the idea of their woral ruin, Mrs, Saunders talked openly and unreservedly,
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18 LETTICE ARNOLD. and betrayed the state of mind she was in ; so com- pletely, so entirely devoted to, wrapt up in, buried fathoms and fathoms deep in the things of this world; so totally lost to—so entirely to seek in everything connected with another: that the large, mournful, serious eye, as it turned to the sweet young creature sitting beside her, and passing her daily life in an element such as this, gazed with an expression of sad and tender pity such as the min- ister of heaven might cast upon a perishing soul. She did not quite understand all this. Those looks of interest, so inexpressibly sweet to her, she thought were excited by the view of her position as affected her health and comfort. She thought it was that consumption which, sooner or later, she believed must be her fate,which he was anticipa- ting with so much compassion. She was blind to the far more dreadful dangers which surrounded her. Poor Mrs. Saunders! At last it could no longer be concealed from her. She must die. He broke the intelligence to her in the gentlest terms, us she, at last, in a paroxysm of terror, asked the question ; giving her what hope he could, but still not denying that she stood in a fearful strait. It was a terrible scene that followed. Such a frightfal agitation and hurry to accomplish in a few counted hours what ought to have been the business of a life. Such calling for psalms and prayers; such piteous beseechings for help; and, last of all, such an awful awakening of a slumber- ing conscience. Like Richard’s bed, on the eve of Bosworth fight, it seemed as if the spectral shadows of all those she had injured in the body or soul, by her unerring demands upon one, and her negligence as to the other, rose a host of dismal spectres round. Their pale, exhausted, pleading looks, as she scolded and threatened, when the clock struck one, and the task was yet undone, and the head for a moment dropped, and the throbbing fingers were still. Those hollow coughs in which she would not believe—those hetic flushes that she would not see—and worse, those walks, those letters, at which she had connived, because the girls did so much better when they had some nonsense to amuse them. What fearful revelations were made as she raved aloud, or sank into a drowsy, dreary delirium, The old clergyman, who attended her, consoled, and reasoned, and prayed in vain. The two young people—that lovely girl, and that feeling, interest- ing young man—stood by the bed appalled ; he, ghastly pale—pale with an agony of despairing pity—she, trembling in every limb, The death agony, and then the poor woman went to her account. There was no one in the room but themselves; it was late at night, the morning, indeed, began faintly todawn. The maids were all gone to bed, glad enough to escape the scene, He stood silently watching the departing breath. It stopped. He gave a deep sigh, and, stooping down, piously closed the eyes. She had turned away in horror and in dread, but shedding some natural tears. He stood looking at her some time, as there she stood, weeping by the bed; at last he spoke: } “This may seem a strange time to choose, but I have something to say to you. Will you listen to 9” parts took her handkerchief from her eyes, and gazed at him with a wondering, grave sort of look, as a child might do. His voice had something so very remarkable in it. He passed to the side where she was standing, and said, “I am a very, very poor man, and I have a helpless mother entirely dependent upon me for support, and, if it were my last morsel of bread, ay, and wife and children were perishing for want of it, it is she who should have i? j , She only looked at him wondering like. “ This a fearful precipice upon which you stand. That poor creature has sunk into the gulf which yawns beneath your fect. May God, in his mercy, jook upon her! But you, beautiful as one of heaven’s angels—as yet pure and sinless as a child—must you fall, sink, perish, in this mass of loathsome corruption? Better starve, better die— far, far better.” ; 4 “ Alas, alas!” she cried, with a seared and terri- Sed look. “Alas! alas! ten hundred thousand times better. Oh, what must I do? what must I do?” ‘Take up your cross, venture upon the hardships of a poor man’s wife. Discard all the prides, and pomps, and vanites—the vain, vain delusions of flattery ; trample upon the sin, triumph over the temptation. Put yourself under the protection of an honest man, who loves you from his soul. Starve, if it must be, but die the death of the righteous and pure.” She gazed at him, amazed; she did not yet un- derstand him. “ Marry me. mother’s roof. let us labor and suffer together, if need be. all I can offer you, but it will save you.” | The arms, the beautiful arms were expanded, as it were, in a very agony of joy. The face! oh, was it not glorious in its beauty then! Did he ever forget it ? And so the contract was sealed, and she was rescued from the pit of destruction into which she was rapidly sinking. And this it was that had excited such impas- sioned, such lasting, such devoted feelings of grati- tude to Him who rules the course of this world, in a heart which had only to be shown what was good to embrace it. Fisher was all he had said; extremely poor. His salary as assistant, was handsome, nevertheless. He received one hundred a year and his board from the gentleman with whom he was; but his dress, which was necessarily rather expensive, and his mother, who had only an annuity of twelve pounds a year, consumed it all. Still you see. he was by no means actually starving ;and he thought the young wife he was going to bring home would be no very great addition to his expenses, and he trusted, if children came, that he should, by his ex- ertions, be able to provide for them, In two years his engagement with the present gentleman as his assistant would be at an:end; and he had received from the old man, who was a sort of humorist in his way, several very strong hints about partnership, if he would be satisfied with a reasonable share. Partnership would, in the course of time, he knew, become sole proprietorship, at the death or retire- ment of his aged patron—one of which events could not be very far distant, It was, therefore, with great satisfaction, after having summoned the necessary attendance, and sent his young betrothed to rest, that Fisher walked home on a fine fresh morning. It was true he had taken a step most people would eall very imprudent, thus to encumber him- self with a young wife at the very outset of his ea- reer; certainly, he had never intended any such thing. He had always resolved to be patient, and have a little store of money by him, before he per- suaded anyone to begin the world with him. He could not bear the idea of all being dependent upon his own life, and risking the chance of leaving a widow and a young family destituse. But this was an exceptional case, for he could not, without trem- bling, contemplate the dangers which surrounded this young and innocent girl. His medical knowl- edge taught him but too well the perils to the health of one so fresh and blooming, from labors in close rooms to which she was so little accus- tomed—death stared her in the face, unless she escaped it by means at which he shuddered to think. The only way in which he, young as he was, Come to my blessed, my excellent It is homely, but it is honest; and It is could possibly help her, was to withdraw her from the dangerous scene and make her his wife; and on that step he had been for some days resolving. The emotion she had shown, the timorous joy, the sweet confidence in his love and honor, had given a rapturous feeling of happiness to him quite new. He had intended benevolently and kindly; he had met with all the blessings of sincere attachment, Instead of walking to Mrs, Stedman’s to take some rest, which he very much needed, he went to his mother’s house, or rather the house whicre he had taken a snug little apartment for his mother, It lay somewhere out Brompton way ; in which district neat rows of small houses are to be found looking backward upon pleasant greens and gar- dens, There he had found a modest little suite of apartments; one sitting-room and two bedrooms— a reom for his mother, and another sometimes . oc- cupied by himself. ue The little hut, a tiny place it was, was clean to the greatest nicety, and though fitted up in the very simplest and cheapest. manner, had an air of perfect comfort. The walls were stained green, the drugget upon the floor was pink and fawn; the chairs were covered with what used to be called Manchester stripe—very clean and pleasant-loo}:- ing, and excellent for wash and wear. There was a pretty little table for tea and dinner, and a nice, round three-clawed one close by the mother’s side —who was established in the only article of luxury in the room, a very comfortable arm-chair. There the old lady passed her life. She had lost the use of her lower limbs for some years; but her health of body and mind in other respects was sound, The only thing for which the son had as yet coveted a little more money, had been that he might possess the means to give lis mother the ejoyment of exercise and air; and when he passed young men, the very pic- ture of health and strength, lounging idly in their carriages, as one sometimes does in the Park, though not given to such nonsense, he could not help uttering a secret exclamation against the in- equalities of fortune, and thinking the blindness of the goddess of the wheel no fable. They were but passing thoughts these, such as the best have when they languish for the means of bestowing good. Such indulgences, however, were rarely to be thought of, though now and then he managed to obtain them; but as the best compensation he could make, he paid a few guineas a year more for the pretty apartment, of which the back room, elongated into a little bow-window, formed the sit- ting-room—what would have been the front. sit- ting-room being divided into the two bedrooms, The pleasant bow-window looked over a row of gardens belonging to the neighboring houses, and these to a considerable tract of nursery-ground filled with rows of fruit-trees, and all the checr- ful pleasant objects to be seen in such places. In summer the arm-chair was wheeled to the window, and the whole of the view was disclosed to the old lady; in winter it was returned to the fire; but even there she did not lose her pretty view alto- gether, the room was so little that from her place she might easily command it. Miss Martineau, in a book of hers, has given us a most valuable and interesting account of the way in which, dur- ing a tedious and most trying illness, her active spirit confined to one place, she used to amuse herself, and while away the time by looking out of her window through her telescope, and watch- ing all that was going on. This old lady did much the same, minus the good telescope, which she had not. Her son, however, had presented her with an old-fashioned opera-glass, which he had picked up at some second-hand retailer or other, and as it was a good one, and, moreover, very light to the hand, it didas well for her, and better. In some things the old lady hada little resem- blance to Miss Martineau. She had the same cheer- ful activity of mind, the same readiness of adapt- ing herself to circumstances—things in a great measure constitutional. She was, moreover, a very shrewd, sensible woman, and deeply pious—pious in the most excellent way ; really, vitally, seriously. She came of a good old puritan stock, where piety had been cherished from generation to generation. Some physiologists say, that even the acquired © moral qualities and habits descend to the succeed- ing generation. It is possible an aptness for good or evil may be, and often is, inherited from those who have gone before, It would seem to have been so in this case. The pious father and mother, children of as pious parents, had Icft this pious daughter—and_ her excellencies had de- scended in accumulated measure to her son. This old lady had been sorely tried—death and poverty had done their worst—except in as far as the erucl ravager had spared her this one boy, one of many children, all followed the delicate, consumptive man who had been their father. She had borne it all. Strong in faith, she had surrendered her trex- sures to the Lord of Life, in trust that they should be found again when he maketh up his jewels, Cheerful as was her temper, life’s course had been too rough with her, for her to value it very much, when those lovely, promising buds, but half dis closed, were one after the other gathered. Dut che had eseaved the racking agony of the loving, but
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SUERTE enebaanreeeecereene ee IN MNS EO ERE DIN too faithless mother—when all the swects of na- ture in its abundance flow around her, and they are not there to enjoy. “When suns shine bright o’er heaven's blue vault serene, Birds sing in trees, and sweet flowers deck the plain, Weep I for thee, who in the cold, cold grave Sleep, and all nature’s harmony is vain. But when dark clouds and threat’ning storms arise, And doubt and fear my trembling soul invade ; My heart one comfort owns, ¢hou art not here; ne slumbering, in the earth’s kind bosom au . She was happier far than the author of these ines. She looked upward; she almost saw those she had lost, the objects of a glorious resurrection— already living in the ineffabie presence of the God whom they had so faithfully endeavored to serve. I need not tell you, after this, that her spirits were subdued to a holy calmness and composure. Her life had been one of the most active endeay- ors after usefulness. The good she had managed to do can scarcely be calculated. Grains of sand they might be, these hoarded minutes, but it was golden sand; the heap accumulated was large and precious, at the end of sixty-five years. What money she had possessed she had expend- ed courageously in giving a professional education to her son, Her little annuity of twelve pounds a year was all she had saved for herself. Upon that she believed with her own exertions, she could manage to exist till her son was able to support both; but she had been struck down earlier than she calculated upon. She had at this time lost the use of her lower limbs altogether, and was _ visited with such trembling in her hands, that she was obliged to close the task abruptly, and to sit down dependent upon her son before she had expected it It had been very trying work till he obtained his present situation, and he still felt very poor, be- cause he was resolved every year to lay twenty pounds or so by, that, in case anything should hap- ‘pen to him, his mother might have some little ad- dition to her means provided. He was rather strangely provident for the case of his own death ; so young man as he was; perhaps he felt the fal- tering spring of life within, which he had inherit- ed from his father. ‘ Three years the mother and son had thus lived together, and Fisher was master of sixty pounds. He had never allowed himself to cast a thought upon marriage, though of a temper ardently to de- sire, and rapturously to enjoy, domestic felicity. He said to himself he must first provide for his mother’s independence, and then think about his own happiness. But the accident which had brought him and Lucy together had produced other thoughts —thoughts which he had, but the very day before the nursing so suddenly closed, communicated to his mother, and she had said: “1 think you are quite right, John. Imprudent marriages are, in most cases, very wrong things— a mere tempting of Providence ; and, that no bless- ing follows such tempting, we know from the best authority; but this is a most pious, benevolent, and very rational attempt to save a fellow-creature upon the brink of destruction, and I think it would be a want of faith, as well as a want of common human- ity, in either of us to hesitate; I am very glad she seems such a sweet, innocent, pretty creature, for your sake, my darling John; I hope she will bring -a blessing into your dwelling and repay you for your goodness to me; I am sorry she must come and live with your old mother, for young wives dort like that—but I promise you I will do my very best to be as amiable as an old woman can; and, moreover, I will neither be cross or disappoint- ed if she is not always as amiable as a young wo- man ought tobe. Will that do? Yes, yes; fetch her away from that sink of iniquity, and we'll all get along somehow or other, never fear.” And so Lucy Miles, blushing like a rose, and, as her young and delighted husband thought, more beauteous than an angel of light, was in a few LETTICE ARNOLD. weeks married to John Fisher, and she went home to the old lady. “ Amid the smoke of cities did you pass The time of early youth, and there you learnt From years of quiet industry to love The living being of your own fireside.” The eloquent tongue of Fisher had over and over again related with deep feeling the history of all he owed to his mother, and Lucy, far from feeling in- clined to be jealous of the devoted affection he felt for her, like a good loving girl as she was, extend- ed the ardent attachment she felt toward her hus- band to everything that belonged to him. She had lost her own parents, whom she had loved exceedingly, though they were quite ordinary people. She soon almost worshiped old Mrs. Fisher. Lucy had been little improved by those who had the rearing of her; she was a girl of excellent dis- position, but her education had been commonplace. In the society of the old lady her good gifts, both of head and heart, expanded rapidly. The passion- ate desire she felt to render herself worthy of her husband whom she adored almost as some superior being, made her an apt and docile pupil. A few years thus spent, and you would scarce- ly have known her again. Her piety was deep, and had become a habit—a part of her very soul; her understanding naturally excellent, had been devel- oped and strengthened; the most earnest desire to perform her part well—to do good and extend vir- tue and happiness, and to sweeten the lives of all with whom she had to do,had succeeded to thought- less good nature, and a sort of instinctive kindness. Anxiety for her husband’s health, which constantly oppressed her,.a sort of trembling fear that she should be bereaved early of this transcendent be- ing; this it was, perhaps, which enhanced the earnest, serious tone of one so young. She was extremely industrious, in the hope of adding to her husband’s means of rest and recrea- tion, and the accidental acquaintance with a French modiste, who had fallen ill in London, was in great distress, and whom Fisher attended through char- ity, had put her into the way of improving herself in this art more than she could have done even in that eminent school, the work-roum of Miss Lav- ington, The French woman was a very amiable and pious person, too. She was a French Protes- tant. The connection ripened into friendship, and it ended by placing Mrs. Fisher in the state of life in which we find her. Fisher fell desperately ill in consequence of a fever brought on at a dissection, from which he narrowly escaped with life; the fe- ver left him helpless and incapable of exertion. The poor mother was by this time dead; he succeed- ed to the vacant arm-chair. Then his wife resolved upon doing that openly which she had till now done covertly, merely working for the bazaars. She persuaded her husband when a return to his profession appeared hopeless, to let her employ his savings in setting up business with Madame Noel, and from small beginings had reached that high place in her profession which she now occupied. No sooner had Mrs. Fisher established a work- ing-room of her own, and engaged several young women to labor under her superintendence, than the attention of her husband was seriously turned to the subject. of those evils from which he had rescued his wife. 4 She had suffered much, and experienced several of the evils consequent upon the manner such places were managed; but she would probably not have reflected upon the causes of these evils, nor interested herself so. deeply as she afterward did in applying the remedies, if it had not been for the promptings of this excellent man. His medical skill made him thoroughly aware of the injurious effect produced upon the health by the ill-regulated system of such establishments; and his thoughts, as he sat resigned to helplessness in his arm-chair, were seriously directed to that sub- ject. In consequence of his suggestions it was that Mrs. Fisher began her life of business upon a plan of her own, to which she steadily adhered. At first she found considerable difficulty in carrying it out—there are always numerous obstructions to be met with in establishing any improvements; but where the object is rational and benevolent, per- la severance and a determined will triumph over every difficulty. The first thing Fisher insisted upon was ventila- tion; the second, warmth; the third, plenty of good, wholesome, and palatable food; the fourth, exercise. He determined upon a house being selected which was not closely built up behind, and that the room in which the young ladies worked should be large and commodious in proportion to the inmates. A portion of the little money he had saved was sacrificed to the additional expense thus incurred. He looked upon it, he teld his wife, as given to charity, for which she must expect no re- turn, and for which he should look for no interest. A good wide grate, which should be well supplied with a cheerful fire in winter, was to assist the ventilation proceeding from a scientific plan of his own, which kept the room constantly supplied with a change of air; and under the table at which the girls sat at work, there was in winter a sort of long, square wooden pipe filled with hot water, and coy- ered with carpeting, upon which they could put their feet; the extreme coldness of the feet arising from want of circulation, being one of the causes to which Fisher attributed many of the maladies incident to this mode of life. ; The next object of attention was the table. Fisher had been at school, at one or two different schools, resembling each other in one thing only— the scandalous—I must use the strong and offen- sive word—the scandalous neglect or worse than neglect—the infamous and base calculations upon the subject of food which pervaded thg system of those schools, and which pervaded, I am sorry to say, so many of the schools with which he had chanced to be acquainted. In the course of his practice as a medical man, his opportunities for observation had been above the common. In fine ladies’ schools, I cannot assert that the shameful economy of buying inferior provisions, and the shameful indifference as to how they were cooked, which prevail in so many boys’ schools, were to be found—but a fault almost equally great prevailed too generally. There was enough. These growing girls, stimulated to most unnatural exertions both of body and mind, peculiarly un- natural to growing girls who require so much care, fresh air, exercise, and rest, for their due de- velopment—these young things had very rarely nearly somuch to eat as they could have eaten. Sometimes enough was literally not set before them; at others, a sort of fashion in the school to consider a good appetite as a proof of coarseness, greediness, and vulgarity, worked but too effectu- ally upon these sensitive creatures. A girl at that age would rather be starved than sneered at or rid- iculed for eating. But in boys’ schools, expensive boys’ schools too, where six times as much was paid for a boy’s board as would have boarded him, either through scandalous parsimony, or the most in excusable negligence, he had scen meat brought into the house not fit to eat; cheap and bad in itself, but rendered doubly unwholesome in summer by the most utter carelessness as to whether it was fresh. Boys are hardy things, and it is right they should not be accustomed to be too nice; but wholesome, plain roast and boiled is what they pay for and ought to have; and the defrauding them of what is SO necessary to health, vigor, and even intellect, in this unprincipled manner, is almost the very worst form of robbery any man can be guilty of. Fisher was resolved it should not be so in hig wife’s house. He and his wife had agreed that the young ladies she employed should be lodged and boarded under her roof, unless they had re- spectable parents who could and would be fully answerable for them; and they should have a plen- tiful and a pleasant table—that he was resolved upon, As he was competent to little else, he took this matter upon himself. He calculated what ought fairly to be laid out, and he laid it all out. He would not economize a penny. If he was able to make a good bargain with his butcher, the young ladies, not he, should have the benefit of it all. They should have a bit of fish, or a little poultry, or a little good fruit, poor girls, to vary a meal, io which they could not bring the sturdy appetite of much out-of-door exercise, Then came the great chapter of that exercise. There was the difficulty—how much time could Mrs Fisher possibly afford to lose ?—to abandon
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20 LETTICE ARNOLD. to this object ?—for the work must pay—or it could not continue to be done. But the difficulty dimin- ished upon examination. Time may be counted by strength as well as by minutes. The same thing may, by two different hands, be accomplished in most unequal portions of time, The dreadful feeling of weariness, which, as Lucy, she so well remembered—one consequence of sitting so long in an unchanged position, and ai the same employment—that dreadful feeling could not be forgotten by her. Her horror at the recol. lecticn was so strong, that of this matter she thought more than even her beneyolent, husband. He recollected to have heard that the Jesuits, those masters of human developement, physical as well’as intellectual, never suffered a pupil to be employed more than two hours upon the same thing without a change, to get up and turn round, the chair, to pace five minutes up and down the room would in many cases suffice. Mr, Fisher laid down his plan, Two hours the young ladies worked, and then for ten minutes they were allowed tolay down their needles; they might walk about the room, into the passage, up and down stairs, or sit stilland lounge, That precious, useful lounge, so fatally denied to the wearied spins of many,a growing girl, was here permitted. They might look about, them, or close their eyes and be stupefied ; in short, do just: what they liked. It was soon found by experience that the work done after this refreshing pause more than made up for the time thus expended. Such were some of the plans of this kind-hearted and highly-principled man, and the blooming looks, the gay spirits, the bright eyes, of the happy ht- tle community did credit to the scheme. Fisher lived but a few years to carry out the rule he had instituted ; but to his wife it was as a sacred legacy from his hand, and during the whole course of her subsequent life she faithfully adhered to it. Her house was like a conyent in some things, but it was a very happy convent. Hverything pro- ceeded with a clock-work order, and yet there was a liberty such as few girls thus employed, in spite of their intervals of license, could enjoy. It was a happy party, over which this remarka- bly handsome, and now distinguishedly fashiona- ble milliner, and dignified-looking lady presided. Nothing indisereet and unseemingly was ever per- mitted. The rule; perhaps, might be a little too grave, and the manner of the young ladies too se- date; but they were innocent and good; and they had their recreations, for Mrs. Fisher took them out, turn and turn about, upon a Sunday, in her earriage, and the others walked with the two su- perintendents—persons carefully selected for their good principles.and good conduct. Mrs. Fisher, too, was a little bit of a mateh-mak- er; and if she had’a weakness, it was her fondness for settling her young ladies. Nothing pleased her better than when they were sought, and they were such nice, well-behaved girls, this often happened, by worthy young men in their own rank of life. Mrs. Fisher always gave the wedding-gown and bonnet, and the wedding dinner, and a white satin recticule or bag, drawn with rose-colored ribbons, with a pretty pink and white purse in it, with sil- ver tassels and rings, and containing a nice little sum for the bride’s pocket-money. You will easily understand how Mrs. Danvers had struck up quite a friendship with Mrs. Fisher. Once, indeed, in her days of youth aud gayety, she had been one of her most valuable customers, She had long done with fine things, but the interest she took in the affairs of Mrs. Fisher’s establishment had endeared her very much to that good lady, and hence she had, at her earnest request, consented to take Myra, though her own instinct, the moment she cast her eyes upon this beautiful, dawdling-looking being, had assured her that she was, to use her own phrase, not one of her sort. Myra was grievously disappointed, upon her side. She was quite one to be blind to the solid advan- tages of her position, and to look with querulous regret upon all the flashy and brilliant part of such a business, in which she was not allowed to take the least share. . Precisely because she was so beautiful did Mrs. ‘Fisher exclude her from the show-room—that theatre which was to have been the scene of her triumphs. The beautiful thimgs she was employed in man- ufacturing left her hands to be seen no more—and, alas! never by her to be tried on. — It was tantal- izing work to part with them, and forever, as soon as they left-her hand. Then she was obliged to be punctual to a mo- ment in her hours; a grievous yoke to her who had never been educated to submit to any. To dress with the most careful attention to neatness, though there was “nothing but a pack of women to Jook at her ”—to listen to “‘a prosy book ”’—a book, I forgot'to say, was read aloud in the work-room—instead of gossipping and having a little fun; and to walk out on Sundays under the wing of that old, hideous harridan, Mrs. Sterling, instead of going with her companions where she pleased. In short, it was worse “than negro slavery,” but there was no help for it—there she was, and there she was obliged to stay. Well, and did she improve under this good disci- pline? Was she any the better for it? I am sor- ry to say very little. There are subjects that are almost unimprovable. She was, by nature, a poor, shallow, weedy thing; her education had been the worst possible for her. Evil habits, false views, low aims, had been im- bibed, and not one fault corrected while young; and self-experience, which rectifies in most so much that is wrong, seemed to do nothing for her. There was no substance to work upon. Mrs. Fisher was soon heartily tired of her, and could have regretted her complaisance to Mrs. Danvers’ wishes in receiv- ing her against her judgment; but she was too good to send her away. She laughed, and accepted her as a penance for her sins, she said—as a thorn in the flesh—and she let the thorn rankle there. She remembered her honored Fisher, and the scene by the bedside of poor Saunders. She looked upon the endurance of this plague as a fresh offering to the adored memory. She bore this infliction like a martyr for a long time; at last a smart young tailor fell in love with Myra at church—a place where he had been better employed thinking of other things. And so I be- lieve he thought after he had married her, in spite of the white dress and silk bonnet, and the reticule with pink ribbons, and the bride’s pocket-money, which Mrs. Fisher bestowed with more pleasure and alacrity than even she had been known to do upon many a worthier subject. CHAPTER VIII. “Yet once more, oh, ye laurels, and once more, Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me.’’— Miuron’s ‘‘Lycidas. I must beg of you to slip over a portion of time, and to suppose about two years passed over our heads, and we return to Lettice, who has passed that period at General Melwyn’s. So useful, so cheerful, so thoroughly good, so sincerely pious, so generously disinterested ‘she was; and the transformation she had accomplished was astonishing. And was she as happy herself as she made others? Nobody at the Hazels thought of exactly asking that question, And yet they might have reflected a little, and inquired, whether to one, the source of so much comfort to others, the natural felicity of her age was not denied ? . Could a young being like her be very happy, living with two old people, and without one single companion of her own age? Without prospect, without interest in that coming life, which the young imagination paints in such lovely colors ? One may boldly affirm she was not so happy as she deserved to be and that it was quite impossi- ble, with a heart formed for every tender affection as was hers, that she should. She began to be visited by a troublesome guest, which in the days of hardship she had never known. The very ease which surrounded her, the exemption from all necessity for laborious industry actually increasing the evil, gradually seemed to grow upon her. There was a secret distaste for life—a void in the heart, not filled by natural af- fections—a something “which asked for tenderer relations, more earnest duties—a home—a_house- hold—a family of her own! She blamed herself very much when first this little secret feeling of dissatisfaction. and. discon- tent began to steal over her. How could she be so ungrateful? She had-every comfort in the world ——more, much more, than she had any title to ex- pect; infinitely more than many far more deserv- ing than herself were allowed to enjoy. Why could she not have the same light, contented spirit within her breast, that) had. carried her triun- phantly through so many hardships, and enlivened so many clouded days ? Poor Lettice! It was vain. to find fault with herself. Life would seem flat. The mere routine of duties, unsweetened by natural affection, would weary the spirit at times. There was a sweetness wanting to existence—and existence, without that invigorating sweetness, is to the best of us a tedious and an exhausting thing. So thought Catherine, when, about. eighteen months or two years after her marriage, she came for the first time, with Edgar to visit her father and mother, The regimental dutics of the young officer had earried him to the Ionian Islands very shortly af- ter his marriage; promotion had brought him home, and he and his young and happy wife, with a sweet infant of about twelye months old, hast- ened down to the Hazels to visit Catherine’s parents. _ I pass over the joy of the meeting—I pass over the satisfaction felt by Catherine at the happy evolution which’ had taken place—at her father’s improved temper, her mother’s more tranquil spirits, the absence of Randall, and the general good behavior which pervaded the household. She looked upon every member of it with satis- faction except one; and that was the very one who ought to have been the happiest, for she’ was the cause and the origin of all this happiness. But Lettice did not, she thought, look as’she used to do; her eyes had lost something of their vivacity, and the good heart of Catherine was grieved, “Tt pains me so, Edgar—you can not think, she said to her husband, as she walked, leaning upon his arm, through the pleasant groves and gardens of the Hazels. ‘I can scarcely enjoy my own happiness for thinking of her, Poor dear, she blames herself so for not being perfeetly haypy— as if one could have effects without causes—as if the life she leads here could make anyone per- fectly happy. Not one thing to enjoy—tfor as to her comfortable room, and the good house, and the pretty place, and all that sort of thing, a person soon gets used to it, and it shuts out uneasiness, but it does not bring delight, at least to a young thing of that age. and early days as they were with me when jou were among us, Edgar—I never knew what true happiness was till then-—that is, 1 should very soon have felt a want of some object of interest, though it was my own father and mother.” Child of the house as I was, “So I took the liberty to lay before you, my faiv haranguer, if you recollect, when you made so many difficulties about carrying my knapsack.” “Ah! that was because it seemed so heartless, so cruel, to abandon my parents just when they wanted me so exceedingly. ; gratitude I owe to this dear Lettice for settling all these matters so admirably for me.” But what a debt. of ‘Tam glad you confess to a little of that debt, which I, on my part, feel to be enormous.” “J heartily wish there were any means of. pay- ing it. J.wish I could make Lettice as happy as she has made all of us.” The young officer shook his handsome head, “‘Mammas in our rank of life make such a point of endeavoring to settle their daughters—to start them in households of their own—where, if they are exposed to many troubles which they escape under their father’s roof, they have many more in- terests and sources of happiness. nobody to think of such matters as connected with this poor fatherless and motherless girl,” But there is “Mothers, even in your rank, my love, don’t al- ways succeed in accomplishing this momentous ob- ject. one in Lettice’s condition—except the grand one, the etrective one—in my opinion almost the ouly one, namely, the chapter of accidents,” jar I don’t see what possible chance there is fur
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LETTICE ARNOLD. 21 “Ah! that chapter of accidents! ‘It is a poor dependence.” waa Ata “Nay, Catherine, that is not said with your usual piety.” “True—I am sorry—and yet, where another’s happiness is concerned, one feels as if it were "wrong to trust to? much—even to Providence; with great reverence be it said—I mean, that in no given event can we exactly tell how much we are expected to use our own exertions, how much dili- ‘gence on our part is required of us, in order to produce a happy result.” “J agree with you quite and entirely; and if there is a thing that angers me beyond measure, it is to see @ pious person fold his hands—sit down and trust the happiness of another to, as he says, Providence. If I have any just idea of Providence, an ample retribution will be in store for these sort of religionists.” “Well, that is just as I feel—but in a’ sort of confused way. You say those things so much bet- ter than I do, Edgar.” “Dol? Well, that is news to me.” “But to return. Cannot we do something for this good creature ?” “J don’t exactly see what we can do. Besides, there is your poor mother. Would you pull down all her little edifice of happiness, by taking Let- tice away from her?” “That is a terrible consideration; and. yet what was true of me is doubly and trebly true of Let- tice. © My darling mother would not hear of me re- linguishing my happiness upon her account—and ought Lettice to be allowed to make such a sacri- fice?” “ Well, well, my dear, it is time enough) to’ be- gin to deprecate such a sacrifice when the oppor- tunity for it occurs ; but I own I see little hope of a romance for your poor, dear Lettice, seeing that an important personage in such matters, namely, a hero, seems to me to be utterly out of the ques- tion. There is not a. young: gentleman within twenty miles, so far as I can see, that is in the least likely to think of the good girl.” “Alas, no! that is the worst of it.” But the romance of Lettice’s life was nearer than they ¢nagined, ¥ The visit of Catherine at the Hazels cheered up Lettice very much; and in the delights of a little _ society with those of her own age, she soon forgot all her quarrels with herself ; and brushed away the cobwebs which were gathering over her brain, She was enchanted, too, with the baby, and as she felt that, while Catherine was with her mother, she rather interfered with, than increased Mrs. Mel- wyn’s enjoyment, she used to ind:ilge herself with long walks through the beautiful surrounding country, accompanying the nurse and hélping to carry the babe. She visited several lonely places and remote cot- tages, where she had never been before; and’ be- gan to feel a new interest given to cxistence, when she was privileged to assist others under the pres- sure of that want and misery which she under- stood but too well. One evening she and the nurse had strayed in a new direction, and did not. exactly know where they were. Very far from the house she was aware it could not be, by the time she had been absent, but they had. got into one of those deep. hollow lanes, from which it is impossible to catch a glimpse of the surrounding country ; those lanes so still, and so beautiful, with their broken sandy banks, covered with tufts of feathering grass, with peeping primroses and vio- lets, and barren strawberries between; the beech and ash of the copses casting their slender branch- es across, and checkering the way with innumer- able broken lights! While, may be, as was here ‘the’case, along pebbly stream tuns sparkling and shining upon one side of the way, forming ten thousand ‘little pools and waterfalls as it courses along. Charmed with the scene, Lettice could not pre- vail upon herself to turn back till she had pursued her wa ‘a little farther. At last a turn in the lane brought her to a lowly and lonely cottage, which stood in a place where the bank had a little re- ceded, and the ground formed a small grassy semi- cirele, with the steep banks rising all around it— here stood the cottage. It was an’ ancient, picturesque-looking thing, | built ane knows not when: I have seen one such near Stony Cross in Hampshire, which the tradi- dition of the couniry affirms to be the very identi- cal cottage into which the dying William Rufus was carried, and I am half inclined.to believe it. Their deep, heavy roofs, huge roof-trees, little low walls and small windows, speak of habits of life very remote from our own—and look to.me as if like a heap of carth—a tumulus—such edifices might stand unchanged for tens. of ages. . The cottage before us was of this description, and had probably been a woodman’s hut when the surrounding country was all one huge forest. The walls were not more than five feet high, over which hung the deep and heavy roof, covered with moss, and the thatch was overlaid with a heap of black mould, which afforded plentiful nourishment to stone crops, and various tufts of beautifully feath- ered grass, which waved in fantastic plumes over it, . The door, the frame of which was all aslant, seemed almost buried in, and pressed ‘down by this roof, placed in which were two of those old windows which show that the roof itself formed the upper chamber of the dwelling. A white rose bush was banded up on one side of this door; a rosmary tree upon the other; a little border with marigolds, lemon, thyme and such like pot-herbs, ran round the house, which lay ina tiny plot of ground carefully cultivated as a garden. Herea very aged man, bent almost double as it would seem with the weight of years, was very languidly digging or attempting it. The nurse was_ tired, so was the babe, so was Lettice. They agreed to ask the old man’s leave to enter the cottage, and sit down a little, before attempting to return home. “May we go in, good man, and rest ourselves a little while ?” asked Lettice. “Anan ”—— ““Will you. give us leave to go in and rest our- selves a little? We are both tired with carrying the baby.” “T don’t know well what it is you’re saying. Now many miles to Brainford? Maybe two; but it’s a weary while sin’ I’ve been there.” “We can’t understand us, nurse, at all. He seems almost stone deaf. Let us knock at the door, and see who’s within, for you look ready to drop ; and I am so excessively tired I can hardly help you. “However, give me your sleeping babe at all events, for you really seem as if you could stand no longer,” She took the child, which had long been fast asleep, went to the cottage door and knocked. “Come in,” said a voice. Not such a voice as she expected to hear, but a sweet, well-modulated voice, that of a person of education. “A man’s voice, however, it was. She hesitated a little, upon which some one rose and opened the door, but started back upon seeing a young lady with a child in her arms, looking ex- cessively tired, and as if she could hold up no longer, “Pray, come in,” he said, observing she hesi- tated, and, retreating back a little as he spoke, showed a small bed not far from the fire, standing inthe chimney-place, as it is called. In this bed lay a very aged woman. A large, but very, very ancient Bible lay open upon the bed, and a chair vu little pushed back was standing near it. It would seem that the young gentleman had _ risen from the chair where he to all appearance had been reading the Bible to the bed-ridden old woman. “Pray, come in and sit down,” he repeated, hold- ing the door to let Lettice enter. “ You look ex- ceedingly tired. The place is very humble’ but perfectly clean, and poor old Betty Rigby will be very happy to-give you leave to enter,” The young man who spoke was dressed in deep black; but as there was a crape band round his hat which lay upon the table, it would seem: that he was in mourning, and possibly, therefore, not a clergyman, He was something above the middle height ; but his figure was ‘spoiled by its extreme thinness, and a stoop in the shoulder which seemed | to be the effect.of weakness. THis face was very thin, and his cheek perfectly pale; but. his, fea- tures were beautifully proportionod, and his large gray eyes beamed with a subdued and melancholy splendor. There was the fire of fever, and there was that of genius. ; The expression of this face was soft and sweet, ia the extreme, but it was raed almost ead by its cast of deep sadness. him, and ‘was struck by his appearance in a way Lettice looked at she had never in her life been before. Ife was, I believe, as, much struck with hers, These wiex- pected meetings, in totally unexpected places, of- ten produce such sudden and dee) impressions, The happier being was moved and interested by the delicacy, the attenuation, the profound sadness of the beautiful countenance before ler; the other with the bloom of, health, the cheerful, wholesome expression, the character and meaning of the face presented to him, as the, young girl stood there holding the sleeping infant in her arms. Cer- tainly though not regularly pretty, she was a very picturesque and pleasing-looking object at that mo- ment. The old woman from her bed added her invita- tion to that of the ycung man. . “Please to walk in, miss, It’s a poor place. Please take a chair. Oh, my poor limbs! Ive been bed-ridden these half-score years; but pray, sit down and rest yourselves, and welcome. Law| but that’s.a pretty bairn, ben’t it.” Lettice took the offered chair and sat down, still holding the baby; the nurse oceupied the other ; the young man continued standing, “JT am afraid we have interrupted you,” said Lettice, glancing at the book. “Oh, pray don’t think of it! Iam inno hurry to be gone. My time,” with a suppressed ‘sigh, “is all my own. JI will finish my lecture by-and- DY “Ay, do, do, that’s a good gentleman. Do you know, ma’am, he’s been the kindest friend, young as he looks, that ever I cr my good man met with. You see we lie here out of the way like; it?s a big monstrous parish this, and our parson has a world of work to do, So we gets rather overlooked, though, poor man, I believe le does what he can. I’ve lived here these ten years, crippled and bed- ridden as you see, but I got along pretty well for some time, for I was a bit of a scliollard in my youth ; but last winter my eyes took to being bad, and since then I’ve not been able to read a line. All gets dizzy like. And Iwas very dull and sore beset that I couldn’t even see to read the word of God, and my poor husband, that’s the old man as is delving in the garden there, why he has hardly any eyes left in his head. Enough just to potter about like, an’ see his,way, but he conldn’t read a line, and it was never’so; and so that blessed young gentleman—law! where is he? “Why, I de- clare, he’s gone!” The young gentleman had, indeed, quietly glided out of the cottage as soon as his eloge began. “That young gentleman—I can say what I like now he is gone—has been so good to us. Many’s the half-crown he’s given me, and a warm winter coat of his own to my poor rheumatized old man, Oh! he’s a blessed one—and then he comes and sits and reads to me of an afternoon for an hour together, because as how one day he called. he found me.a-crying; for why, I could no longer read the Holy Word—and he ‘says ‘Cheer up, Betty, be of good comfort, I'll read it to you daily ’—and when I said ‘daily, sir—that’ll take up too much of your time, I fear’—he sighed a little, and said he’d nothing particular to do with his. time.” “Who is he? _ Does he belong to this neighbor- hood ?” ‘No, miss, he’s only been here maybe a half-year or so. He came down ona visit to Mr. Hiekman, the doctor out there, Brainwood way, and presently he went and lodged at a cottage hard by, to be near Hickman, who’s a great name for such complaints as his’n—A-A—I don’t know what’s the name— but he’s. very bad, they say, and not able to do anything in the world. Well, he’s the best, kindest, Christian young man, you ever see or I ever gee The power of good he does among the poor—poor young fellov—is not to be told or counted—but he’s so melancholy like, and so gentle, and so kind, it makes one a’most cry to look at him; that’s the worst of it.” _ “He looks like a clergyman; I could fancy he was in holy orders. Do you know whether he is so or not ?” “Yes, ma’am, I have heard say that he is a par- son, but nobody in these parts has ever seen him in. a pulpit; but now it strikes me I’ve heard that he was to'be curate to Mr. ‘Thomas, of “Briurwood “oom ian “0 . f FE mh Ahn aha, gt APT NO OO IR a ans enti os, a a ’ eg cleats a
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22 LETTICE ARNOLD. parish, but he was ta’en bad of his chest or his throat, and never able to speak up like, so it would not do; he cannot at present speak in a church, for his voice sounds so low, so low.” “T wonder we have never met with him, or heard of him before.” “Qh, miss! he’s not been in this country very long, and he goes out nowhere but to visit the poor; and tired and weak as he looks, he seems never tired of doing good.” “ He looks very pale and thin.” “Ay, doesn’t he?” I’m afraid he’s but badly; I’ve heard some say he was ina galloping con- sumption, others a decline; I don’t know, but he seems mighty weak like.” A little more talk went on in the same way, and then Lettice asked the nurse whether she felt rested, as it was time to be returning home, and, giving the poor bed-ridden patient a little money, which was received with abundance of thanks, Let- tice left the house. When she entered the little garden, she saw the young man was not gone; he was leaning pensively against the gate, watching the swinging branches of a magnificent ash tree, which grew upon a green plot by the side of the lane. Beautiful it was as it spread its mighty magnificent head against the deep blue summer sky, and a soft wind gently whispered among its forest of leaves. Lettice conld not help, as she observed the coun- tenance of the young man, who seemed lost in thought, admiring the extraordinary beauty of its expression. Something of the sublime, something of the angelic, which we se in a few remarkable countenances, but usually in those which are spirit- ualized by mental sufferings, and great physical delicacy. He started from his reverie as she and the nurse approached, and lifted the latchet of the little wicket to let them pass. And, as he did so, the large, melancholy eye was lighted up with some- thing of a pleasurable expression, as he looked at Lettice, and said: “A beautiful afternoon. May I venture to ask were you intending to visit that poor bed-ridden creature? I thought by the expression she used that you were not acquainted with her case, and probably had never been in the cottage before. Will you excuse me for saying she is in great ne- cessity ?” “Tt is the first time I have ever been down this lane, sir, but I assure you it shall not be the last; I will come and see the poor woman again. There are few things I pity so much as the being bed- ridden.” ’ She had walked into the lane. He had quitted the garden too, and continued to walk by her side, talking as he went. “T hope there is not so much suffering in that state as we are apt to imagine,” he said: “at least, I have observed that very poor people are enabled to bear it with wonderful cheerfulness and patience. I believe, to those who have lived a life of hard labor, rest has something acceptable in it, which compensates for many privations—but these old creatures are also miserably poor. The parish can- not allow much, and they are so anxious not to be forced into the house, that they contrive to make a very little do. The poor woman has been for years receiving relief as member of a sick-club ; but lately the managers have come to a resolution, that she has been upon the list for such an unex- ampled length of time, that they cannot afford to go on with the allowance any longer.” “ How cruel and unjust ?” “Very sad, as it effects her comforts, poor crea- ture, and certainly not just ; yet, as she paid only about three years, and has been receiving an allow- ance for fifteen, it would be difficult, I fancy, to make the sort of people who manage such clubs see it quite in that light. At all events, we can get her no redress, for she does not belong to this parish, though her husband does ; and the club of which she is a member is in a place at some dis- tance, of which the living is sequestrated, and there is no one of authority there to whom we can apply. I only take the liberty of entering into these details, madam, in order to convince you that any charity you may extend in this quarter will be particularly well applied.” “T shall be very happy, if I can be of any use,” said Lettie, “but I am sorvy to say, but little of my time is at my own disposal—it belongs to an- other, I cannot call it my own, and my purse is not very ample. But I have more money than time,” she added, cheerfully, “at allevents. And, if you will be pleased to point out in what way I can best help this poor creature, I shall be very much obliged to you, forI am quite longing for the pleasure of doing a little among the poor. I have been very poor myself; and, besides, I used to visit them so much in my poor father’s day.” ‘“‘T have more time than money,” he said, with a gentle but very melancholy simile ; “and, therefore, if you will give me leave, I would take the liberty of pointing out to you how you could help this poor woman, If—if I knew”—— “T live with General and Mrs. Melwyn—I am Mrs. Melwyn’s dame de campagnie,” said Lettice, with simplicity. “And I am what ought to be Mr. Thomas’s curate,” answered he, “ but that I am too inefficient to merit the name. General Melwyn’s family never attends the parish church, I think.” “No; we goto the chapel of ease at Furnival’s Green. It is five miles by the road to the parish church, and that road a very bad one. The general does not like his carriage to go there.” “So I have understood; and, therefore, Mr. Tkomas is nearly a stranger, and I perfectly one, to the family, though they are Mr. Thomas’s par- ishioners. “It seems so strange to me—a clergyman’s daughter belonging formerly to a small parish— that every individual in it should not be known to the vicar. It ought not tobe so, I think.” “T entirely agree with you. ButI believe Mr. Thomas and the general never exactly understood or suited each other.” “T don’t know—I never heard.” “T am myself not utterly unknown to every member of the family. I was at school with the young gentleman who married Miss Melwyn. Yet why do I recall it? He has probably forgotten me altogether—and yet, perhaps, not altogether. Pos- sibly he might remember James St. Leger ;” and he sighed. _ It was a light, suppressed sigh. escape him without his observing it, Lettice felt unusually interested in this conversa- tion, little as there may appear in it to interest any- one; but there was something in the look and tone of the young man that exercised a great power over her imagination. His being of the cloth—a clergyman—may account for what may seem rather strange in her entering into conversation with him. She had been brought up to feel profound respect for everyone in holy orders; and, moreover, the habits of her life at one time, when she had sunk to such depths of poverty, had, in a considerable degree, robbed her of the conventional reserve of general society. She had been so used at one time to be accosted and to accost without thinking of the ceremony of an introduction, that she probably forgot the absence of it in the present case, more than another equally discreet girl might have done. The young man, on his part, seemed under the influence of a strange charm. He continued to walk by her side, but he had ceased to speak. He seemed lost in thought—melancholy thought, It certainly would seem as if the allusion to Edgar’s home, and his own school life had roused a host of painful recollections, in which he was for the time absorbed. So they followed the windings of the deep hol- low lane together. Necessarily it would seem, for this lane appeared to defy the proverb and have no turning. But that it had one we know—and to it the little party came at last. A gate led to some fields belonging to the estate of the Hazels —Lettice and the nurse prepared to open it and enter, : “Good-morning, sir,” said Lettice, “this is my way; I will strive to do something for the poor woman you recommended to me, and I will men- tion your recommendation to Mrs. Melwyn.” He started as if suddenly awakened when she spoke; but he only said, “Will you? It will be right and kind. Thank you, in her name.” And, with a grave, abstracted sort of salute, he left her, and pursued his way. : Catherine was standing rather anxiously upon the hall-steps, looking round and wondering whut ae a It seemed to had become of her nurse and her baby, when nurse, baby, and Lettice returned. “Dear people,” she cried, “I am glad you are come back.” She had been, if the truth were told, a good deal fidgeted and frightened, as young mothers are very apt to be, when the baby does not come home at the usual hour. She had suffered a good deal of uneasiness, and felt half inclined to be angry. A great many people with whom I am acquainted would have burst out into a somewhat petulant scold, when the cause for anxiety was at an end, and baby and her party, all safe, appeared quietly walking up the road as if nothing in the world were amiss. The very quiet and tranquillity which proved that they were quite unconscious of having done anything wrong, would have irritated some people more than all the rest. I thought it was very nice of Catherine to be good-humored and content as soon as she saw all was safe, after the irritating anxiety she had just been going through. She, however, ran eagerly down the steps, and her eyes sparkling with impatience, caught her little one in her arms and kissed it very fast and hard. That being the only sign of an impatient spirit which she showed, and, except erying out, “Oh! I am so glad tosee you safe back, all of you. Do you know, Lettice, I began to wonder what had become of you?”—not a syllable approaching to reproof passed her lips. “Dear Mrs. D’Arcy! Dear Catherine! I am afraid we are late. We went too far—we partly lost ourselves. We got into a long, but oh, such a lovely lane! where I‘never was before; and then we have had a little wee bit of an adventure.” “Adventure! Oh, goodness! I am glad of that. Adventures are so excessively rare in this country. I never met with one-in my life, but happening upon Edgar, as the people say, when he was com- ing from hunting, and the wind had blown off my hat—a wind that blew somebody good, that. Dear, beloved Lettice, I wish to goodness, that I do, an adventure of the like of that might have happened to you.” Lettice colored a little, “Gracious!” cried Catherine, laughing merrily, and peeping at her under her bonnet, “I declare, you’re blushing, Lettice. Your adventure is some- thing akin to my adventure. Have you stumbled upon an unparalleled youth—by mere accident, as ” I did—and did he, did he pick up your hat ?” “Tf he had,” said Lettice, “I am afraid my face with my hair all blown about it, would not have looked quite so enchanting as yours must have done. No, I did not lose my bonnet.” “Anything else? Your heart, perhaps ?”” “Dear Catherine, how can you be so silly.” “Oh, it was such a blessed day when I Jost mine!” said Mrs. D’Arcy, gayly. “Such a gain of a loss! that I wish just the same misfortune to befall everyone I love—and I love you dearly, Lettice.” “There must be more than one heart lost, I fancy, to make adventures turn out as well as yours did, Catherine.” ; “Oh! that’s a matter of course in such sort of things. There is always an exchange, where there is love at first sight. But now do tell me, that’s a dear girl, what your adventure was,” “T only saw a clergyman reading to a poor wo- man—or rather, I only saw a clergyman, a Bible, and a poor woman, and thence concluded that he had been reading to her.” “Oh! you tiresome creature. Poor, dear, old Mr. Hughes, Pll be bound. Good old fellow—but such a hum-drum. Nay, Lettice, my dear, don’t look shocked and cross, A clergyman may bea very stupid, hum-drum, tiresome fellow, as well as any other man. Don’t pretend to deny that.” “T would as lief not hear them called so. this was not Mr. Hughes.” “Oh, no! I remember now you were not in his parish. If you went down Briarwood Lane far enough, you would be in Briarwood parish. Mr. Thomas, perhaps ?” “ No.” “Mr. Thomas’s curate. Oh! of course, the curate. Only, I dont think Mr. Thomas keeps one.” “No; I believe not Mr. Thomas’s, or anyone else’s curate; but a gentleman who says he knew Cuptain D'Arcy at school.” But
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LETTICE ARNOLD. 23 “Nay, that is too charming. That really is like an adventure.” “‘Here, Edgar!” He was crossing the paddock at some little distance. “Come here for one instant. Do you recollect what I was talking to you about, this very morn- ing? Well, Lettive has met with an adventure, and has stumbled upon an old acquaintance of yours, reading the Bible to an old woman; he was at school with you.” “Well, as there were about five hundred people, more or less, who had that honor—if you mean to know anything about him, Miss Arnold, you must go alittle more into detail; and, first aud fore- most, what is the young gentleman’s name?” “James St. Leger,” said Lettice. A start for answer, and, “Ha! Indeed! Poor fellow! he turned up again. I little thought our paths in life would ever cross more. How strange to unearth him in such & remote corner of the world as Briarwood, Poor fellow! Well, what is he like? and how does he look ?” “Tl and melancholy,” said Lettice. “I should say very ill and very melancholy—and with reason I believe; for though he isin holy orders, some- thing is the matter with his throat or his chest, which renders him useless in the pulpit.” “You don’t say so. His chest! I hope not. And yet,” continued Edgar, as if musing aloud, “I know not. He was one when I knew him, Miss Arnold, so marked out through the vices of others for misery in this world, that I used to think the sooner he went out of it the better for him.” “ Ah!” cried Catherine, “there is an interesting history here. Do tell it us, Edgar. Of all your charming talks, what I like almost the best are your reminiscences. He has such a memory, Let- tice ; and so much penetration into the characters of persons, and the connection of things, that noth- ing isso delightful as when he will tell some old history of his earlier years. Do, dear Edgar, teli us all about this charming young curate of Briar- wood.” © “Flatterer! Coaxing flatterer! Don’t believe a word she says, Miss Arnold. I am as empty-pated a rattle-skull, as ever was turned raw into one of Her Majesty’s regiments—and that’s saying a good deal, I can tell you. But this dear creature here loves a bit of romance in her heart. What's o'clock ?” “Oh!” looking at the tiaiest of watches, “a full two hours to dinner; and such a day, too, for a story—and just Jook at that spreading oak with the bench under it, and the deer lying crouching there so sweetly, and the wind just lulling the boughs, as it were, to rest. Here, nurse, bundle the baby away to her nursery. Now, do, there’s a dar- ling Edgar.” “Why, my love, your are making awful prepar- ation. Itis almost as terrible as reading a manu- script to begin a relation, all sitting solemnly upon a bench under a tree together. Thereis not much to tell, poor fellow; only I did pity him from my heart of hearts.” Catherine had her way, and they sat down under the green leafy canopy of this majestic oak; and she put her arm in her husband’s and her hand into that of Lettice, and thus sitting between them, loving and beloved, she listened, the happiest, as she was one of the honestest and best, of heaven’s crea- tures. “We were both together at a large rough sort of preparatory school,” began Edgar, “where there might be above a hundred boys orso. They were mostly, if not entirely, intended for the military profession, and came from parents of all sorts of positions and degrees, and of all sorts of principles, characters, and manners. A very omnium gather- um that school was, and the ways of it were as rough as in any school, I should think, they could possibly be. I was a tall, healthy rebel, when I was sent there, as strong as a little Hercules, and excessively proud of my force and prowess. A bold, daring, cheerful, merry Jad, as ever left his mother’s apron-string ; very sorry to quit the dot- ingest of mothers, and the happiest of homes, and the pleasantest of fathers; but mighty proud to come out of the Ae a to fe 4 pits as : thought jt high time I should, in ¢ oft rowsers and jacket, instead € a Black Velvet e Ini plunged, plump headforemost amid the vortex, and was soon in a thousand scrapes and quarrels, bat- tling my way with my fists, and my merry eye; for they used to tell me the merry eye did more for me even than my impudence in fighting everything that would condescend to fight such a youngster. I was soon established, and then I breathed after my victories, and began to look round. “So long as I had considered the throng about me but in the light of so many adversaries to be beaten by main force, and their rude and insulting ways only as provocative to the fray, I had cared little for their manners or their proceedings, their coarseness and vulgarity, their brutality and their vices. But now, seated in peace upon the em- inence to which I had fought my way, I had time to breathe and to observe. I cannot describe to you how shocked, how sickened, how disgusted I became. Par parenthese, I will say that it has always been an astonishment to me, how parents so tender as mine could send a frank, honest- hearted, well-meaning little fellow into such a place. But the school had a high reputation. I was then a fourth son, and had to make my way as best I could in the profession chosen for me. So here I came. I was about ten or eleven years old, I must add, in excuse for my parents, though I called myself so young, I felt younger, because this was my first school, To resume. When I had van- quished them, it is not in words to describe how I despised and detested the majority of my school- fellows—for their-vulgar pleasures, their offensive habits, their hard, rough, brutal manners, their vicious principles, and their vile, blasphemous im- piety. I was a warm lover and a still more ardent hater, and my hatred to most of them exceeded all bounds of reason ; but it was just such as a straight- forward, warm-tempered fellow, is certain to enter- tain without mitigation in such a case. “Tt is a bad element for a boy to be living in. However, I was saved from becoming an utter young monster, by the presence in the school of this very boy, James St. Leger. “In the bustle and hurry of my early wars, I had taken little heed of, scarcely observed this boy at all. But when the pause came, I noticed him, I noticed him for many reasons. He was tall for his age, slender, and of extremely delicate make, but with limbs of asymmetry and beauty that re- minded one of a fine antique statue. His face, too, was extremly beautiful; and there was some- thing in his large, thoughtful, melancholy eyes, that it was impossible ever to look upon and to forget. ‘‘ Ino sooner observed him at all, than my whole boyish soul seemed knit to him. “ His manner was extremly serious; the ex- pression of his countenance sad to a degree— deeply, intensely sad, I might say; yet through that deep sadness there was a tender sweetness which was to me most interesting. I never shall forget his smile—for laugh he never was heard to do. “ Tsoon discovered two things, that made me feel more for him than all the rest. One, that he was an extremely well-informed boy, and had received a home education of a very superior order; and the other, that he was most unfortunate, and that his misfortunes had one peculiar ingredient of bit- terness in them, namely, that they were of a na- ture to excite the scorn and contempt of the vul- gar herd that surrounded him, rather than to move their rude hearts to sympathy and pity. “The propensity to good in rough, vulgar, thoughtless human beings, is very apt to show itself in this way—in a sort of contemptuous disgust against vice and folly, and an alienation from those connected with it, however innocent. We must acceptit, upon reflection, I suppose as a rude form of good inclination; but I was too young for reflection—too young to make allow- ances, too young to be equitable. Such conduct appeared to me the most glaring and barbarous injustice, and excited in me a passionate indigna- tion. “‘ Never did I hear St. Leger taunted, as he of- ten was, with the frailties of his mother or the errors of his father, but my heart was all in a flame—my fist clinched—my cheek burning. Many a fellow have I laid prostrate upon the earth with ajsudden blow who dared, in no tide by ence, to chase the color from St. Leger’s ch , qi alluding to the subject. There was this remarka- ble in St. Leger, by the way, that he never colored when his mother’s shame or his father’s end was alluded to, but went deadly pale. “ The history was a melancholy one of human frailty and is soon told. His mother had been ex- tremely beautiful, his father the possessor of a small independent fortune. They had lived hap- pily together many years, and she had brought him five children ; four girls and this boy. I have heard that the father doted with nv common pas- sion, in a husband, Catherine—upon the beauti- ful creature, who was moreover zccomplished and clever. She seemed devoted to her children, and had given no common attention to her boy in his early years. Hence his mental accomplishments. The husband was, I suspect, rather her inferior in intellect ; and scarcely her equal in refinement and manner, but it’s no matter; it would have been probably the same whatever he had been. She who will run astray under one set of circum- stances, would probably have run astray under any. She was very vain of her beauty and tal- ents, and had been spoiled by the idolatry and flattery of all who surrounded her. “T will not pain you by entering into any par- ticulars ; in brief, she disgraced herself, and was ruined. “The rage, the passionate despair, the blind fury of the injured husband, it was said, exceeded all bounds. There was, of course, every sort of public scandal. Legal proceedings and the nec- essary consequences—a divorce. The wretched history did not even end here. She" suffered hor- ribly from shame and despair I have been told, but the shame and despair had not the effect it ought to have produced. She fell from bad to worse, and was utterly lost. The husband did the same, Wild with the stings of wounded affec- tion, blinded with suffering, he flew for refuge to any excitement which would for a moment assauge his agonies; the gaming-table, and excess jn drinking, soon finished the dismal story. He shot himself ina paroxysm of delirium tremens, after having lost almost every penny he possessed at faro. “You tremble, Catherine. . Your hand in mine is cold. Oh, the pernicious woman! Oh, the depths of the misery—if I were indeed to tell you all I have met with and known—which are entailed upon the race by the vanity, the folly, and the vice of women. Angels! yes, angels you are. Sweet saint—sweet Catherine, and men fall down and worship you, but woe for them when she they wor- ship proves a fiend, “Dear Miss Arnold, you are shedding tears, but you would have this dismal story. You had better hear no more of it, let me stop now.” “Go on—pray go on, Edgar. Tell us about the poor boy and the girls, you said there were four of them.” “The boy and his sisters were taken by some relations. It was about a year after these events that I met him at this school. They had sent bim here, thinking the army the best place for him. To get him shot off, poor fellow, perhaps, if they could. His four sisters were all then living, and how tenderly, poor lad, he used to talk to me about them. How he would grieve over the treatment they were receiving, with the best intentions he acknowledged, but too hardening and severe he thought for girls so delicate. They wanted a mother’s fostering, a father’s protection, poor things, but he never alluded in the remotest way to either father or mother. Adam, when he sprung from the earth, was not more parentless than he seemed to consider himself. But he used to talk of a future for his sisters, and sometimes jn his more cheerful moods, would picture to hirhself what he would do when he should be a man, and able to shelter them in a home, however humble, of his own. His whole soul was wrapped up in these irls.”” a Did you ever hear what became of them ?” “Three died of consumption, I have been told, just as they were opening into the bloom of early womanhood, almost the loveliest creatures that ever were seen,” “And the fourth 2” ti She Was the most beautiful high-spirited, dashing creature. sectet terror aud darling.” of all—a fine, Her brother’s
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24 LETTICE ARNOLD. fT REESE ATER DER ICT MEST GOED £8 RISE AS A A AEN TES ED a ta IT A TTS NTT IE. IIE TE FELT SEL EPS COIS LES GT: PC ARTI IE CTT PEPE Te “Well ?” “She followed her mother’s example, and died miserably at the age of two-and-twenty.” “What can we do for this man?” cried Cathe- rine, when she had recovered voice a little. “ Ed- gar, what can we do for this man?” “Your first question, dear girl—always your first question—what can be done? Ever, my love, may you preserve that precious habit. My Cathe- rine never sits down lamenting, and wringing her hands helplessly about other people’s sorrows. The first thing she asks is, what can be done ?” CHAPTER IX. Strongest minds Are often those of whom the noisy world Hears least: else surely this man had not left His graces unrevealed and unpfoclaimed. —WaADSWORTH. Tur first thing to be done, it was obvious to all narties, was for Edgar to.go and call upon Mr. St. eger, which. he did. He found him occupying one very small room, which served him for bed and _ sitting-room, in a small cottage upon the outskirts of the little se- cluded town of Briarwood. He looked extremely ill; his beautiful countenance was preternaturally pale; his large eyes far too bright and large; his form attenuated; and his voice so faint, husky and low that it was with difficulty he could make him- self heard, at least for any length of time together. The expression of his countenance, however, was rather grave than sad; resigned than melan- choly. He was-serious but perfectly composed ; nay, there was even a chastened cheerfulness in his manner. He looked like one who had accepted the cup presented to him; had already exhausted most of the bitter potion, and was calmly prepared to drain it to the dregs. And so it had been. No man was ever more exquisitely constituted to suffer from circumstances so agonizing than he. But his mind was ofa lofty stamp; he had not sunk under his sufferings. He had timely consid- ered the reality of these things. He had learned to connect—really, truly, faithfully the trials and sorrows of this world with the retributions of an- other. He had aceepted the part allotted to him in the mysterious scheme; had played it as best he could, and was now prepared for its impending close. It is consoling to know one thing. In his char- acter of minister of the holy word of God he had been allowed the privilege of attending the last ill- ness of both mother and sister, both so deeply, deep- ly, yet silently beloved, in spite of all; and, through those blessed means, the full value and mercy of which, perhaps, such grevious sinners are alone able to entirely estimate, he had reconciled them, as he trusted, with that God “who forgiveth all our in- iquities and healeth all our diseases,” Having been allowed to do this, he felt as if it would be the basest ingratitude to murmur because his services in the pulpit were suddenly arrested by the disease in his chest, and with it a stop put to further use- fulness, and even to the supply of his daily bread. He was calmly expecting to die in the receipt of parish relief, for he had not a penny beyond his curate’s salary; and it was impossible to allow Mr. Thomas, who was a poor man himself, to con- tinue that, now the hope of restoration to useful- ness seemed at an end. It was not likely, indeed, that he should, upon the spare hermit’s diet which his scant means allowed, recover from a complaint of which weakness was the foundation. He had tried to maintain himself by his pen ; but the complaint which prevented his preaching was equally.against the position when writing. He could do so little in this way that it would not fur- nish him with a loaf a week. <A ray of genuine pleasure, however, shot to his eye, and a faint but beautiful flush mounted to his cheek, when Edgar entered and cordially held out his hand. ; He was such a dear warm-hearted fellow, was Edgar. St. Leger had loved him so entirely at school, and those days were not so very long since! The impression old Time had not even yet attempted with his busy fingers to efface. “Tam go glad to have found you out, my dear fel- low,” Edgar began. ‘‘ Who would have thought of meeting you, ¢ soonced in pase a quiet nook of this bus f all people ‘in the world, hene,.en-| not gqyi such )things ; 9 peop et y ene, ere The te be ib} a place where the’noise and bustle and stir of the Great Babylon cannot even be heard. But what are you doing in this place ? for you look ill, I must Say, and you seem to be left to yourself without a human being to look after you.” “Much so. You know I am quite alone in the world.” “A dismal position that, and I am come to’ put an end to it. My wife insists upon making your acquaintance, and scuttled me off this morning without giving me time to eat my breakfast, though, to own the truth, I was ready enough of myself to set out. The general desired me to bring his card ; he is too infirm to go out himself, and he and Mrs. Melwyn request the favor of your company to din- nér to-morrow at six o’clock.” “T should be very happy—but—” and he hesi- tated a little. “Tll come and fetch you in the dog-cart about five, and drive you down again in the evening. It’s a mere step by Hatherway Lane, which is quite pas- sable at this time of the year, whatever it may be in winter.” St. Leger looked as if he should like very much to come. His was a heart, indeed, formed for so- ciety, friendship, ‘anid love; not the least of the monk or the hermit was to be found in his compo- sition. And so it was settled. St. Leger came to dinner, as arranged, Edgar fetching him up in the dog-cart. Everyone was struck with his appearance. There was a gentleness and refinement in his manner which charmed Mrs. Melwyn; united to the ease and politeness of a man of the world, equally ac- ceptable to the general; Catherine was delighted ; and Lettice only in a little danger of being too well pleased. His conversation soon showed him to be a man of avery superior turn of thought, and was full of information. In short, it was some time, with the exception of Edgar, since so agreeable a person had sat down at that dinner-table; for the Hazels lay rather out of the way, and neither the general nor Mrs. Melwyn were of a temper to cultivate so- ciety. Edgar returned home in the evening from an agreeable drive with his friend through the bright, glittering starlight night. It was slightly frosty, and he came into the drawing-room rubbing his hands, with his cheeks freshened by the air, look- ing as if he was prepared very much to enjoy the fire. He found the whole party sitting up, and very amicably discussing the new acquaintance who had pleased them all so much. So Edgar sat down be- tween his wife and her mother, and readily joined in the conversation. The general, who really was much altered forthe better under the good influences of Lettice, had been speaking in high terms of their late guest. And when Edgar came in and sat’ down in the circle, spreading his hands to the fire, and looking very comfortable, the general, in an amicable tone, be- “Really, Edgar, we have been’ saying we are quite obliged to you for introducing to us so agree. able a man as this Mr. St. Leger, of yours. He is quite a find in such a stupid neigborhood as ours, where, during the ten years I have lived in it, I have never met one resident”—with an emphasis upon the word, that it might not be supposed to include Edgar himself—* one resident whose com- pany I thought worth a brass farthing.” “T am very glad my friend gives satisfaction, sir,” said Edgar, cheerfully; “for I believe, poor fellow, he has much more to seek than even your- self, general, in the article of companionship. One cannot think that the society of the worthy Mr. Thomas can afford much of interest to a man like St. Leger. But whatever pleasure you may mutu- ally afford each other will soon be at an end I fear; and I have been beating my brains all the way com- ing home, to think what must be done.” 4 “Why must the pleasure come so soon to an end, Edgar ?” asked Mrs. Melwyn. “Why, if something can’t be done, the poor lad is in a fair way to be starved to death,” was the answer. “Starved to death! How shockingly you do talk, Edgar,” cried Mrs. Melwyn. “I wish you would you make ong, quite start. « ae besides, it eannot ba true. People don’t starve to death. nowadays—at least not in a sort of case like that.” “T don’t know, such things do sound as if they couldn't be true,'and yet,” said Catherine, “they do come very nearly to the truth at times,” “Indeed, do they,” said Lettice. “Starved to death,’ observed the general, “I take to be merely a poetic exaggeration of yours, captain, But do you mean to say that.young man is literally in distressed circumstances ?” “The most urgently distressing circumstances, sir. The fact is, that he inherited nothing from his father but a most’ scandalous list of debts, which he most honorably sold every fathing of his own little property to pay—relying for his subsist- ence upon the small stipend he was to receive from Mr. Thomas. You don’t like Mr. Thomas, sir.” “Who would like such a stupid old drone ?” ‘* He’s a worthy old fellow, nevertheless. Though his living is a very poor one, he has acted with great liberality to James St. Leger. The poor fel- low has lost his voice ; you would. pereeive in con- versation how very feeble and uncertain it was. It is utterly powerless in the reading-desk; and yet Mr. Thomas has insisted upon retaining him, pay- ing his salary, and doing all the duty himself, As long as there was any hope of recovery, to this St. Leger most unwillingly submitted ; but, now he despairs of ever again being useful, it is plain it can no longer be done,” “And what is to become of him ?” exclaimed Lettice. She knew what it was to be utterly without re- source—she knew how possible it was for such things to happen in this world—she. knew what it was to be hungry and to want bread, and be with- out the means of assistance—to be friendless, help- less, and abandoned by all. “What is to be done ?” she cried, ““What is to be done?” said the general, rather testily. “ Why, the young fellow. must turn his hand to something else. » None but a fool starves.” “Ay, but,” said Edgar, shaking his head, “but what zs that something ?», I see no prospect for one incapacitated by kis cloth for enlisting as a soldier or standing behind a counter, and by 1.!; illness for doing anything consistent with his pro- fession,” ‘“T should think he might write a canting book,” said the general, with a sneer; “that would be sure to sell.” “Whatever book St. Leger wrote,” Edgar an- swered coldly, “would be a good one, canting or not. But he cannot write a book. The fatigue, the stooping, would be intolerable to his chest in its present irritable state.» Besides, if he did write a book, it’s a hundred to ‘one whether he got any- thing for it, and, moreover, the book is not written ; and there is an old proverb which. says, while the grass grows the horse starves. He literally will starve, if some expedient; cannot be hit upon.” ‘““And that is too, too dreadful to think of,” cried Mrs. Melwyn, piteously, ‘Oh, general !” “Oh, papa! oh, Edgar! . Can you think of noth- ing?” added Catherine, in the same tone, “Tt would be a pity he should starve, for he is a remarkably gentleman-like, agreeable fellow,” ob- served the general. ‘Edgar, do you know what was meant by the term one meets with in old books about manners, of ‘led captain?’ I wish to heaven I could have a led captain like that,” “Oh, there was the chaplain as well as the led captain in those days, papa,” said Catherine, read- ily. “Dearest papa, if one could but persuade you you wanted a domestic chaplain.’ “Well, and what did the chaplain.do in those days, Mrs. Pert ?” “Why, he sat at the bottom of the table, and carved the sirloin.” “And he read, and played at backgammon— when he was wanted, I believe,” put in Edgar, “And he did a great deal more,” added Cathe- rine in a graver tone. ‘ He kept the accounts, and looked after important business for his patron.” “ And visited the poor and was the almoner and their friend,” said Lettice, in a low tone. “ And played at bowls, and drank”—_ Catherine put her hand playfully over the gene al’s mouth, * Don’t, dear papa—you must not—you must not, indeed. Do you: know this iryeverence in»: vak- ing of the members of so sacred a profession 6 not
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—_ ee rr ee LETTICE ARNOLD. at all what ought to be done. Don’t, Edgar. Dear | the personage so designated would look to his home papa, I may be foolish, but I do so dislike it.” “Well, well, well—anything for a quiet life.” “But to resume the subject,” locking her arm in his, and smiling with a sweetness which no one, far least he, could resist. ‘Really and seri- ously I do think it would be an excellent thing if you would ask Mr. St. Leger to be your domestic chaplain.” “ Stuff and nonsense.” “Not such stuff and nonsense as you think. Here's our darling Lettice—think what a comfort she has been to mamma, and think what a pleasant thing it would be for you to have a confidential and an agreeable friend at’ your elbow—just as mamma has in Lettice. Hide your face, Lettice, if you can’t bear to be praised a little before it ; but Iwill have it done, for I see you don’t like it. But, papa, you see things are getting a good deal into disorder, they say, upon your property out of doors, just for want of some one to look after them. I verily believe, that if we could persuade this young gentleman to come and do this for you, he would save you a vast deal of money.” The general made no answer. He sank back in his chair, and seemed to meditate. At last, turn- ing to Edgar, he said: “That little wife of yours is really not such a fool as some might suppose her to be, captain.” “Really ” “What say you, Mrs. Melwyn? Is there any sense in the young lady’s suggestion, or is there not? What says Miss Arnold? Come, let us put it to the vote.” Mrs. Melwyn smiled. Catherine applauded and laughed, and kissed her father, and declared he was the dearest piece of reasonableness in the world. And, in short, the project was discussed, and one said this, and the gther said that, and after it had been talked over and commented upon, with a hint from one quarter, and a suggestion from an- other, and so on, it began to take a very feasible and inviting shape. Nothing could be more true than a person of this description in the family was terribly wanted. The general was becoming every day less able and less inclined to look after his own affairs. Things were mismanaged, and he was robbed in the most noto- rious end unblushing manner. This must be seen to, Of this Edgar and Catherine had been upon their return speedily aware. The difficulty was how to get it done; and whom to trust in their ab- sence; which would soon, owing to the calls of the service, take place again, and for an indefinite pe- _ riod of time. Mr. St. Leger seemed the very person for such an office, could ke be persuaded to undertake it; and his extremity was such, that, however little agreeable to such a man the proposal might be, it appeared not impossible that he might entertain it. Then he had made himself so much favor with the general, that one difficulty, and the greatest, was already overcome. Mrs. Melwyn seconded their designs with her most fervent wishes. She could not venture to do much more. To have expressed her sentiments upon the sub- ject—to have said how much she felt the necessity of some such plan, and how ardently she desired that it might be carried into execution, would have been one very likely reason for setting her way- ward old partner against it. She had found so much happiness in the posses- sion of Lettice as a friend, that she anticipated every possible advantage from a similar arrange- ment for the general. You may remark as you go along, that it was be- cause Lettice had so admirably performed her own part, that the whole family were so desirous of re- peating it under other circumstances. Such are among the incidental—if I may call them so— fruits of good conduct. ' ie If the vices spread wide their devastating influ- ences—the virtues extend their blessings a thou- sand fold. : The general did not want for observation. He had estimated the good which had arisen from the admission of Lettice Arnold into his family, and he felt well inclined to the scheme of having a companion of his own. He could even tolerate the idea of a species of domestic chaplain ; provided Won. — farm and keep his accounts. The proposal was made to Mr. St. Leger. He hesitated. Edgar expected that he would. “T do not know,” he said, “I feel as if I were, in some measure, running the risk of degrading my holy office, by accepting, merely for my per- sonal convenience, a dependent position, where cer- tain compliances, as a necessary condition, might be expected, which are contrary to my views of things.” “Why so? Tassure you, upon my honor, noth- ing of that sort is to be apprehended. These are really very well meaning people, and you may serve them more than you seem aware. The part of do- mestic chaplain is not held beneath the members of your church. I own this is not a noble family, and doubt whether you can legitimately claim the title. Yet the office is the same.” “Yes, if I may perform the duties of that office. On that condition alone,will I entertain the thought of it fora moment. And I must add, that as soon as ever I.am ina condition, if that time ever arrives, to resume my public duties, I am to be allowed to do so.” “Unquestionably.” “ And, that while I reside under the general’s roof, I may carry out certain reforms which I be- lieve to be greatly wanted.” “No doubt.” “And that I shall be enabled to assist Mr. Thomas in the care of this extremity of his large parish, which so deplorably requires looking after.” The general grumbled a little at some of these conditions, but finally consented to all, He was getting an old man. Perhaps he was not sorry, though he thought it due to those an- cient prejudices ef his profession, I am happy to say now fast growing obsolete to appear so, per- haps he was not really sorry, now the wheel was beginning to pause at the cistern, and the dark- ness of age was closing around him, to have some one in his household to call his attention to things which he began to feel had been neglected too long. Perhaps he was not sorry to allow family prayer in a mansion, where the voice of united family prayer had, till then, never been heard. To anti- cipate a little, I may add, as-certain, that he, who began with never attending at all, was known to drop in once or twice ; and ended by scolding Let- tice heartily in a morning if there was any danger of her not having bound up his arm in time for him to be present. His gray venerable head, his broken, but still manly figure, his wrinkled face, his still keen blue eye, might be seen at last amid his household. The eye fixed in a sort of determined attention, the lips muttering the prayer, a sort of child in religion still, yet far to seek in many things ; but accepted, we will hope, as as child. He could share, too, as afterward appeared, in the interest which Mrs. Melwyn and Lettice, after Mr. St. Leger’s arrival, ventured openly to take in the concerns of the poor; and even in the estab- lishment of a school, against which, with an obsti- nate prejudice against the education of the lower classes, the general had so long decidedly set his face. In short, having accepted all the conditions upon which alone St. Leger, even in the extremity of his need, could be persuaded to accept a place in his family, the old soldier ended by taking great com- fort, great interest, great pleasure, in all the im- provements that were effected. One difficulty presented itself in making the arrangement; and this came from a quarter quite unexpected by Catherine, from poor Mrs. Mel- wyn. x Ah, Catherine,” said she, coming into her room, and looking most nervous and distressed, “ take care what you and Edgar are about, in bringing this Mr, St. Leger into the family. Suppose he should fall in love with Lettice ?” “ Well, mamma, suppose he should, where would be the dreadful harm of that?” said Catherine, laughing. “Ah, my dear! Pray, don’t laugh, Catherine, What would become of us all ?” “Why, what would become of you all ?” “Tm sure I don’t wish to be selfish. I should 25. hate myself if I were. But what could we do with. out Lettice? Dear Catherine! only think of it. And that would not be the worst. They could not marry, for they would have nothing to live upon if | they left us, so they would both be miserable, For they could neither go nor stay. It would be impossible for them to goon living together here, if they were attached to each other, and could never be married. .And so miserable as_ they would be, Catherine, it makes me wretched to think of it.” “ Ah! dear, sweet mother, don’t take up wretch- edness at interest, that’s my own mother. They’re not going to fall in love. Mr. St. Leger looks not. the least inclined that way.” “ Ah, that’s easily said, but suppose they did ?”” “Well, suppose they did. I see no great harm in it; may I confess to you, mother, for my part, I should be secretly quite glad of it.” “Oh, Catherine! how can you talk so? What would be done ?” “Done! Why, let them marry to be sure, and live on here, ‘‘Live on here! Who on earth ever heard of such ascheme! Dearest child, you are too romantic, You are almost absurd, my sweet Catherine, for- give your poor mother for saying so.” “‘No, that I won't,” kissing her with that play- ful tenderness which so well became her, “that I won't, naughty mamma, Because, do you know, you say the most unjust thing in the world when you call me romantic. Why, only ask papa, ask Edgar, ask Mrs. Danvers, ask anybody, if [ am not common-sense personified.” , “If I asked your papa, my dear girl, he would only say you had a way of persuading one into any- thing, even into believing you had more head than heart, my own darling,” said the fond mother, her pale cheek glowing, and those soft eyes swimming in delight, as she looked upon her daughter, “That's right; and now you have acknowledged , so mtich, my blessed mother, I am going to sit down by you, and seriously to give you my well-weighed opinions upon this most weighty matter.” So Catherine drew a low stool, and sat, too, down by her mother’s knee, and threw her arm over her lap, and looked up in her face and began her discourse. “First of all, then, dearest mamma, I think you a little take up anxiety at interest in this case, .I really never did see a man that seemed to me jess likely to fall in love imprudently than this Mr. St. Leger. He is so extremely grave and sedate, so serious, and so melancholy, and he seems so com: pletely to have done with this world—it has, in- deed, proved a bitter world to him—and to have so entirely placed his thoughts upon another, that T think the probability very remote indeed, if to the. shadow of anything above a possibility it amounts, of his ever taking sufficient interest in present things to turn his thoughts upon his own happi- ness. He seems absorbed in the performance of the duties to which he has devoted himself, See- ondly, this being my idea of the state of the case, I have not the slightest apprehension in the world for dear Lettice’s happiness ; because I know what a sensible, kind, and what a well-regulated heart hers is, and that she is far too good and right-. minded to attach herself in any way beyond mere benevolence, and friendship, and so forth, where there was not a prospect of an adequate return.” “Oh, yes! my love, very true; yet, Catherine, you admit the possibility, however remote, of what I fear. And then what would become of us all? Surely, it is not right to shut our eyes to this pos- sibility.” “Why, mamma, I don’t deny the possibility you speak of, and I quite see how wrong it would be to shut our eyes to it; but just listen to me, dearest mother, and don’t call me wild and romantic tilh you have heard me out.” “Well, my love, go on; I am all attention,” “T should think it really the most ridiculous thing in the world,” and she laughed a little to herself, “ to enter so seriously into this matter, if Edgar and J, alas! were not ordered away in so short a time, and I fear my dearest mamma will be anxious and uncomfortable after I am gone—about this possibility, if we do not settle plans a litte, and agree what ought, and what could be done, supposing this horrible contingency to arise.” “How well you understand your poor mother, love! Yes, that is just it. Only let me have the
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26: LETTICE ARNOLD. —_— reer a worst placed steadily before my eyes, and the reme- dies, if any, proposed, or if none, the state of the case acknowledged, and I can bear the contempla- tion of almost anything. I think itis not patience, but courage, that your poor mother wants, my child. Uncertainty, anything that is vague, the evils of which are undefined, seems to swell into such terrific magnitude: I am like a poor fright- ened child, Catherine; the glimmering twilight is full of monstrous spectres to me.” “Yes, mamma, I believe that is a good deal the ease with most of us; .but more especially with those who have so much’ sensibility and such delicate nerves as you have: How I adore you, dear mother, for the patient sweetness with which you bear that trying sort of constitution.” “Dear child!” “Well, then, miother, to look this’ evil steadily in the face, as you say. Suppose Lettice and Mr; St. Leger were to form an attachment for each other, what should hinder them from mavr- rying?” “Ah, my dear, that was what I said before, what would become of them? They must starve.” “Why so? why not live on here?” “Nay, Catherine, you made me promise not to call you romantic, but who ever heard of such an out-of-the-way scheme ;. a young married couple, living in the condition of domestic companions to people, and in another man’s house? Utterly im- possible; what nobody ever attempted to do; ut- terly out of the question.” “Well, mamma, I, for one, think that a great many rather out-of-the-way plans, which, neverthe- less, might make people very happy, are often re- jected, merely because ‘nobody ever heard of such a thing,’ or ‘nobody ever thought of doing ’so, and therefore it is utterly impossible.” But I think I have observed that those who, in their own private arrangements, have had the courage, upon well- considered grounds—mind, I say upon well-consid- ered grounds—to overlook the consideration of nobody éver having thought of doing such a thing before—have found their account in it, and avast deal of happiness has been secured which would otherwise have been quite lost.” “As how, Catherine? Give’ me instances, I don’t quite follow you.” “Why, in marriages, for instance, then, such cases arise very often. Late marriages, for one, between people quite advanced in years, which the world often laughs and sneers at—most wrongly, in my opinion; for, through them, how often do we see what would otherwise have been a solitary old age, rendered cheerful and comfort- able; and sometimes a weary, disappointed life, consoled by a sweet friendship and affection at its close. Then there are’ marriages founded upon reason and arrangement; such as when an ugly man with an ungraceful manner, yet perhaps a good heart and head, and with it plenty of money, marries one rather his inferior in social rank, whom his circumstances enable him to indulge with many new sources of enjoyment, and who in return is grateful for the elevation, and proud of a husband young ladies of his own class might have Jooked down upon. Then there might be another arrangement, which is, indeed, at present, I own, almost a ro- mance, it is so rarely entered into. I mean, sup- posing single women from different families, some- what advanced in life, were to put ‘their little for- tunes together, and form a household, wherein, by their united means, they might live easily—instead of almost in penury alone. In short, the instances are innumerable, in which, I think, the path a lit- tle out of the ordinary course, is the wisest a per- son can pursue.” ; “Go on, my love, you talk so prettily, I like to hear you.” The daughter kissed the soft white hand she held in hers—white it was as the fairest wax, and still most beautiful. The signs of age were only dis- cernible in the wasting blue veins having become a little too obvious. “Well, then, mamma, to draw my inference, I think, under the peculiar cireumstances of our fam- ily, you, who are in want of children and compan- ions, could not do better, than if these two valua- ble creatures did attach themselves to one another, to let them marry and retain them as: long as they were so minded under your roof.” * “My goodness, child!” “JT have planned it all. This house is so big, I should allot them an apartment at the east end of it. Quite away fromthe drawing-room and yours and my father’s rooms—where they might feel as much, at home as it is possible for people to feel in another man’s house. I should increase their salary—by opening a policy upon their lives; as a provision for their childrenif they had any. A large provision of this sort would not be: needed. Itis notto be supposed their children would not have to earn their own living as their parents had done before them. Why should they not? Nota bene—EKdgar and Ihold that the old rage for making children independent, as it is called—that is, enabling them just to exist, doing nothing, so as just to keep them from starving upon a minimum income, is a very foolish thing among those whose habits of life render no such, independence,necesga- ry, and who have never thought of enjoying this exemption from labor in their own case.” ‘But, your father! , And then, suppose they got tired of the plan, and longed fora house of their own?” “ My father is much more easily persuaded to what is good for him, than we used to think, dear moth- er. See how nice he has been: about Lettice and this Mr. St. Leger. As to their wishing at last for a home of their own, that is possible I allow; but think, sweetest mother, of the pleasure of reward- ing this dear, good girl, by making her happy. As for the rest, fear not, mamma. God will pro- vide,” Mrs. Melwyn made no answer. But she listened more comfortably. The nervous, anxious, harrassed expression of the face, which Catherine knew but too well, began’ to compose, and her counte- nance to resume its sweet and tranquil smile. “ Mind, dear mamma, afterall I am only speak- ing of the remote. possibility, and what might be done, You would have such pleasure in carrying out the scheme, Oh! I do wish there was but a chance of it, really I can’t help it, mamma, it would beso nice;” said the sanguine, kind-hearted Cath- erine, CHAPTER X. Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools who came to seoff, remained to pray. —GOLDSMITH, AccorpinGty, Mr. St. Leger, his objections hay- ing been overruled by Edgar, accepted the place offered him in General Melwyn’s family. In old times it would probably have been called, what it literally was, that of domestic chaplain, and the dignity of the name, the defined office, and the authority in the household which it implies, would not haye been without their use, but, in spite of the want of these advantages, Mr. St. Leger man- aged to perform the duties, which, in his opinion, attached to the office, tothe satisfaction of every- one. It had not been without considerable difficulty and hesitation’ that he had persuaded himself to enter into the plan. He had scruples, as we have seen; and he had, moreover, an almost invinci- ble dislike to anything approaching to family de- pendence, The extremity of his circumstances, however, made him, upon a little consideration, feel that the indulgence of these latter-mentioned feelings of pride and delicacy, was not only unreasonable but almost positively wrong. And, as for the scruples connected with his profession, Edgar did not find it difficult to dissipate them. He set forth, what was in truth the present state of the family’at the Hazels, and enlarged upon the very great need there was for the introduction of more religious views than now prevailed. Accor- ding to a fashion almost universally prevalent when General Melwyn was young, except those of pro- fessed religious habits, and who were universally stigmatized as Methodists, family prayer had been utterly neglected in his family. And, notwith- standing the better discipline maintained since the evil star of Randall had sunk beneath the horizon, not the slightest approach to regularity, in this re- spect, had been as yet made. Mrs. Melwyn was personally pious, though in a timid and unconfiding way,her religion doing little to support and strength- enher mind; but the general, though he did not live, as many of his gencration were doing, in the open profession of skepticism, and that contempt A A AE A for the Bible, which people brought up when Tom Paine passed for a great genius, used to reckon so clever, yet it was but too probable that he never approached his Creator, in the course of the twen- ty-four hours in any way; nor had he done so, since he was a child at his mother’s knee. The young captain and his lady were blest with loving, pious, simple dispositions. They loved one © another; they delighted in the dear, happy world in which they lived, and in the sweet little creature, their own darling and most precious possession, anid they both loved and most gratefully served tlieir God, who had given them all these good things, and loved him with the full warmth of their feel- ing hearts. They showed their reverence for. di- vine things by every means in their power; and though they were not of those who go about hurl- ing the awful vengeance of God upon all they may think less pious than themselves, they were natur- ally anxious, and as advancing years’ brought in- crease of serious thought, they became more and more anxious that their parents should share the consolations, and their household the moral guid- ance to be derived from a better system. Then, as I hinted to you before, in anticipation of this change, there had been a very serious neg- lect upon the part of this family of all those duties connected with the poor and ignorant. None of those efforts were here made to assist in softening the evils of destitution, or in forwarding the’ in- struction of the young, which almost everybody, nowadays, considers such obvious duties. Such were some of the considerations urged by’ Edgar, and to such Mr. St. Leger yielded. The general was profuse in his offers as regatd- ed salary, and gave Edgar a carte blanche upon the matter; but Mr. St. Leger would only accept of one hundred a year, and this, with the stipulation that so soon as the state of his health would enable him, he should be at liberty to undertake the duties belonging to a curate for Mr. Thomas, without diminishing that gentleman’s slender stipend’ by receiving any remuneration from his hands. This last part of the arrangement was particu- larly acceptable to Mr. St. Leger, as he thought with the highest satisfaction upon the probability now opening of resuming his clerical duties, and of thus being able to repay the debt of gratitude he felt to be owing to the good vicar. ~ And now behold Mr. St. Leger introduced as a member of the family at the Hazels, and shedding, on his part, as Lettice had before him done, upon hers, a new set of benign influences upon this household. He was ins‘alled the first day by the general, with much po, teness and some little formality, in Edgar’s place, ut the bottom of the table; that young gentleman having made it his particular request that he might see his friend sitting there before his departure. With due gravity was all this done; while Edgar, chuckling with. delight, came and popped down in his place by the side of his wife. The young stranger looking extremely quiet and composed, without fuss, ceremony or hurry, tool the place appointed to him; but, before seating himself, with a serious air, he opened his minis- terial functions by saying grace. Not as the general was wont to say it—for say» it he did, more as if making a grimace than even as going through a form—but so impressively and! reverently, though very briefly, that the hearts of those about to sit down, were touched, and they were reminded in spite of themselves, as they ought to be reminded, that there is One above all who is the Giver of these good things. The scene was striking. The very footmen— the officer’s footmen—patised, napkin in hand, astonished, awestruck by the service. They stood and stared with vacant eyes, but remained stock: still. That over, the dinner went on as usual. People ate and drank with cheerful enjoyment. They all, indeed, felt particularly warm-hearted and com- fortable that day. A sort of genial glow seemed’ to pervade the little party. The footmen rushed about more light-footed and assiduous than ever; and, be it observed to their credit, they were all, without exception, most particularly attentive tu the new-comer,
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LETTICE ARNOLD. 27, In the evening, at ten o’clock, the bell rang for prayers. Mr. St. Leger, be it understood, had not stipu- lated for obligatory attendance upon this service, only for the right to have candles in the library, and of reading prayers to such as might choose to come; but Mrs. Melwyn had ordered the servants to attend; and she, and Edgar, and Catherine, were also there, leaving poor Lettice to take charge of the general. The service was short, but impressive, as the grace had been before. It was necessarily very brief, for the voice of the fair and delicate young man, looking, indeed, as we might imagine one of the angels of the churches, figured in Scripture, was so extremely feeble that more he could not do. But even if he had possessed the power, I ques- tion whether much more he would have done, he looked upon impressive brevity as the very soul of such exercises in a family like the present. _ Poor Lettice! how hard she found it that even- ing to remain playing backgammon with the gen- eral, when the rest went out of the room. Going to attend those services to which she had been ac- customed in the house of her father; and after which, during her stay here, her heart had so often yearned; but it could not be. pe She was, however, consoled by a whisper from Catherine, as she came back, passing her upon her way to take her place by the tire. “To-morrow you go and I stay. We will take it in turns.” The new plans were of course—as what taking place in a family is not—discussed in full conelave that evening over the kitchen fire. The servants all came back and assembled round it preparatory to washing up and going to bed ; for though it was summer and warm weather, what servant in the world does not enjoy the kitchen in the evening, be the weather what it may? And, to tell the truth, there are not a few in the parlor, who usually would be glad to share the privilege ; but 10 proceed. “Well, Thomas, how do you like these new ways of going 6n?” asked Mary, the serious, stiff, time-dried, and smoke-dried head-laundress—a per- sonage of unknown antiquity, and who had been in the family ever since it was a. family—addressing the fine powdered gentleman in silk stockings, and pink, white, and silver livery, who leaned negli- gently against the chimney-piece. “For my part, I’m glad, indeed, to see serious ways taken up in this house; but how will it suit the rest of you? And especially you, my fine young gentleman ?” “Why,” answered Thomas, assuming a graye and thoughful aspect,” “I’m going. to confess something which will, perhaps, astonish you, Mis- tress Mary—and thus it is—if I’d been told twelve months ago that such new regulations were to be — introduced into this household, I have very great doubts whether I could have made up my mind to have submitted to them; but within these few hours, dy’e see, there’s been a change.” “ Bravo, Thomas !” said the butler ; ‘a conver- sion like—I have heard of such things in my time.” “Call it what you will, Mr. Buckminster, I call it a change—for a change there has been.” “What! well! what!” from different voices round. Do tellus all about it.” “Why, Charles, you were there; and, Mr. Buck- minster, you were there.too. But Charles is young and giddy; and Mr, Buckminster being always rather of the serious order, very probably the effect you see was not produced so strongly upon either of them as upon me.” “ What effect ? Well”—— “Why of the grace, as was said before they sat down to dinner.” 5 “The grace! Was it the first time you ever heard grace said, you booby ?” “Yes, I'd heard grace said, I should suppose as often as any as may be here, though, perhaps, not 80 sensible to its importance and value as some ‘ present, meaning you, Mistress Mary. The general, for one, never used to omit it; but, save us! in what a scuffling, careless manner it was said. I rotest to you, I thought nc nore of it than of Mr. uckminster taking off the covers and handing them to me, Just as a necessary preliminary, as the general, by slow steps, gradually conformed to the new usages established at the Hazels. Lettice and Catherine had not long to take it in turns to stay out with him, playing backgammon, at the time of evening prayers. At first it was a polite “Oh, pray don’t think of staying in the drawing-room upon my account; I can do very well by myself, Next, it was, ‘‘ Nay, rather than that, 1 will go into the library, too; why should I not?” He began to feel, at first, probably, from a vague sense of propriety only, but. before long from better reasons—that it was not very seemly for the master of the house alone to be absent, when the worship of God was going on. in his. family, So there he might, as I told you, ere long be seen, regularly at night, in the morning more and more regularly, muttering the responses between his teeth at first; at length, saying them aloud, and with greater emphasis than any of the rest of the little congregation. His once majestic figure, now bent with age, towering above the rest; and his eagle eye of authority, still astonishingly piercing, rolling round from time to time, upon the watch to detect and rebuke by a glance the slight- est sign of inattention upon the part of any of those assembled. It was a beautiful picture that evening meeting for prayer, for the library was’a very ancient room, it having retained the old fittings put in at the time the Hazels was built, some three half cen- turies ago. The» massive and handsome book+ eases of dark oak; the family pictures, gnim with age, which hung above them; the urns and heads of old philosophers and poets adorning the cornice; the lofty ehimney-piece, with the family arms: carved and emblazoned over it ; the massive oaken chairs, with their dark-green morocco cushions ; the reading-desk ; the large library table, covered with portfolios of rare prints; and large books containing fine illustrated editions of the. standard authors of England; gave a somewhat serious, al- most religious aspect to the apartment. Mrs. Melwyn, in her soft gray. silks»and. fine laces; her fair, colorless cheek; her tender eyes bent downward; her devout, gentle, meek, hum- ble attitude and expression ; Catherine by her side, in all the full bloom of health and happiness ; that charming-looking, handsome Edgar; and Lettice, with so much character in her countenance, seated upon one side of the room, formed a charming row of listening faces, with this rugged, magnificent- looking old general at their head. On the opposite side were the grave, stern, old’ housekeeper, so fat, so grave, and so. imposing ;, Mrs. Melwyn’s new maid, a pretty young woman,, in the lightest possible apology for a cap, trimmed with pink ribbons; the -Jaundrymaid, so serious, , and sitting stiff and starched as. one of her own clear muslins ; the cook and housemaid looking as attentive as they could; and the under-servants staring with vacant eyes—eyes that looked as if they were ready to drop out of their heads; Mr.. Buckminster, as the charming Dickens has it, so “respectable ;” Thomas, all spirit and enthusiasm ; and Charles doing all in his, power not to fall asleep. At the table the young minister, with that inter- esting and most delicate face of his; his tall, wasted figure bending forward, his fair, emaciated hands resting upon the book, from which,’ in a voice low and feeble, but most penetrating and sweet, he read. They would come back .to the drawing-room in such a composed, happy, cheerful frame: of. mind, The general more remarkably so. He felt more self-satisfaction than the others, because the course of proceeding was so new to him that he imagined, it to be very particularly meritorious.. A bit of a pharisee you will think, but not the least of that, I assure you. Only people, at their first trying of such paths, do often find them most peculiarly, paths of pleasantness and ways of peace ; and, this sort of peace, this being at ease. with the con- science, is, to be sure, very soothing and comforta-. ble. In short, nothing could proceed better than things did; and every one was quite content) but the charming match-maker, Catherine. She watched, and watched with the greatest in- terest; but watch as she might, she could detect they say, to the dinner, and nothing on earth more.” “Well, do go on, Themas. It: is very interest: ing,” said Mistress’ Mary, and. the rest gathered closer, all attention: “Well, I was a going to go scuttling about just as usual thinking only of not making any noise lest I should see the general—heeding no more of the grace than of what cook we doing at her fire— when that young gentleman, as is come newly among us, bent forward and began to speak it. The effect upon me was wonderful—it was electic—Mr. Buckminster, you know what I mean; I stood as one arrested—I couldn’t have moved or not cared if it had been never so—I really couldn’t. It seemed to me as if he truly was thanking God for the good things that were set before them. Their plenty, and their comfort, and their abundance ; it seemed to me as if things were opened to my mind —what I had never thought of before—who it was, who did give them, and us after them, all sorts of delicacies, and food, and drink, when others might be wanting a morsel of bread ; and I seemed to be standing before Him—I felt need to thank Uim with the rest. All this flashed through me like lightning; but he had done ina moment, and they all sat down.” “ How beautiful Thomas does talk when he has a mind,” whispered the under-housemaid to the under-laundrymaid. ‘ What a fine tall young man he is, and what a gift of the gab.” “Well,” said the rest, “go on—is there any more ?”” “Yes, there is more. Some way I could not get it out-of my head—I kept thinking of it all dinner. It was as much as I could do to mind what I was about ; and once I made such a clatter in putting a knife and fork upon a plate, that if it hadn’t been for the greatest good luck in. the world, I should have got it. But the general was talking quite complacent like with the two young gentlemen, and by huge good fortune never heeded.” “ Well!” “Well, when I got into the pantry and began washing up, I had more time for quiet reflection. And this is what. I thought. What a lot of lub- berly, inanimated, ungrateful, stupid slaves we all must be. Here, serving an earthly master, to the best of our abilities, for a few beggarly pounds, and for his meat and drink and fine clothing ; and very well contented, moreover, when there’s roast beef of a Sunday, or plum-pudding, and a glass of wine besides on a wedding-day or a birth-day; and thank him, and feel pleased with him, and anxious. next day to do better than ordinary, mayhap. And there’s. the Great Master, the Lord and Giver of all, who made us by his hand, and created us by his power, and feeds us by his bounty, and shelters us by his care; and all for no good of his, but ours—simply ours. For what’s he to get of it, but the satisfaction of his mer- ciful and generous spirit, when he sees his poor crea- tures happy? And wearesuch dolts! such asses! such brute beasts! such stocks! such stones ! that here we go on from day to day, enjoying the life he gives. us, eating the bread and meat he gives us, drinking his good refreshments, resting upon his warm beds, and so on. Every day, and every day, and every day—and who among us, I most espe- cially for one, ever thinks, except may be by scut- tling through a few rigmarole, words—ever thinks, I say, of thanking Him for it—of lifting up a warm, honest heart, of true, real thanking, I mean? Of loving Him the better, and trying to serve and please Him the better, when. He, great and power- ful cs He is, Lord of all the lords, emperors, and kings that ever wore crowns and coronets in this world, condescends to Jet us thank Him, to like us to thank Him, and to take pleasure in our humble love and service!” He paused—every eye was fixed upon the speaker. “And, therefore,” continued Thomas, turning to the laundrymaid, who stood there with a tear in her eye; ‘therefore, Mistress Mary, I am pleased with, and I do like these new ways of going on, as you say; and I bless God, and hope to do it well in my prayers this night, for having at last made of us what I call a regular Christian family.” I have told you, a little in the way of anticipa- tion, that the popularity of Mr. St. Leger’s new measures was vot confined tothe kitchen; but that
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no symptoms of falling in love upon the part of Mr. St. Leger. He spent, indeed, the whole of his mornings either in his room or in the library, absorbed in the books of divinity, of which there happened to be a very valuable collection, a collection which had slept undisturbed upon the shelves for many and many a long year. These afforded to him a source of in- terest and improvement which hie had never enjoyed since he had left the too often neglected library of the small college where he had been educated. He was ready to devour them. Every moment of time he considered his own—and the whole of the morning was chiefly at his disposal—was devoted to. them; with the exception, be it mentioned, of a large portion, which, when the weather would al- low, was spent in Visiting among the poor at that end of the parish. At dinner Mr. St. Leger for the first time joined the family party. When he did, however, it must be confessed, he made ample amends for his ab- sence, and was excessively agreeable. He had great powers of conversation, and evidently considered it his duty toexert himself to raise the tone of conversation at the general’s table, so as to make the time pass pleasantly with the old man. In this Edgar and Catherine seconded him to the best of their power. Lettice said little. She sat at the bottom of the table, by Mr. St. Leger; but though he often ad- dressed her—taking care that she should not feel left out—as did Catherine also, she was very silent. She had not, indeed, much that she could venture to say. When conversation took this higher tone, she felt afraid of her own ignorance; and then she first knew what it was to lament not having a better education, As they grew more intimate—for people who sit side by side at dinner every day cannot help grow- ing intimate—Mr. St. Leger would gently remark upon this reserve; and one day he began to speak openly upon the subject. He had attrionted her silence, I believe, toa bashful feeling ot inferiority in rank; for her face was so intelligent and full of meaning,that he did not divine its real cause, so he said, with a certain gentle abruptness which be- came him much: “T have discovered a fault in you, Miss Arnold, at last; though everybody here seems to think it impossible you should have one, May I tell you of it?” “Oh! if you once begin with my faults, I am afraid you will never have done. I know the length of the score that might be summed up against me, though others are so good-natured as to forget it. Yes, indeed, I shall be much obliged to you.” * “Don’t you think it is the duty of all to exert themselves in a family party, to make conversation circulate in an agreeable manner?” “To be sure, I do—and how well you perform that duty,” she was prompted to say, but she did not. She hesitated a little, and then added; “ And, perhaps, you think I do not do thatso much as I ought to do,” “Precisely. You will not be angry. No, you cannot be angry. You never are, The most try- ing and provoking things, I observe, cannot ruffle you. So I will venture to say, that I don’t think you play fair by me. Weare both here chiefly to make ourselves agreeable, I believe; and I sometimes wish I had a little more assistance in that duty from one who, I am sure, could perform it admira- bly, if she so pleased.” Lettice shook her head... Then she said, with her usual simplicity, “I used to talk more before you came.” “Did you? But that’s not quite generous, is it, to throw the whole burden upon me now I am come, instead of sharing it? Why will you not tall now ?” “Simply, because I can't. Oh, Mr. St. Leger! talk is so different since you came here, and I feel my own incapacity so sadly—my own ignorance so forcibly—I should say so painfully; but that, in- deed, is not my own fault, and that takes the worst pain, you know, out of things,” “Tonorant !” hesaid: “ of what ?” “Of all these things you talk about. I used to pick up a little from the newspapers, but now I have done reading them I seem literally to know nothing.” “Nothing! Nothing about books, I suppose you LETTICE ARNOLD. mean; for you seem to me to understand men and things better than most people I have met with.” ‘““T have experienced more, perhaps, than most girls of my age have done, through my poverty and misfortunes; but what is that?” “* Ah, Miss Arnold! what is it but the best part of all knowledge; to understand one’s self and others; the best of all posessions; to posess one’s own spirit. But I beg your pardon, I will only add, that Ido not, by what I say, intend at all to undervalue the advantages of reading, or the hap- piness of having a love of reading. Do you love reading ?” “Why, I don’t quite know. I find the books I ‘read aloud to Mrs. Melwyn often very tiresome, I must confess. “And what sort of books do you read to Mrs. Melwyn ?” “ Why, only two sorts—novels and essays.” Me laughed a little in his quiet way, and then said: “I wonder at any young lady disliking noy- els; I thought it was the very reading they liked best; but as for essays, with very few exceptions, I must own I share in your distaste for them,” “T can’t understand them very often, I am ashamed to say it; but the writers use such fine language and such strange new words, and then they go over and over again upon the same thought, and illustrate it twenty different ways, when one happy illustration, I think, would be so much better; I like a writer who marches promptly through a subject; those essayists seem as if they never could have done.” “What you say is just, in many instances, I think. It is a pity to have not tried other reading. History, travels, poetry; you cannot think how pleasantly such subjects seem to fill and enlarge the mind, And if you have alittle time of your own, you can- not easily believe, perhaps, how much may be done, Even with an hour each day, of steady reading, a vast deal.” “Ah! but where shall I begin? Everybody reads ILume’s History of England first, and I have never even done that; and if I were to begin I should never get to the end of it.” “Oh, yes, but you would, and be surprised to find how soon that end had arrived, and what a pleasant journey you had made. But if you are frightened at Hume, and I own he looks formida- ble, let me select you something in the library, to commence operations with, which will not be quite so alarming.” “Oh! if you would” “With the greatest pleasure in the world. If you will allow me to assist yowa little in the choice of your books, I think, with the virtue of persever- ance, and I know you have all the virtues, you would get through a great deal in a comparatively short space of time ; and when I reflect how much it would add to your happiness, as it does to every one’s happiness, I confess I cannot feel easy till I have set you going.” This conversation had been carried on in a low voice, while the rest had been talking over some family matters together. The speakers at the head of the table stopped, and the silence aroused the two. Catherine glanced at them suddenly; she saw Lettice color a little, but Mr. St. Leger pre- served the most provoking composure, The evenings Mr. St. Leger devoted exclusively to the good pleasure of the general. He read the newspapers, making them the vehicle of the most intelligent and agreeable comments ; he }uoked out the places mentioned in the maps, and had some- thing perpetually to say that was interesting of this or that. He answered every question the gen- eral wanted solved in the cleverest manner; and, in short, he so won upon the old man’s heart, that he became quite attached to him, The evenings, once so heavy, and spent ina sort of irritable fretful- ness, became quite delightful to him ; nor were they less delightful to others. At last, things came to that pass that the wearisome backgammon was given up, and reading aloud ‘took its place. The ladies worked and read in turns, Edgar taking double tides, and Mr. St. Leger doing a little, which he in- sisted upon, assuring them that it did not hurt his chest at all. He was, indeed, getting stronger and better every day; he was a beautiful reader. Lettice sat plying her busy needle, but with a countenance so filled with intelligent pleasure, that it is not to be wondered at if Mr. St, Leger, when his reading was over, and he had nothing else to do, and, the books being usually such as he was well acquainted with, not much at the moment to think of, took pleasure in observing her. He had not forgotten his promise of selecting authors for her own private studies ; he seemed to take much benevolent pleasure in endeavoring to compensate to this generous and excellent crea- ture, for the intellectual disadvantages of a life devoted to others as hers had been. He usually, also, found or made an opportunity for talking over with her what she had been reading; and, he believed, in all sincerity, and so did she, that he was actuated in these proceedings merely, as I said, by the disinterested desire of offering com- pensation for past sacrifices; stimulated by the very high value he himself attached to mental eul- tivation, regarding it as the best source of inde- pendent happiness both for men and women. But whatever were the motives with which he began his labor of kindness, it is certain as he proceeded therein a vast deal more interest and pleasure were mingled up with this little task than had been the case at first. Her simple, unaffected purity. of heart ; her sin- gle-mindedness, unstained by selfish thought, pride, or vanity, or folly, its simplicity and singleness of purpose, were displayed before him. The gen- erous benevolence of purpose; the warm and grateful piety; the peculiar right-mindedness ; the unaffected love for all that was excellent, true, good, or beautiful, and the happy facility of de- tecting all that was good or beneficial wherever it was to be found, and wherever observed ; the sweet cheerfulness and repose of the character; that re- semblance to a green field, which I have heard a husband of only too sensitive a nature gratefuliy attribute to his partner; all this worked strongly, though unmarked, é Mr. St. Leger began to experience a sense of sweetness, solace, and enjoyment, in the presence of Lettice Arnold, that he had not found upon this earth for years, and which he never hoped to find again, But all this time he never dreamed of falling in love. His imagination never traveled so far as to think of such a thing as appropriating this rare blessing to himself, To live with her was his des- tiny at present, and that seemed happiness enough ; and, indeed he scarcely had got so far as to ac- knowledge to his own heart, how much happiness that privilege conferred, She, on her side, was equally tranquil, undis- turbed by the slightest participation in the romance Catherine would so gladly have commenced. She went on contentedly, profiting by his instructions, delighting in his company, and adoring his good- ness; bat would as soon have thought of appro- priating some “bright particular star” to herself as this gifted man, She deemed him too infinitely her superior. Well, it is no use keeping the matter in suspense any longer. You all see how it must end. You do not fret and worry yourselves as Cathe- rine did, and abuse Mr. St. Leger for his indiffer- ence. You see plainly enough that two such very nice people, and so excellently suited to each other, must, thrown together as they were every day, end by liking each other; which, but for the previous arrangements of the excellent Catherine, would have been a very perplexing business to all parties. When at last—just before Edgar and his wife were going to sail for Canada, and he and she were making their farewell visit at the Hazels— when at last Mr. St. Leger, after having Iooked for two or three days very miserable, and having avoided every one, and particularly poor Lettice— to whom he had not spoken a word all that time, and who was miserable at the idea that she must have offended him—when at last, he took Edgar out walking, and then confessed that he thought it no longer right, safe, or honorable, for him to remain at the Hazels, finding, as he did, that one creature was becoming too dearto him; and he trembled every moment, lest by betraying his se- eret he might disturb her serenity. When at last the confession was made, and Edgar reported it to his wife—then Catherine was ready to jump for joy. In yain Edgar strove to look wise—and tell her to be reasonable. In vain he represented
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a LETTICE ARNOLD. 29 —_ -:Y COM Nw eon TT TT, A all the objections that) mtust be urged Against her out-of-the-way scheme, as he was ill-natured enough to call it. She would hear of none. No, nothing. She was perfectly unreasonable— her husband told her so—but it was all in vain. Men are more easily discouraged at the idea of any proceeding out of the usual course than women are. They do not, I think, set so much value upon abstract happiness, if I may use the term; they think more of the attending circumstances, and less of that one ingredient—genuine happiness —than women do. Catherine could and would think of nothing else, but how perfectly these two were suited to each other, and how excessively happy they would be. Dear, good thing! how she labored in the cause, and what a world of contradiction and trouble she had to go through. ‘First, there was Mr. St. Leger himself, to be persuaded to be happy upon her plan, the only possible plan under the circum- stances; then there was Lettice to persuade that Mr. St. Leger’s happiness and dignity would not be hazarded; then there was Edgar to reason out of calling her romantic; and last of all there was the general, for Mrs. Melwyn, I consider, as Catherine did, already persuaded. This last task did appear formidable. She put it off as long as she could; she got everybody else in the right frame of mind before she ventured upon it; she had persuaded both Edgar and Mrs. Melwyn to second her, if need were, and at length, with a dreadfui feeling of trepidation, she broached the subject to the old veteran. With all the cool- ness she could muster she began her speech, and laid the whole matter before him, He did not in- terrupt her while she spoke by one single word, or remark, good, bad, or indifferent. It was awful—her poor little heart fluttered, as if it were going to stop; she expected the storm every in- stant to burst forth in some terrible outbreak. She sat there shuddering at her own rashness. If even Edgar had called her absurd, what would her father do! If St. Leger himself had been so difficult to manage, what would the old general say! He said nothing. She would not be discouraged ; she began to speak again, to recapi- tulate every argument; she warmed with the sub- ject; she was earnest, eloquent, pathetic—tears were in the good creature’s eyes; still he was si- lent. At last, wearied out with useless exertion, she ceased to urge the matter any further; and endea- voring to conquer her feelings of deep disappoint- ment, looked up in his face to see whether the slightest relenting expression was visible in it. No; his eyes were fixed upon the floor; he seemed lost in deep thought. “Papa,” she ventured to say, “have you heard all I have been saying ?” “Yes, child.” Silence again for a few minutes, then: “ Catherine, did you ever know me do a good ac- tion in your life?” “Dear papa, what a question !” “Did you ever know me, I say, to do one thoroughly generous, benevolent action without feanit to self in the slightest degree—such as I call—such as alone merits the name of a really good action? If you ever did, I can’t easily for- give you.” “Dearest papa! what have I done? Did I ever say? DidI ever hint? Dear papal” and she looked ready to cry. “Did you ever?—no—I know you never did.” “Don’t say so—don’t think so badly of me, a a 4 I’m not thinking badly of you, child—God for- bid; for well he knows if I ever did one really generous, benevolent action—one without refer- ence to self, Heaven bless thee, thou dearest thing, thy life seems only made up of such ac. tions; but I say again, did you ever? No; I know you never did—and I’ll tell you why I know it.” “Ah, papa! What can you mean?” “Because,” he went on without seeming to mind her emotion, “because, I observe, that whenever you want to persuade other people— your mother, or Edgar, or Lettice, for instance —to do something you’ve set your heart upon, you bubsyteeyou always enlarge upon the bappindss it will give to ‘other people; but when you're try- ing to come round me, you only talk of how com- fortable it will make myself.” She could only utter a faint exclamation. The accusation, if accusation it may be called, was not to be denied. “Now, Catherine, since this. young man came into the house, what with his conversation, he’s a most gentlemanlike, agreeable converser as ever’ I met with, and the prayers, and the chapters, and such like; and, in short, a certain new tone of thought altogether; there has been gradually something new growing upinme. I have at times begun to think back upon my life, and to recollect what a nasty, mean, greedy, calculating, selfish fel- lowI’ve been throughout, never troubling myself about other people’s comforts, or so on, but going on as if every body was only created to promote mine; and I’d have been glad, Catherine, before I went into my grave, which won’t be long too—I own to you I would have been glad, for once in my life, to have done a purely good, unselfish thing— made a. sacrifice, as you pious folk call it; and, therefore, to own the truth, I have been very sor- ry, and could not help feeling disappointed, as here you’ve sat prosing this half hour and more, show- ing me what a great deal I was to get by this no- table arrangement of yours.” “Papa! dearest, dear papa!” “Be quiet—I have indeed—I’d have liked to have had something to give up, instead of its be- ing, as I verily believe it is, the most charmingly delightful scheme for your mother and me: that ever was hit upon, for that man is the happiness of my life, my body’s comfort and my soul’s health, and Letiice is more like a dear child than anything else to that poor mother of yours, whom T have not, perhaps, been so considerate of as 1 ought; and to have them thus fixed together in this house, is better luck than could be conceived, such as scarcely ever happens in this world to any- body; and far better than I—almost better than your poor mother deserves. So you’re a darling little, courageous creature for planning it, when I'll be bound they all thought you a fool, so have it all your own way, and give your old father a kiss,” which she joyfully did. “ And now you go to Mr. St. Leger, and tell him from me, that if he con- sents to this scheme I shall esteem it the greatest favor and satisfaction that was ever conferred upon me in my life. ° I know what it is to be thus trust- ed by such a man—I know the confidence on his part which such an arrangement implies—and you may add, that if he will only extend to me his us- ual indulgence for human folly and frailty, T will do everything that is in the power of an ill-tem- pered, good-for-nothing, selfish old fellow, to. pre- vent him repenting his bargain. And tell Lettice she’s a darling, excellent creature; and I have thought so long, though I have said little about it, and she has been like an angel of love and peace in our family; and if she will only go on as she has done, she will make us all as happy as the day is long; and tell your mother I wish I did not en- joy the thoughts of this so much myself, that I might have the pleasure of making an offering of my satisfaction to her.” “Dear !—-dear beloved papa i" “Stop a little, child; Edgar and you will have to pay the piper, you know.” “Oh, gladly! thankfully!” “ Because, you see, my dear, if these two people marry and live with us, and become as children, I must treat them, in a manner, as children, and make a little codicil to my will; and you and Edgar will be something the worse for it. But, bless you, child, there’s enough for all.” “And bless you, my honored, generous ‘father, for thinking so; that there is. Edgar and I only earnestly desired this; thank you, thank you, ten thousand times.” I will only detain you for a few moments longer, to tell you that the scheme was carried into execu: tion, and fully answered the hopes of the generous contriver, Mr. St. Leger found, in the attachment of Let- tice, a compensation for the cruel sufferings of his past life; and, under her tender and assidious care, he speedily recovered his health and his powers of usefulness, She, while performing a ‘woman’s best ang happiest part, that of proving the true happiness of an adinirable and @ suporior manj contrived likewise to fulfill all her other duties in the most complete and exemplary manner. It would be difficult to say, whether the happi- ness she felt or conferred was the greater, Exceptional people may venture upon exception- al measures. Those who are a great deal more sweet tempered, and loving, and good, and reason- able than others, may venture to seek happiness in ways that the generality would be mad to at- tempt. And sensible, well-principled, right-tempered hu- man beings, one may take into close family intim- acy, anil. discard that reserve, and those arm’s- length proceedings, which people’s faults, in too many cases, render prudent and necessary, It: was because the subjects of Catherine’s scheme were so excellent, that the object of them was so wise. T have now told you how perfectly they answered upon trial; andI am only sorry that the world con- tains so very few with whom one could venture to make the same experiment. For a very large portion of possible happiness is thrown away, because people are not? fit to take part in plans of this nature—plans wherein one shall give what he has, to receive back what he wants; and thus the true social communism be es- tablished, [THE END. ] A BOLD RAID. - In the summer of 1809, when Napoleon overran Austria for the third time and besieged Vienna, a part of his army was in Italy, under Eugene Beau- harnais, the French emperor's stepson, slowly fol- lowing the Austrians, who were retiring to the north under the Archduke Charles. They were in Lombardy, as the northern part of Italy was then called, and General Colbert commanded a brigade of cavalry in the advance of the French army It was a clear, still morning, just before sun- rise, and thousands of little twinkling points, scat- tered over the landscape, revealed themselves as the camp-fires of the French army. A group of white tents, the only ones in sight, were the head- quarters of the advance cayalry, for the French only allowed tents to those superior officers who were obliged to consult maps which required shel- ter. The sleepers round the fires were beginning to stir about, and the low hum of conversation was increasing every moment, while the long lines of cavalry horses were pawing the ground impatiently at the picket-ropes, and whinnying for. their morning feed. Around the headquarters all was still silent; a dismounted sentry was pacing slowly up and down in front of the general's tent, when the regular muffled beats of a horse at a gallop weve suddenly heard, and a mounted orderly dashed up to head- quarters, and pulled up in front of the general’s tent. “General Colbert’s quarters ?” he asked. “* Ay, ay,” said the sentry, a little gruffly, for he felt chilly.“ Any orders'?” “Yes, from the viceroy,” said the orderly, swing- ing himself from the saddle, *t Rouse him up, chas- seur, They are marked immediate.” The sentry knocked at the tent door, and before he had time to speak, out. stepped a tall, slender young officer, with very sharp black eyes, and a long, heavy black moustache. Early as it was, his uniform was as neat, his hair as well brushed, as if he had been up some time, and his dark picturesque chasseur dolman and pelisse, his closely-fitting buckskin breeches and polished Hessians, were fresh and unwrinkled, “T am General Colbert's. aide-de-eamp, . Give mé the orders,” he said, curtly; and the orderly obeyed, saluting. The young aide disappeared into the tent, where a stern, gray-headed old officer was sitting up in his camp-bed, listening, “Orders from the viceroy, general.” The general opened the big envelope, with its red seal, and ran it over hastily. “ Ha-um—very good—certainly,” he muttered. “ Devo, Curely, a little work for you, m) oo His ee es
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80 “A BOLD RAID. cd ouostonsenansnes apne eannpennseenesneesnsmesnnsneresenneaneaneenenenmenseamaneeseneneemeeesaenmeeeeeenennenessesnn====ee ae eee SS highness orders me to send a ‘trustworthy officer, with a hundred men, to reconnoitre the Austrian march, and find whether they are retiring on Ven- ice or into the Tyrol. Take Guerin's squadron and be off. Report to me to-morrow morning. Good- bye.” And the old general threw him the order, turned over, and went to sleep again; for it was ‘one of his fixed principles never to get up till his column was ready tu move. Curely never smiled. | He merely saluted, turned He knew he was going on a difficult and dangerous duty, but:the general trusted him so implicitly that he felt the on his heel, and left the tent. very going to sleep as a compliment. Half an hour later the early rays of the sun ‘shone on long lines of ‘stamping horses, eating their corn and switching away the flies, while the ' cavalry soldiers were brushing and scraping with great diligence, and the clicking of curry-combs and brushes was incessant.. Through the midst of the lines a small compact column, of horsemen, three abreast, was trotting gently out towards the dim veil of smoke in the distance, that told of the Austrian outposts, “ Hilloa, Curely, whither bound?” asked the captain of a horse battery, as the column passed him, headed by the lithe, nervous-looking young aide. Curely smiled. “Who knows?” he answered. “Perhaps to Vienna, perhaps to Naples, Aw revoir.” “You won’t get much out of Curely when he’s under orders,” remarked another officer, as the column trotted by. ‘‘ He keeps a close mouth, but he thinks—mordleu, how he thinks! You'll hear of him before very long.” Meantime Curely, at the head of his little column of horse, had passed the furthest camp, and come out behind the line of outposts which stretched far out in front of the cavalry towards the Austrians. The country was flat and mono- tonous, full of rich fields, winding roads, little vil- lages scattered around, while patches of wood here and there prevented anything like an extensive view. The faint line of blue smoke in the distance told of the Austrian army, but not a soul was to be seen on their outposts. Curely’s task was to find out where they were going, and it was by no means easy. As soon as he found ‘himself behind the French line of outposts, the young captain turned sharp to the right, and rode straight away behind the line ata quick trot, followed by the troopers. His men were all picked chasseurs, wearing the same rich dress as himself. A black fur busby, dark green jacket and pelisse barred with black, tight breeches and Hessian boots, sabre, carbine, and pistols to each man, low, sturdy horses, with a single day’s forage slung at the saddle—such was the appearance of Curely’s little troop seventy years ago. Pretty soon they had passed the last outpost on the right, and struck out into the solitary fields, which looked as silent, once the army was passed, as if the country had been stricken with the plague. Yor at least half an hour after leaving the army Curely kept his frot, till he had crossed a number of fields and entered a quiet, shady road, sheltered with trees on both sides, and marked with old, faint ruts that told of infrequent travel. As soon as he reached this road he turned into it, and followed it at an easy walk, in silence, for some time. Ordinarily he was quite a fluent talker, but this day he was unusually silent, and the officer of the squadron found it impossible to extract a word from him. He was constantly glancing nervously into the openings between the trees far ahead, as if watching for something. There was very little conversation in the column behind; moreover, the men knew they were away from their own army, and soldiers are much like sheep, timid in a strange place. At last Curely nodded his head sharply, as something caught his eye. Compressing his lips, he exclaimed : “I thought so!” and his face cleared "Ge in Guerin laughed a little sulkily. “You've had timé enough to think, I should hour, missible ?” : Curely turned to\ him. “T can tell younow. Weare going to visit the Archduke Charles at his quarters.” Guerin stared. Then he burst out laughing. “Well, they call you a dare-devil, Curely, but I:think that will puzzle even you. How do you propose to get there?” “Listen,” said Cruely, in a low tone. ‘Look over to our left front. Do you see those white specks ?” Guerin peered under his hand. in the direc- tion indicated, and. exhibited traces of excite- ment. “By heavens! it is the enemy’s wagon train ! But you can’t surely intend to attack it with this handful.” “Not a bit of it. My orders are to find where the Austrians ‘are going, and no one can tellus that but their general, You see their patrolling is slack. Weare quite outside all their flankers, and, they have not seen us. I intend to go into camp. with them to-night. Headquarters are sure to be near the wagon train. Let us trot.” As he spoke he quickened his,pace, and the lit- tle column trotted on for another half-hour, till they had placed at least a dozen miles between them- selves and their morning bivouac. The road they followed diverged from the line of march pursued by the distant wagon train, and led them at last to a small Italian village, where their arrival pro- duced a great panic. Curely rode into the place full gallop before any- one could escape, and had it surrounded with his men while the inhabitants were still huddled on the village green. There he saw in front of the village inn two cavalry horses with the Austrian eagle on their trappings. As soon as tbe villagers found that the new- comers were French they laid aside their fears, for they had always favored their allies as muchas they hated the Germans. A few words. from Curely, followed by the clink of gold, and the two Austrian riders were pulled out of the inn, prov- ing to be Hungarian hussars, who had wandered off, intending to plunder and desert, ending by falling into the enemy’s hands, A few close questions, enforced by the sight of | a. cocked pistol, and the prisoners told where they had heard the Austrian headquarters were to be fixed that night—a small village about twelve miles from where they then were, Curely engaged one of the principal villagers as a guide, and started_off at the same rapid pace, jtaking the prisoners with him. In less than two hours he was in full sight of the promised village, where not an Austrian had yet arrived. The village was very small, containing not more than twenty houses, surrounded by vineyards, and a wide, bare-looking, sandy plain, thinly covered with coarse grass, made an undiscovered approach quite impracticable. This plain was about three-quarters ofa mile wide, and Curely halted in a thick wood at its edge, in the middle of the afternoon, Then he hid away all his men in the thickets, cautioning them to si- lence, and the most difficult part of his task was over, He was all alone, undiscovered, full in the rear of the Austrian army, haying circled round them successfully, No sooner were his men settled comfortably feeding their horses than the dust, of the Austrian trains began to become visible, and Curely, hiding at the edge of the wood, coolly watched wagon after wagon go into park on the other side of the village, while the retreating army slowly followed its train, The sun went down, and still they kept coming, and sure enough, Curely saw the headquarter flag, followed hy-the glittering staff of the archduke, enter the village, while the tents sprang up on the other side. He was just eongratulating himself on the success of his plans when he received a sudden check. A trampling and bellowing was heard in the underbrush behind him, as a great herd of cattle came through, and the voices of the herdsmen, driving their charges home, warned.im that his mien would be discovered in another moment. — say. Not a word tobe got.out of you for the last Where are we going, if the question is ad- Here Curely’s decision and premptness were ad- mirable. He ran back to his men with drawn sabre, and before the astonished herdsmen knew what had happened they found themselves _pris- oners and tied to trees, Then, giving the word all the chasseurs led out their horses, mixed up with the cattle, and walked boldy towards the village in the gloom. The ruse was perfectly successful. Without ex- citing a breath of distrust they entered the village, and Curely advanced right up to the little inn where the archduke was quartered, as if he be- longed there, and peered into the ground-floor win- dow. Three generals were at a teble covered with papers. Then arough hand seized Curely, as the archduke’s sentry spluttered out: “Gott in himmel! what are you doing here ?” Curely, like a flash, shot the man dead, and at the signal his chasseurs leaped on their horses, and began to shoot in all directions, Curely dashed into the general’s room, firing a second pistol into the midst of the group, smashing the window as he went, and followed by Guerin, also firing. With singular haste and unanimity the Austrian generals tumbled out of the door, shouting for help as Curely swept every paper from the table in a bunch, and escaped, as he had entered, unharmed. In another minute he and his men were gallop- ing down the street and back to their own army, amid a perfect Babel of confusion, quite unmo- lested. In five minutes they were back in the wood, amid perfect quiet, for the Austrian cavalry was all unsaddled, and so demoralized as to be unable to organize a successful pursuit. Curely, without having lost man or horse, trot- ted off up to the road he had come, and was re- warded, in an hour more, by the sight of the French watchtfires, glittering to the right not a mile off. Before midnight he and his general were laugh- ing over his successful scout, and inspecting the written orders of the archduke, which Curely had snatched so cleverly.. He had found where the Austrians were going, and had settled the whole plan of a campaign by his daring and subtlety. THE DREAM. “Twas but.a dream,” exclaimed young Blanch, starting from sleep upon the cold ground, where we bivouacked on the night before the storming of Badajos. And can man sleep sound, methinks I hear the reader ask, in such circumstances as these? Yes, if mind and body be as they ought, the soldier on his clay couch on the battle eve, and the sailor cradled on the surge, and rocked hy the storm, enjoy a repose which luxury never knew, and which monarchs sigh for in vain. Iwas then lying close beside Blanch, but had been awake some time before him; and, by the light of a fire which we had kindled previous to repose, I had been watching the face of the fair boy as it expressed the passing emotions of. his mind, when lapsing through the mysterious changes.of his dream. ; At first his still, pale features exhibited the blessed calm of a pure and peaceful sleep. Anon they became gently moved, like the moon- lit lake by the passing breath of night, and at length were gradually lighted up with a smile so celestial that I could fancy his spirit was basking in the beams of Heaven. Tho night-flame played with its wavering glare upon his face, whose beauty thus broke forth in fitful gleams, even as the faces of departed friends come back upon our slumbers in glimpses from the grave. “Happy boy,” thought I; “while thy young frame is lying on the cold clay, thy spirit hath a sweet reprieve from the horrors of war, and is even now, perchance, far away in thy own land, where the smiles of friends, and the caresses of thy little sister, receive thee back to thy father’s halls, where there is joy for thy return, and where thy mother is weeping thy welcome home,” My soliloquy was suddenly broken, for Blanch awakened with 4 start, and, looking round him with « wild and forlorn gaze, sobbed out; “Twas but a dream,” “ - * ‘
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oer - “Tt seems to have been a pleasant one, however, if I may judge from the»regretful tone of your words on awakening,” said I, not without a feel- ing of curiosity to know in what its happiness had consisted. “Tt was indeed,” rejoined my friend, “ but brief as it was blest—so it is soon told. I am now about that age when it is supposed we are most sucepti- ble of the tender passion; yet have I never felt love for woman till this night, when such a being as seemed wanting to me in the waking world was given to me in sleep. Oh! she was so passing fair, and so seraph-like! Nay, smile not, because it was a dream. JI, too, can smile at dreams, but, in this instance, the form and features of the un- known were so distinctly delineated, and shadowed forth with such arbitrary truth, as) never belonged to the formations of mere fancy, and can never be effaced from my brain. “I do believe—nay, I feel certain, that such a being somewhere exists ; and, to see her with wak- ing eyes, and find favor in her sight, I would wil- lingly lay down my life.” I could not help smiling at this burst of boyish enthusiasm, and at what appeared to me the very mockery of imagination—by which the bewitched Blanch had become enamoured of the phantom of his own brain, and was incurably in love with the iady of a dream; but, had I been the most incred- wous and cruel interpreter of midnight mysteries, lecould not have found in my heart to apply the rule of explaining by contraries these dark hints of the future, and boding ill to poor Blanch, because the vision of a beautiful girl had soothed his slum- bers on the eve of storming a city—an event which took place on the following night. Talk of war, that is, war in the open field, where man meets man on an equality, where the chances of death are much alike, where valor may avail, and where there is something like fair play—but the storming of strongholds is unmasked murder, and the sack of cities the revelry of the furies. The assault on the town of Badajos was a festi- val for fiends. The eternal foe himself, the immortal enemy of man, might have gloated over it, and smiled at his own foul work ; and, if ever laughter was heard in s hades, it was surely on that night of horror. Bastions and parapets bristled with chevauz-de- Jrise of sharp-pointed irons, bayonets, sword- blades, and every kind of deadly obstruction, which met our troops, as one by one they scaled walls of more than thirty feet high, and in succession were shot, bayoneted, and hurled back into the ditches below. I have heard it said that Wellington himself ap- peared much agitated, as, by the death-flames THE DREAM. which illumined the horrors of the night, he saw his troops foiled in their desperate and successive efforts against almost superhuman obstacles—but that a lightning gleam of triumph flushed over his face, and an exclamation of “Thank God!” escaped him, when an aide-de-camp galloped up with this brief announcement: “My lord, General Picton is in the castle with a thousand men.” I said he was enabled to see how matters went on by the death-lights which illumined the dark- ness; for, from breach and bastion, hand-grenades, blazing bombs, and all manner of combustibles rolled down like a volcano torrent; while a tem- pest of shot and shell rang through the air, like the rushing of a mighty whirlwind ; and, when at length an entrance into the town was forced by our troops, over steel-hedged walls, and breaches vomiting floods of fire—mines ready to be sprang yawned beneath their trembling path, and they swept along through the gloom, amid roaring of cannon, shouts of victory and vengeance, blasts of bugles sounding the charge, and shrieks of the. sacked. city, all rending the midnight sky, like a chorus from the bottomless pit. The work of destruction was nearly over, when I found myself with a party of our men in one of the more retired creets, in passing along which we suddenly encounterey som2 French soldiers in the act of quitting a iarge and noble-looking mansion, where the love of plunder had induced them to linger somewhat too long, for in an instant they were bayoneted by our troops against the wall. It was then that, thinking I heard the voice of moaning within, I entered the house; a large but dimly-lighted apartment lay before me, into which’ I advanced, and by the flame of the glimmering lamp, beheld the body of a young lady stretched upon the floor, and that of a British officer ex- tended by her side. Approaching and holding the lamp to the face of the former, I looked upon a creature lovely in death, although her features bore the expression of recent agony; and her hair, all clotted with gore, streamed down over her bosom, from which the warm current of her heart had gushed through a ghastly wound. I then turned the lamp to the face of the officer, in whom, with a start of horror, I recognized my poor friend Blanch, steeped in blood ; and, though he still breathed, it was evident his wounds were mortal, and that his end was near. In a short time, however, he opened his eyes, and, gazing on my face, held out his hand in token of recognition, The only restorative which I had about me was a little brandy in a flask, which I applied to his lps, and, ina few minutes, he rallied so much as to be able to speak, and thank me; and with his dying breath to explain the circumstances in which I had found him. They were to the following effect : After an entrance into-the town had been effect- ed, in rushing along,the streets with a party of his regiment, during the confusion of the scene and darkness of the night, Blanch was separated from them, and after a long and fruitless search, found himself at the door of the house in which we then were, Hearing a noise within, he suspected that some of .our soldiers might be plundering; with the view of preventing which, he entered, at the hazard of his life, and had just reached the room where he then lay, when a door at the opposite end of it flew open, and, in breathless terror, as if flying from pursuit, a young Spanish lady rushed into the room. Upon seeing the stranger she made a sudden pause, during which, with mute amazement, he recognized in the fair girl before him the living form of her whose shadowy similitude had ap- peared in his slumbers on the preceding night; but tenfold was that amazement increased, when, ere he could speak, she exclaimed, with wild en- ergy: “Mysterious Heaven! Itis he—’tis he himself! —the very being of my dream, who appeared to me last night, and is now come to take me away from the horrors of this dreadful place !’ At that moment, and before he could reply, a party of the enemy who had been searching the house in quest of pillage, burst into the room, and the sight of a British officer on such an occasion so exasperated the marauders, that, setting up a savage yell, they flew upon him with their bayonets, and the poor Spanish girl, who threw herself be- tween them and their victim, received her death- wound at the same moment with him she tried to save, Blanch could say no more—his tale was told, and his life was fast ebbing away—his speech fal- tered—his voice sank into a whisper, and the signs of death were upon him. He motioned me to raise his head, which I had no sooner done than his eyes began to fix in the death-glaze, and, drawing in his breath for the last time, with a long, deep sigh he expired. He sleeps in the same grave with his beautiful unknown—for unknown to each other they had lived—had seen each other only in a vision, and had loved in a dream, and on a night of storm and death they met in this waking world only to be parted forever. :
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ee ee ee Te eee «© Two Gras’ Lives. ' By Mrs. M. R. Crowell. 9 Taz War of Hearts. | Corinne Cushinan,. li Tne Fause Wipow. Mrs. J. D. Burton..... 12-13 Lost ron Lovs. . Miss M. E, Braddon.... 14-15 Torters or THe Sea. By Victor Hugo... 16 Tum Qcaproon. |By Catharine A Warfield. 17-18 Uncim Smas. By J. 8. Le F ‘anu 53% 19-20 Deapv-Sea Fruit. Miss M. E. Braddon... 21-22 Lirthe Kate Kirpy. F.W. Robinson... 10c 23’ SowIne THE WinD. Mrs. Mary R. Crowell.. 10c 24-25 .Birps of Prey. Miss M. E. Braddon ,.. 10¢ 26 Tuat Boy or Norcort’s.. Charles Lever, .. 10¢ 27-28 CHARLOTTE’S INHERITANCE. By Braddon. 10c 29 A Girv's Heart. By Rett Winwood .'. 10c 80-31 Rep as A RosE Is Sur, Rhoda Broughton. 10¢ 82 Toe Lity or St. Erne. By Mrs. Crow .... 10c 33 Srrancety Wep. By Mrs. J.D. Burton.... 10c 34 Tur Gipsy Brive. M. E. O. Malen.. .. 85 ANNIE TEMPLE, B av, J. H. Ingraham, 86 WirHout Mrrcy. By Bartley T. Campbell. 87 Brack Eyres anp Biur. Corinne Cushman, $8 Brave Barbara. By Corinne Cushman 10¢ 89 A Dancerous Woman. Margaret Blount.. 10c 40 Ovuma’s Love. By Henrietta E. De Conde.. 10c 41 Lost: A Wire. By Corinne Cushman .... 10¢ 42 Waranine Ways. By Margaret’Blount. . 10c 43 A Woman’s Heart. By Mrs. M. V. Victor. 10c 44 Tae Deap Letrer. By Seeley re Sanaa 45 Lorp Listx’s Davauter. By C. M. Braeme. 46 A Woman’s Hanp. By author ‘ Dead Letter.’ 47 V1ALS OF WRATH. By Mrs. Mary R. Crowell.. 48 A Witp Grri. By Corinne Cushman.. - . 49 THe MappEsT MarRIAGE Ever Was. Burton. 50 Love 1InA Maze. By Mrs. E. F. Ellet....... 61 Carnmoitiva. By Dr. J. H. Robinson.... ... AEE PRA an ib SO tea SRE ON te d sold at the uniform price of TEN B 55. A Srranee Girt. By Albert Ww. bho 56 lune Prerry Purtran. By A Parson’s 57 Dip Sax Sin? By a Reed Crowell ... 58 Dousty.DrvorceD. By Jenny Davis Burton. 69 A Wickrep Woman, By Lillie D. U. Blake . §0 Burinp BarsaRra’s Secret. Mary Halpine.. 61 AN‘AMERICAN QuEEN. By Grace Mortimer. 62. MARGOUN, THE STRANGE. By W. M. Turner. 1 63 WirE orn Wipow. By Rett Wiuwood ..... 10c 64 THE CrEOLE Cousins. By Philip S.Warne. 10c 65 PURSUED To THE ALTAR. By Cushman 10c 66 THE Terrinie Trure. By Jennie D, Burton, 47 ELecanr Egpert. By Philip S. Warne ... Lapy Herten’s Vow. By Mrs. E. F. Ellet... 77 A Woman’s Wonk. By Mrs. E. F. Ellett... 78 THE Biack Rippie. By Corinne Cushman. 79 Corat AND Rupy. By Jennie Davis Burton. 80 Divorcep But Nor Divipgep. By A Parson's Daughter... LD rian oa 81 AtmosT Magriep. By A Parson’s Daughter. 82 Two Farr Women, By Wm. M. furner.... 83 Tur INHERITANCE OF Hate, By Burton ... 84 PEARL oF Prarts. By A. P. Morris, Jr.... 85 For Honor’s Saxe. By Mary Reed Crowell. 86 Lance UrquHart’s Loves, Annie Thomas. 87 SareLy Marrizp, By author of “* Caste.” 10¢ | 10e ' ADAMS, vie. NTS. No double price numbers. 10¢ ; 88 FLorerre:. 10c | 89 TurEex Times ham ... ic , Bruadon, le By Cot. Preniiss T, y Gerald Griffin... 10c 100 AN Amprtious Grr; or, She Would Be an Actress. By A Celebrated Actress,... ..... 10e 101 Foun Puay. By Charles Reade and Dion Boucicault. . . Pe RT 102 Canrra. By Mrs. Olipbant.............: .. 10¢ |}108 A Woman Hater. By Charles Reade. 10c 104 Arter Dark. By Wilkie Collins. ........ 10c 105 Harp Timus. By Charles Dickens ....... 10 106 Guiv. By B. L. Farjeon....°) 9.2. We 107 Fenron’s Quest. By Miss Braddon...,... 10c 108 Turee Feathers. By W. Black........... 1c 109 Joun Havirax, GenTLEMAN. Miss Mulock. 10c 110 Murpuy’s Master. By J Payn... ....... 10¢ 111 Heaps oF Money. By W. E. Norris... . 19¢ 112 In Morrau Perm. By Mary. R. Crowell. 10c 113 Tue Deap Scorer. By Wilkie Collins. .. 10¢ 114 CLoups AND SunsuyingE. By Charles Reade. 1c 115 Dexis Duvat, By W.M. Thackeray .. Ie 116 Too Soon, By Katherine 8. MacQuoid. ena eOwranes $85 5:3 « # ; 5 aches 117 THE o Destinigs, By Wilkie Collins, Ready October 0th....° 0... 0.0.00... .. 100 A new issue every wee For sale by al! newsdealers, or sent, postage paid, on receipt of twelve cents. BEADL Publishers, 98 William street, N. ¥. Waverley-Library- The Only Young Ladies’ Library of First-Class Copyright Novels Published. Price, Five Cents, 1 The Masked Bride; or, Wn Sar Mar- ry Hm. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 2 Was It Love? or, CoLLEGIANS AND SWEET- TS. Wm. Mason Turner, M. D. 8 The Girl Wite. By Bartley 7. Campbell. 4 A Brave Heart. By Arabella Southworth. 5 Bessie Raynor, the Work Girl. By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D. 6 hve Secret Marriage. By Sara Claxton. 7 A Daughter of Eve; or, BLINDED By Lovs.. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 8 Hleart to Hearts or, Farr Puy.is’ Love, By Arabella Southworth. 9 Alone in the World; or, THz Youna Man’s Warp. By the author of ‘ Clifton.” 10 A Pair of Gray Eyes; or, Toe Emer- ALD Neckuace. By Rose Kennedy. 11 Entangled. By Henrietta Thackeray. 12 His Lawful Wite; or, Myra, tar Camp or Apoption. By Mrs. Ann 8, Stephens. . 13 er: the Little Quakeress, By Corinne Cushman. 14 Why I Married Him: or, Taz Woman in Gray. By Sara Claxton. 15 A Fair Face; or, Our IN THE WoRLD. By Bartley T. Campbell. 16 rust er Not; or, Taz True Kyicur. By Margaret Leicester. 17 re Loyal Lover. By A. Southworth. 18 Be Kdol; or, THe Itt-STaRRuD MARRIAGE. 1 Ae 19 ‘the Broken Betrothal; or, Love ver- sus Hate. By aves we Halpine. 20 Orphan Nell, the Orange Gir?3 or, Tur WitcHES or NEw York. le Penne, 2k Now and Forever; or, Wuy Dw Se Marry Him. By Henrietta Thackeray. 22 Whe Bride of an Actor, By the author of ‘ Alone in the World,” etc., etc. 23 ig Year; or, Way Sue Proposep, By Sara mn. 24 Wer Face Was Hier Fortune. By Eleanor Blaine. 25 Only a Schoolmistress3 or, Her Un- TOLD Secret, By Arabella Southworth. 26 Without a Heart. By P. Ingraham. 27 Was She a Coquette? or, A CourtsHir, By Henrietta Thackeray. 28 sybil Chase: or, THE GAMBLER’S By Mrs. Ann 8, Stephens. 29 Kor Her Wear sake, By Sara Claxton. 30 The Bouquet Girl: or, A Mm.ion oF Money. 4 Agile Penne, 31 A Wad Marriage. By Mary A. Denison. jana, the rimn Donna: or Bee amp LatiEs. By A. Southworth. : GE WIFE. 38% The Three Sisters. By Aliee Femine. 34 A Morriage of Convenience: or, Was He A Count? By Sara Claxton. 385 Sinned Against.By Clara A 86 Sir Archer’s Bride, By A. Southworth. 37 The Country Cousin, Rose Kennedy. 38 His Own Again. Arabella Southworth, 39 Flirtation. By Ralph Royal. 40 Saitek ia to Marry. By Sara Claxton, 41 Blind Devotion. By Alice Fleming: 42 Beatrice, the Beautiful, or, His Szc- OND LOVE. By A. Southworth. 43 Whe Baronet's Secret Sara Claxton. 44 The Only Daughter: or, BrotHEer AaGaInst Lover. By Alice Fleming. 45 Wer Hidden Foe, Arabella Southworth. 46 The Little Heiress. By M. A. Denison. 47 Because She Loved Him; or, How Wiu.it Enn, By Alice ere 48 In Spite of Herself. By S. R. Sherwood. 49 Wis Hieart’s Mistress; or, Love ar First Siant. By Arabella Southworth. 50 The Cuban Heiress; or, Tur Priscnrr or La Vintresse, By Mrs. Mary A. Denison. 51 Two Young Girls; or, Tur Brive or an Earu. By Alice Fleming. 2 The Winged Messenger; or, Risa AuL For a Heart. By Mary Reed Crowell. 53 Agnes Hope, the Actress 3 cr, Tar Ro- MANCE OF A Rusy Rina. _W. M. Turner, M. D. 54 One Woman’s Heart; or, Savep From THe Srreer. By George S. Kaime. 55 She Did Not Love Him ial Srooprme to Congurr._ By Arabella Southworth. 56 Love-Mad3 or, BrTrorHED, Marnizp, Divorcep anp ——, By W. M. Turner, M. D. 57 A Brave Girl. By Alice Fleming. 58 The Ebon Mask. By Mary R. Crowell. 59 A Widow’s Wiles. hel Bernhardt, 60 Cecils Deceit. By Jennie Davis Burton. 61 A Wicked Heart. By Sara Claxton. 62 Khe Maniac Bride. By M. Blount. 63 The Creole Sisters. By Anna E. Porter. 64 What Jealousy Did; or, Taz Hr or Worsigy Granae. By Alice Heming. 65 The Wife’s Secret. By Col. Juan Lewis 66 A Brother’s Sin. By Rachei Bernhardt. 67 Forbidden Bans, Arabel!: Scuti v orth, 68 Weavers and Weft. By M. bk. i2sicdon, 69 Camille; or, Taz Fare oF 4 Coqunreg, 6 By Alex Dumas, 7 e Two Orphans, Py 5'Ennery. 73 Rose Michel; or, THe Trrats or A IFPAo- " Tory Girt. By Maude Hilton. 74 Cecil Castlemaine’s Gage. By Ouida, 75 Whe Black Lady of Duna, By J.5, Le Fanu. 76 Charlotte Tempte.. By Mrs. Rowron. 77 Christian OQakley’s Mistake. By the author of “John Halitax, Gentleman.” 78 My Young Husband. By Myself. 79 A Queen Amongst Women. By the author of * Dora. Thorne,” ; 80 Her Lord and Master. By Florence Marryat. ; ; 81 Lucy Temple. 82 A Long Time Ago. By Meta Orred. 83 Playing for High stakes. By Annie Thomas. 84 The Lavrel Bush. By the author of “John Halifax, Gentleman,” 85 Led Astray. By Octave Feuillet. 86 Janet’s Repentance. By George Eliot, 87 Romance of a Poor Young Man, By Octave Feuillet. 88 A Terrible Deeds; or, AtL Foz Gor, By Emma Garrison Jones. 89 A Gilded Sin. 90 The Author’s Daughter. Howitt. 91 The Jilt. By Charles Reade. 92 Eileen Aloenma; or, Tar Dawntne or Lay. By Dennis O'Sullivan, ae 93 Love's Victory. By B. L. Farjeon. 94 The Quiet Heart. By Mrs. Oliphant. 95 Lettice Arnold, By Mrs. Marsh, 96 Haunted Hearts; or, Tur Broken Br TROTHAL. By Rachel Bernhardt. 97 Eiugh Melton. By Catharine King. 98 Alico Learmont. By Miss Mulock, 99 Marjorie Bruce’s Lover. By Mary Patrick, Ready Cctober 4th. F; 100 Through Fire and Water, By Frederick Talbot, Ieady October 11th, 101 Hannah. By #iiss Mulock. Qetober 18 A new iseue every week, tux Waveruty Lmrary is for sale pb Newadeaiers, five cents pe ecpy. ox hont By Mary a by 71 My Young Wite, By My Yo ung Wite’s mail OL reegipt of sis cents each Husband. 72 The Two Widows. By dunie thomas, “- BHADLE AND ADAM. Yuen. 08 Willicwa street, New x1... ————